Karachi

I went today to the Arabian sea, where it all began. Out of its red, raucous rage rises, roaring reckless, Karachi, home. Though I was born in New York, a city of similar temperament, Karachi is where I am from.

While Raf and Nadia, slippers in hand, pant legs rolled, sauntered along the sea, I stood on the sand in my suit and saw the red sun submerge into the warm, wistful water. Couples, hand in hand, sand squeezing between their toes, sighed, while Makrani
mares raced, manes flapping in the sea breeze, down Clifton Beach. On the horizon, a fisherman’s boat bobbed.

It was an incongruously serene moment in a city that has been called a ‘hotbed of international terrorism’ (Time Magazine), ‘crime capital of Pakistan’ (Seattle Post), ‘political ground zero’ (Dawn). On May 9, thirty people were killed in clashes between the MQM, the country’s largest ethnic political party, and supporters of the recently deposed Chief Justice. Last Friday, 5 kilograms of explosives were found at The Point, an up-market shopping mall; the same night, a speeding motor bike hit my own uncle, destroying his right leg and fracturing his skull. It is the city where Wall Street Journal reporter Daniel Pearle was kidnapped and brutally murder, where one of the 9/11 masterminds was captured, where eleven French construction workers were killed in front of the country’s largest 5-star hotels. Indeed, Karachi lives up to the headlines.

But that’s not the whole story.

Karachi is too vast, too complex to be pigeon holed by sensationalist journalists. Of course there’s going to be terrorism, it is the largest city in Pakistan, a country that has been the eye of War on Terror storm; of course there there’s going to be crime, 14 million people in a third world metropolis are bound to bump up again each other; of course there’s going to be political unrest, it is the largest melting pot of cultures in the sub-continent. But all this is certainly not what defines the city, which, despite the tumult, has surged ahead unfazed, swallowing up its maladies, and taking the rest of the country along with it.

I intern on I.I. Chundrigarh road, Karachi’s Wall Street, for a multinational investment bank that has seen an explosion in its IPO and M&A businesses. From my office window on the 8th floor of UniTower, I can see Karachi Ports to the West, burgeoning with trade and commerce from across the globe, and the Hills of Nazimabad to the east, where a new and prosperous middle class is reaping the benefits of Pakistan booming economy. Below me, downtown Karachi thrives with activity as bankers and brokers rub shoulders with paan wallas and rickshaw drivers, where traders flirt with secretaries and Mercedes’ jostle with Suzukis. The city pulsates with energy.

Over the weekend, I danced, inebriated, to Europe’s hottest club tracks at downtown night club, watched a stand-up comedy act Purple Haze, saw an Indian movie at the four-screen Cineplex, and attended an open-air rock concert. A few days ago, I was whisked away by a friend to appear on one of Pakistan's seventy three private television channels, all of which have aired in the last five years, for a panel discussion on students studying abroad. Yesterday, I went to the Mohatta Palace for a Jamil Naqsh exhibit, followed by a visit to the gallery/house of Amin Gulgee, a charismatic gay sculptor, just in time to catch him before his exhibition tour to Malaysia. This weekend, there’s a Qawali somewhere in Kharadar, then a late night beach rave in Hawks Bay. Saturday is race night. 'Party to the city where heat is on.'

Dear readers, come to Karachi, come to my home. This page is not enough for me to describe its complexity, its beauty, but rest assured that this is one of the most cultural, complex, energetic, exciting cities in the world. It certainly has its problems, but then again, so does New York.

Islamabad: Death in the Midst of Tranquility

Islamabad: the city of Islam, roughly translated, is tidy matrix of residences, markets and official monstrosities. It sits neatly at the foot of the Margalla hills, themselves pretty little things with features of their more regal cousins up north, the Kharakurums, protecting the city from vagaries of the outside world. The climate is relatively mild, and the people peaceful in their concrete villas and imported vehicles. Foreign diplomats and native bureaucrats blissfully glide through the neatly carpeted streets and tidy sidewalks, browsing the overpriced bookstores and spending inordinate amounts of time at Shaheen Chemist, a hub of social activity. It’s a cosmopolitan place—no one is ever really from Islamabad—and , for the most part, an inviting blend of Pakistani cultural sensibilities and foreign sophistication. The city only really comes alive during the morning hours, when government offices throng with civic complainants, and the city’s tiny but rapidly growing businesses jolt into action. By 9pm lights are out and Islamabad becomes a serene village, a quiet suburb, the residents collectively stargazing on their thatched charpaees. In short: it’s a good place to catch up on your Rushdie.

