Fireworks for New Year’s Eve. Anderson. CC2.0
From eating 12 grapes before midnight in Spain to drinking champagne with ashes and planting underwater trees in Russia, check out these 10 countries and how they celebrate the New Year in different ways. You might find some new ideas for your own New Years in 2024.
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Girls connecting with the trees in Piplantri. Photo provided by Piplantri Village.
Every time a baby girl is born in Piplantri, India, the village gathers together to plant 111 trees in her honor. The custom began a couple of years ago, when former village leader, Shyam Sundar Paliwal was forced to ponder the fleetingness of life after his daughter tragically passed away at a young age.
Piplantri and other villages in the area were facing two crises that greatly affected the quality and value of life. One issue was social: a high rate of female infanticide. Traditionally, female births were considered a burden on the family. The parents of a girl are expected to provide a dowry to her husband’s family, which can be a big financial undertaking. Additionally, daughters were married off well before the age of 18, before they could obtain an education.
Piplantri and its surrounding villages faced environmental hardships as well. The villages in the Rajasthan area are suffering from deforestation with the increase of marble mining.
Paliwal decided to confront these issues with a plan that can be broken down into three words: “Daughter, Water, Trees.”
To counter the pessimism around the birth of a baby girl—and improve the lives of the daughter and her family—the village raises money for a “trust” every time a girl is born. The family is to contribute one third of the fund, which is set aside until the girl turns 20. This alleviates the problem of the financial burden of a dowry.
In order for the family to receive the money, they must sign an affidavit agreeing not to marry their daughter until she is of the legal age of 18 and has received a proper education.
To solve the deforestation problem, the village gets together to plant 111 trees in the girl’s honor. As a part of the contract, the family agrees to take care of those 111 trees. Hopefully the trees will help the spread of water along the land.
And the scheme gets even better. The fruit trees being planted were beginning to attract a lot of termites. In order to prevent infestation, the villagers planted many aloe plants to protect the trees. The villagers can harvest and sell the aloe—which has incredible healing benefits—and make a profit, to even further improve their quality of life.
Although Paliwal is no longer the leader of the village, the tradition continues. Now, teachers report that there are just as many girls enrolled in school as boys. And, the village is lush and green with the hundreds of trees planted.
Other villages are following suit. The nearby village of Tasol is trying out Piplantri’s eco-feminist village model.
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ELIANA DOFT
Eliana loves to write, travel, and volunteer. She is especially excited by opportunities to combine these three passions through writing about social action travel experiences. She is an avid reader, a licensed scuba diver, and a self-proclaimed cold brew connoisseur.
For the past 600 years, dancers in Papantla, Mexico, have taken to the skies to perform the acrobatic spectacle, the Danza de los Voladores (Dance of the Flyers). Four flyers and one guide dressed in vibrant colors ascend a 20-meter pole, anchored only by a single rope tied to their legs. There, they begin the ritual, flying through the air to ask the sun deity for rain and blessings.
The Nasir ol Molk Mosque in Shiraz, Iran: Islamic architecture is one of the gems of Persian culture, as is its traditional music. Wikimedia Commons
Weaving through the rooms of my Brisbane childhood home, carried on the languid, humid, sub-tropical air, was the sound of an Iranian tenor singing 800-year old Persian poems of love. I was in primary school, playing cricket in the streets, riding a BMX with the other boys, stuck at home reading during the heavy rains typical of Queensland.
I had an active, exterior life that was lived on Australian terms, suburban, grounded in English, and easy-going. At the same time, thanks to my mother’s listening habits, courtesy of the tapes and CDs she bought back from trips to Iran, my interior life was being invisibly nourished by something radically other, by a soundscape invoking a world beyond the mundane, and an aesthetic dimension rooted in a sense of transcendence and spiritual longing for the Divine.
I was listening to traditional Persian music (museghi-ye sonnati). This music is the indigenous music of Iran, although it is also performed and maintained in Persian-speaking countries such as Afghanistan and Tajikistan. It has ancient connections to traditional Indian music, as well as more recent ones to Arabic and Turkish modal music.
It is a world-class art that incorporates not only performance but also the science and theory of music and sound. It is, therefore, a body of knowledge, encoding a way of knowing the world and being. The following track is something of what I might have heard in my childhood:
Playing kamancheh, a bowed spike-fiddle, is Kayhān Kalhor, while the singer is the undisputed master of vocals in Persian music, ostād (meaning “maestro”) Mohammad Reza Shajarian. He is singing in the classical vocal style, āvāz, that is the heart of this music.
A non-metric style placing great creative demands on singers, āvāz is improvised along set melodic lines memorised by heart. Without a fixed beat, the vocalist sings with rhythms resembling speech, but speech heightened to an intensified state. This style bears great similarity to the sean-nos style of Ireland, which is also ornamented and non-rhythmic, although sean-nos is totally unaccompanied, unlike Persian āvāz in which the singer is often accompanied by a single stringed instrument.