Brewing recently, however, under this picture of tranquility was the bitter broth of religious extremism and moral intolerance. For months the clergy of the Lal Masjid (Red mosque), and the students of the affiliate madrassa, the Jamia Hafsa, had embarked on a Taliban-styled moral purge the capital. Bands of roaming students, both bearded men and veiled women, began to enforce their interpretation of a strict, ultra-orthodox Islamic society. After a series of kidnappings of alleged prostitutes and, more peculiarly, Chinese masseurs, as well as the harassments of local music and video shops, the otherwise apathetic citizens of Islamabad began to feel a little uneasy, not so much about the Lal Masjid’s objectives, but about the disturbance of their sacred peace.

On July 3, 2007, Pakistan Army Rangers set up camp outside the Lal Masjid premises as observation posts, ostensibly to monitor the movements of the students. Most security analysts now agree that the posts were set up as bait for the violently bent militias of the Lal Masjid, daring them to attack, and, thereby, giving the government an excuse to counter attack against what had become a de facto state within a state. The tactic worked. That very morning, a student from the Lal Masjid, in seminary's first show of violence, shot and killed a Pakistan Army Ranger. What ensued was a vicious gun battle that has escalated, in ensuing days, into war on the streets of Islamabad.

I came to sector G6 around 4 pm that afternoon. It was a bright, sunny day, a bit hot, but generally pleasant. The hills were hazy in the distance, but their presence a reassurance of Islamabad’s stability. I presumed that a cab would not be allowed beyond Polly Clinic, where the dead and injured were being brought, and I let taxi driver, who was angry more at the incompetant city administration for incomplete road work, than the Hafsas, drop me off in front of the hospital. Though the police deployment was heavy, there seemed to be no barriers to public commutes and general traffic; it was business as usual for Islamabad’s citizens.

In the distance, a gun shot.

I trekked on towards Melody Market, former home of Melody cinema which was burned down by religious extremists a few years ago. Life, however, in this part of the world, goes on despite political, social and economic vagaries: plans for a new cinema, complete with surround sound and laser projectors, are being designed. Anyway, reaching Aapara Thaana, the police station, I decided to take the long way to Lal Masjid, around the west side of the market. Islamabad Police was everywhere. Standing there in their hundreds, blue uniforms, laathis and all, the Islamabad police was doing what they have become know to do best: nothing. Me, a-barely-20-year-old kid wearing distinctive western attire, sporting a digital camera and Ray Ban shades, waltzed through Aapara police station and down Luqman Heekam road without so much as an official protest.

When I finally arrived in front of the main Melody plaza and, more popularly, Zenos Kabab House—delectable seikh kababs, really, I recommend them to anyone who is ever in the neighborhood—was when I first started getting that burning sensation in my nose and mouth that would become all too familiar as the day progressed. Though it’s called tear gas, the worst symptoms of being in 2000meter hit radius of a tear gas shell is the piercing sensation on your upper lip and the streams of mucus expelling from you nostrils. Not something you want to do everyday, really.

Momentarily hampered, I decided to move through the market towards the usual afternoon festivities of Islamabad’s newly christened Food Street. Unfortunately, that afternoon business was quieter than usual, and only the Islamabad police, in their eternal efficiency, could be seen lunching, accompanied by a group of balding journalists. I waited for the journalists to finish their meal and decided to stay close to them. An inviting bunch, they were just about as clueless about the whole situation as I was. Quite suddenly, like one of those literary signs from God, a loud explosion shattered the very Islamabadi calm that had settled over Food Street.
“Bhainchod shuroo ho gaya hai,” one of the journalists hypothesized, “They’re about to go in.”

A tinge of excitement sparked in our little band of journalistic brothers, and we all ran, cameras dangling, shades falling, towards the explosion. Weaving our way through Melody Market, we finally emerged between United Bank branch office and the Holiday Inn. Once on the main road, the show began.

Reporters, armored vehicles, concerned citizens, rioting mullahs, barbed wire, ambulances, fire trucks, rangers, semi-automatics, tear gas, fire, explosions, smoke. It was all a bit too much to take in really, I didn’t think I would ever be this close to the action. A little way ahead at the intersection before the final stretch of road leading to Lal Masjid, the police had set up a barbed wire barricade, the only hint of any official presence in the area. Following the journalists, with whom, by the way, I had no affiliation, we went past the barricade and into the inferno. Up ahead we saw a sea of people clad in kurta shalwar and sporting beards in various phases of post-pubescent development. As we proceeded, I saw local residents peering over their metal gates, protecting themsevles from stray bullets and inquisitive journalists. Gun shots could be heard emanating from a near by school. The students were in chanting in joyous procession. Occasionally, a bullet would ring out from their midst. I inched closer, being sure to stay among the crowd of onlookers that had gathered, at the threat of their lives, to witness the unfolding saga. At this point, I was in danger of my life: bullets were being indiscriminately fired from both sides without any discernable targets. Commotion from all quarters rang in my ears. Then, so suddenly that I didn’t realize what happened until after the event, three or four stray bullets whizzed into the crowd I was standing in. Panic. I could feel my heart wanting to beat itself out of my chest, I had never been so mortally terrified in my life. People ran in every which direction. The yelling and shouting become more instense, more desperate. Momentary silence ensured. When the dust cleared, a reporter in a blood stained t-shirt announced, tearfully, mournfully, but with a very Islamabadi calm, that Tariq, the photographer of the Daily Khabrain, had been shot dead. I am unequipped, dear reader, to describe how my body, let alone emotions, reacted upon hearing the newsreporter's news.

Stay tuned, it starts getting rough...

all by my lonesome on 21

I apologize, dear reader, for the consistently infrequent updates. I've been extremely busy since we last spoke: re-estabalishing decade old friendships, interning for CNN, exploring Lahore, arguing with cab drivers over inflationary pressures and social justice. I honestly haven't had time to breathe. However, it was recently my birthday and, while sitting alone in my Lahore hotel room at the stroke of midnight, I wrote myself the following passage, which, dear reader, I will share with you:

"I finished a book today that I started about three years ago. The summer I arrived in the United States, in Washington DC where my brother Asad lived, I picked up A House for Mr. Biswas from his collection of modernist literature and began reading. Hence, I embarked on a literary journey that ended today, in Lahore, on June 12, 2007, my 21st birthday, almost three years since I first laid eyes on the dull, colorless cover. I don’t read much while I’m in school, and, even during holidays, I have always found other literary distractions, impediments, that have kept me from Mr. Biswas. But from the second I started reading, way back in DC, I remember feeling something inevitable about the book, like our fates would be reluctantly but inextricably linked in the years to come. It has always been around, through the tumult and inebriated extravagances of college life, through late night academic cramming, it has managed to linger in the back of my room, my conscious. Now, being in a literary frame of mind, I can’t help but think that the completion of the novel somehow marks the end of a chapter in my own life. The book itself, now in three pieces, the spine dismembered and the cover barely legible, chronicles the life of an unremarkable man with an unremarkable existence. Like the author VS Naipaul, Mohan Biswas, the protagonist, is a Trinidadian of Indian decent who spends his whole life waiting for a chance to make his mark in the world, or at least, as the title suggests, live in his own house. Eventually in the final pages of the novel he purchases a house, but only after taking on considerable debt, and, therefore, never fully fulfilling his ambition. My thoughts are too unorganized and skeptical for this page, but I did want to capture this moment of uncertainty and sympathize with Mr. Biswas."

I'd written more but it starts getting personal (though I of course trust you, dear reader, it's just the wider public who I don't want to sumbit my thoughts to). But that's how I spent my 21st. Oh well, I guess being 21 isn't that big a deal outside the US. I was feeling unnecessarily contemplative that night though, and, in case you were wondering how big a loser I am, I went to bed right after. I did, however, go out the following night, to Cukoo's Cafe near Heera Mandi no less. If any of you, dear readers, are ever in this neck of the woods, I strongly suggest you drop in.

Still to come: completetion of travels in the North AND... lahore. stay tuned.

Pakistan: The North [part 2]

So where did we leave off? Oh yes, Jaan Sahib and the omelets. The eggs were served in a generous buffet, complete with toast, jam and imported apple juice. The breakfast congregation was the first time the group was able to consolidate and mingle without the anxiety of flight delays and first-time awkwardness. The Argentinean ambassador’s wife, however, insisted, without the burden of politeness, that we “get out of this place now,” leaving Jaan Sahib our host, who had been busy hosting, struggling to finish his omelet. The wife’s frustration was compounded when Mobina (somebody else’s wife who I forgot to mention earlier) sauntered outside for a mid-morning-post-breakfast cigarette, which, a Benson & Hedges 100, was smoked at what seemed to be a calculatedly leisured pace, foreshadowing more serious tensions between the two as the journey progressed. At the other end of the room, Zubair, who hadn’t yet contributed much, was feverously combing the newspaper for conversational ammunition, while Naeem, ever armed with his cell phone, was busy with the thankless task of working out hotel logistics. My parents tried unsuccessfully to penetrate the Spanish and Argentinean delegation, but they were too busy being unimpressed with the omelets and arbitrary nature of the breakfast in general.

First impressions not holding much promise I decided to let the mountains to do the entertaining on the trip. Breakfast was about an hour and a half, despite the best efforts of the Argentinean wife, and we finally made it on to the two coasters that would be our transports for the rest of the journey. The coasters provided a perfect platform for the polarization of the group, as the Spaniards and Argentineans piled into one bus, while us Pakistanis and the Canadian, rekindling colonial ties, settled for bus 2. Kajra mohabat wala and shahbaz kalander singing, we set off into the Hunza hills, past Karimabad and to our hotel in Gulmit.

The drive was through the mountains reminded me of the route through the Austrian Alps to Salzburg: pretty but not imposing. Along side the rail-less single lane road ran the newly assertive Gilgit River. Across the river on the other side of the valley wall were messages written into the mountainside using white rock. “Welcome our Hazir Imam!,” they yelled, “Welcome Agha Khan.” One thing we found during our trip was that the writ of the federal government runs thinner and thinner the further north you go, and, as a result, public works projects have been undertaken not by the Pakistani authorities, but through the generous donations of the Agha Khan. The Agha Khan is the ideological leader of the Ismaili sect, itself an offshoot of Shi’te Islam. We found, the deeper into Gilgit we went, that the Agha Khan is revered not only as a religious leader, but as an administrator, executive and patron. On our immediate left rose the sheer rock that had been partially disturbed for the construction of the road. Enormous boulders and gushing waterfalls hung precariously above us, reminding us that we would soon be at the inhospitable mercy of nature.

Around mid-afternoon we finally arrived at our hotel in Gulmit, a comfortable place, but lacking, for the most part, electricity and running water. However, before we got a chance to enjoy these luxuries, Naeem insisted that we keep moving as evening would soon be upon us. My parents and a few others, Mobina and her cigarettes included, decided to stay behind, leaving me in the midst of Spaniards and Argentineans. Spaniards and Argentineans had coalesced into a single unit by this point, and proceeded to dominate the next leg of the journey. We went onwards only 5km, but the trip took about 45 minutes as we wove our way through ever-higher peaks and less accommodating roads. I honestly had no idea where we were going, but Naeem, Jaan and Spaniards and Argentineans were happy with whatever was going on so I thought it awkward to ask. Quite suddenly, the coasters stopped half way up a dirt road on the side of a mountain quite a way away from the main road. We pushed and shoved our way out of the coasters and Spaniards and Argentineans proceeded to follow one of the many guides that had begun to swarm around the entourage. Curious, I of course followed. A little way up the mountain, over a somewhat inauspicious ridge, lay, majestically, the Gulmit glacier: 10 miles of flowing ice meandering and cascading over mountain ridges, scintillating in the afternoon sun. “Now there’s something you don’t see everyday,” Naeem confirmed. Spaniards and Arentineans furiously conferenced, trying to decide whose camera had higher resolution. Jaan Sahib, who had seen all this before, lit a cigarette and spoke about the glacier with haughty familiarity, as if he himself had created the ice from the sediment of mountain. We were on a foot-wide pathway well above the glacier that ran along its eastern bank. Naeem, infected by Jaan Sahib’s disinterest, decided to stay back. A Spaniard and Argentinean had managed to produce a camera from the bus and had begun sprawling on the ground for more unnecessarily incredible angles. Onwards up the pathway they scurried, stopping every now and again for photo opportunity and obnoxiously loud Spanish conversation. The glacier, ancient, serene, grew larger, longer with every corner we turned; the ice took on more unbelievable configurations. Letting Spaniards and Argentineans proceed further, and with Naeem and Jaan acceptably occupied by the confused Canadian, I stopped and took stock.

Dear rearders, it is difficult to describe the feeling that the grandeur of nature can inspire in a person. Cliché or not, I felt small, insignificant, powerless. In my mind, I pictured the shores of the of the sub-continent crash into the shores of Asia, creating, by geological coincidence, some of the most beautiful and awe-inspiring phenomenon man will ever witness. The process is still happening as South Asia continues to push into the mainland (as evidenced by the tragic 2005 Kashmir earthquake). This means, I ruminated, the very earth we tread on here in India and Pakistan, trembles with kinetic energy. There is a lot of energy here a lot of good happening and a lot our people have to offer. I encourage you, dear readers, to pay a visit.

Pakistan: The North [part 1]

(Disclaimer: dear readers, I have bored you already with my perennial inability to procure a camera. You will not be surprised then to know that my incompetence in unfailing. The following pictures are not of mine but have been taken from the internet. However, I picked the photos because they're not particularly creative and, therefore, do not inflate reality. As you can see, however, there is really no need for inflation.)

Our hotel, aptly named Eagle’s nest, was at 8000 feet. From our window we could see the clouds that hid Rakaposhi’s snowy peak at 25000 feet. The Passu cone hills were twenty kilometers up the Karakurum highway, jaggedly standing at 18000 feet. I’m about 5”10.
The Karakurum mountain range is an offshoot of the Himalayas and, along with the Hindu Kush to the West, forms the roof of the world. Eight of the ten highest peaks on Earth reside in these mountains, stretching out a further 5mm each year as the Indian sub-continent continues to plough its way into Asia. Too cold most of the year for anything to grow, the area is distinct in its abundance of water and lack of vegetation. However, shrubs and small trees have braved the hostile climate and provide food for the astonishingly diverse fauna, including ibex, yak and snow leopard, that form the region’s vibrant ecosystem. The mountains themselves rest on an equally varied array of geology, yellow sandstone and black volcanic rock jutting from every crevice, crater and canyon.
Welcome, dear readers, to the officially titled Northern Areas of Pakistan. I had only been in the country for a few days and already I found myself gallivanting around the plains of the Punjab and the rivers of the Indus, making my way north via the capital Islamabad, and eventually settling in the greater Kashmiri province of Gilgit. From here, I went up to Karimabad, a picture post card of a village built on the fertile soils of an extinct glacier, and nestled cozily between the Rakaposhi heights. From there, on a clear day, you can see the limestone peaks of Sost, beyond which lies the Khunjrab Pass, the ancient Silk Route passage through the bowels of the mountain leading onwards to Xingjian and the Chinese mainland. It was all a bit much, really, for kid coming from 43015 Delaware, OH, but I managed, water in bottle, pack on back, to sever ties from the world down below, and, for a brief moment, be close to heaven.
Our entourage was colorful, if not engaging. The Spanish, Argentinean and, the odd one out, Canadian ambassadors to Pakistan, accompanied by wives, children and miscellaneous. Among the locals were Naeem Sarfaraz of New York, and, later, Gujrawalan fame; Zubair (last name unknown), former cabinet member under the caretaker government of the late 90s; Mohammed Jaan, SP of Gilgit (the acronym SP still under investigation), lone law enforcement crusader against sectarian tensions in the region, which, in their zenith, claimed the life of the Inspector General of Police for the Northern Areas. Last, but certainly not least, were the Naqvis, complete with mother, father and (yours truly) third and final son. Along the way were guides, drivers, locals and that one guy from the hotel who said he was the first person to scale K2.
We finally flew into Gilgit airport after an anxious weather delay and two hours of sleep. I’m told the flight in was breathtaking, but, being barely conscious, I couldn’t tell you much more. However, once on the tarmac, the cool mountain air smelling distinctly of cherry roused me to the sight of the River Gilgit flowing out of summits Hunza.
The plane dumped passengers and luggage alike on the tarmac for the two to try to find each other. No sooner had it landed that it took off again, the last of any sort of technological luxury we were to have in the north. We immediately felt isolated, the vagaries and viscidities of civilization silenced by sheer altitude. The town of Gilgit is a rudimentary affair, with goat and chicken treated with as much curtsey and security as their evolutionary superiors. Phones don’t work, and electricity is fleeting. The roads, I was told, were better than most, but the markets were, to put it lightly, dead. It wasn’t much cooler than Islamabad, but there was a perceptible purity in the air.
We met up with Jaan Sahib at a non-descript guesthouse where we were served omelets and paratha. He's a portly young man with a Cambridge accent and unnecessarily boisterous laugh. Jaan Sahib had organized the rest of our trip, and, resultantly, it was difficult to be an ass to him despite his inflated sense of self-worth and annoying pessimism.

Fault!

The Horizons elections over and done with, the last bit of any sort of responsibility has finally lifted from my weary shoulders. It's a sense of liberation that reminds me mildly of the youthful innocence of freshman year, when 100 level classes and humid evenings outside Welch cafeteria were really the only worries one had. The only problem is that this new liberation has morphed, quite unexpectedly, into good old fashion bordem. Dear reader, between now and finals, I don't have a whole to do. Dr. Gitter provides my only real engagment with schoolwork with his book discussions on immigration (which, I'll have you know, as an immigrant, I'm all for). My other classes are stumbling along, seemingly sharing my sense of academic limbo, lulling me into a false sense of security before the finals.

In the interim, however, there's not a whole lot to do. Actually, that’s not quite true. Just this Sunday, there was a barbeque in the Thomson lawn, taking advantage of the perfect whether Ohio has recently had to offer. The same evening, the India Literacy Project organized a traditional Indian dance performance in Philips. Today, as I was walking back from editing class, a band of what seemed like nomadic puppeteers were performing outside Bashford. Then of course, there are the class representative elections tomorrow.

So I suppose it’s not really that there's nothing to do, it's just that junior year coming to an end, my legs just refuse taking me much further than my house's kitchen downstairs. I've been spending endless hours in front of my computer screen, shirtless, smelly and chocolate-toothed (refer to first blog entry) engaging in the great global dialect (i.e. reading the most inane, obsucre articles the New York Times has to offer) from the orange confines of my room.

The one time I did manage to make it past my house's front steps was when I went to go watch Taimour, my compatriot and fraternity brother, play for our varsity tennis team. It was a peach of a Saturday, cloudless and bright blue. The pervasive smell of blossoms was in the air, which was of course accompanied by the pervasive sight of sun bathing Ohio Wesleyan females, some of the Mid-West's finest. Anyway, along with Julian, another fraternity brother, I decided to rekindle my fledgling tennis career on the practice courts. Needless to say, the lethal forearm hasn't lost its bite, but the serve, which landed slightly out of the service square (to be more precise, it landed on the court on which the final of the varsity tournament against Wabash was being played) left something to be desired. Maybe that's why I haven't left the house in a while.

Ciao for now.

Anyway you slice you it

It snowed today. And also yesterday. In fact, even the day before yesterday, it snowed. No, dear reader, you are not reading an outdated post. This is April 9, 2007. Spring time. And it snowed today, yesterday and the day before. That's about all I have to say about that.

Last week I was stood up by my prospective student. Every year, the OWU admissions office, who you can thank for my useless banter, organizes Ohio Wesleyan's 'Slice of College Life,' a weekend in which prospective students come to campus, stay the night with a student host, and experience, first hand, college life. I'd like to take this opportunity to applaud the admissions office for the rollickingly successful program they have put together.

Anyway, my prospi (as they're referred to in OWU lingo), never showed up. It wasn't a big deal though because Matt, a lanky fellow from Vermont, also my fraternity pledge brother, had to work at the library, pawning his propsi off to me. We toured the library, we toured Bashford hall, and toured my arrestingly orange room. We watched TV, ate Welch food and talked about Social Security's impending disaster while I did finance homework. OWU in a nutshell.

"Yeah, I think I'm coming here, bro," he avers the next morning. I think the excitement of my life, unbearable to most, appealed, with immediate effect, to his party going ways. Bro-ing out is all it takes, it seems, to sell a product these days. Of course, my polished salesmanship will reel in even the most skeptical of buyers. Don't you, dear reader, agree?

In other, more pressing news, Horizons International elections, originally scheduled for today, have been pushed back, by yours truly, to Wednesday because of a dearth of nominations. That's right, my term as Horizons president, by most measures a successful one, has reached its denouement, ending what was a challenging, interesting and down right fun leadership position. The international student community here at OWU is a dynamic one that has managed to pervade every aspect of student life. It was an honor and privilege to represent that vibrancy and talent, and I wish all the best to the new board. That is, if there ever is one. If any international OWU students are reading this, please submit nominations. Please? I'll buy you a soda?

Here's a complete non-sequitur for you, dear reader: in the mid-west, carbonated colas are referred to as 'pop' and, on the coasts, are referred to as 'soda.' What's even more bizarre is that at any social gathering here at OWU, should the subject be brought up, a disturbingly raucous debate will inevitably ensue, polarizing social milieu, and alienating neutral parties. Tempers flair, feelings are hurt. Luckily, there is often enough of the age old social lubricant around to dowse the fires. An uneasy peace keeps the two sides at bay, and all is well again. Or so it seems...


Ciao for now.