A somewhat more unorthodox example of āvāz is the following, sung by Alireza Ghorbāni with a synthesised sound underneath his voice rather than any Persian instrument. It creates a hypnotic effect.
Even listeners unfamiliar with Persian music should be able to hear the intensity in the voices of Ghorbāni and Shajarian. Passion is paramount, but passion refined and sublimated so that longing and desire break through ordinary habituated consciousness to point to something unlimited, such as an overwhelming sense of the beyond.
The traditional poetry and music of Iran aim to create a threshold space, a zone of mystery; a psycho-emotional terrain of suffering, melancholy, death and loss, but also of authentic joy, ecstasy, and hope.
Iranians have tasted much suffering throughout their history, and are wary of being stripped of their identity. Currently, economic sanctions are being re-applied to Iran’s entire civilian population, depriving millions of ordinary people of medicine and essentials.
Traditional Persian music matters in this context of escalating aggression because it is a rich, creative artform, still living and cherished. It binds Iranians in a shared culture that constitutes the authentic life of the people and the country, as opposed to the contrived image of Iran presented in Western media that begins and ends with politics.
This is a thoroughly soulful music, akin not in form but in soulfulness with artists such as John Coltrane or Van Morrison. In the Persian tradition, music is not only for pleasure, but has a transformative purpose. Sound is meant to effect a change in the listener’s consciousness, to bring them into a spiritual state (hāl).
Like other ancient systems, in the Persian tradition the perfection of the formal structures of beautiful music is believed to come from God, as in the Pythagorean phrase, the “music of the spheres.”
Because traditional Persian music has been heavily influenced by Sufism, the mystical aspect of Islam, many rhythmic performances (tasnif, as opposed to āvāz) can (distantly) recall the sounds of Sufi musical ceremonies (sama), with forceful, trance-inducing rhythms. (For instance in this Rumi performance by Alireza Eftekhari).
Even when slow, traditional Persian music is still passionate and ardent in mood, such as this performance of Rumi by Homayoun Shajarian, son of Mohammad-Reza:
A Persian woman playing the Daf, a frame drum, from a painting on the walls of Chehel-sotoon palace, Isfahan, 17th century. Wikimedia Commons
Another link with traditional Celtic music is the grief that runs through Persian music, as can be heard in this instrumental by Kalhor.
Grief and sorrow always work in tandem with joy and ecstasy to create soundscapes that evoke longing and mystery.
The work of classical poets such as Rumi, Hāfez, Sa’di, Attār, and Omar Khayyām forms the lyrical basis of compositions in traditional Persian music. The rhythmic structure of the music is based on the prosodic system that poetry uses (aruz), a cycle of short and long syllables.
Singers must therefore be masters not only at singing but know Persian poetry and its metrical aspects intimately. Skilled vocalists must be able to interpret poems. Lines or phrases can be extended or repeated, or enhanced with vocal ornaments.
Thus, even for a Persian speaker who knows the poems being sung, Persian music can still reveal new interpretations. Here, for example (from 10:00 to 25:00 mins) is another example of Rumi by M.R. Shajarian:
This is a charity concert from 2003 in Bam, Iran, after a horrendous earthquake destroyed the town. Rumi’s poem is renowned among Persian speakers, but here Mohammad-Reza Shajarian sings it with such passion and emotional intensity that it sounds fresh and revelatory.
“Without everyone else it’s possible,” Rumi says, “Without you life is not liveable.”
While such lines are originally drawn from the tradition of non-religious love poems, in Rumi’s poems the address to the beloved becomes mystical, otherworldly. After a tragedy such as the earthquake, these lyrics can take on special urgency in the present.
When people listen to traditional music, they, like the singers, remain still. Audiences are transfixed and transported.
According to Sufi cosmology, all melodious sounds erupt forth from a world of silence. In Sufism, silence is the condition of the innermost chambers of the human heart, its core (fuad), which is likened to a throne from which the Divine Presence radiates.
Because of this connection with the intelligence and awareness of the heart, many performers of traditional Persian music understand that it must be played through self-forgetting, as beautifully explained here by master Amir Koushkani:
Persian music has roughly twelve modal systems, each known as a dastgah. Each dastgah collects melodic models that are skeletal frameworks upon which performers improvise in the moment. The spiritual aspect of Persian music is made most manifest in this improvisation.
Shajarian has said that the core of traditional music is concentration (tamarkoz), by which he means not only the mind but the whole human awareness. It is a mystical and contemplative music.
The highly melodic nature of Persian music also facilitates expressiveness. Unlike Western classical music, there is very sparing use of harmony. This, and the fact that like other world musical traditions it includes microtonal intervals, may make traditional Persian music odd at first listen for Western audiences.
Solo performances are important to traditional Persian music. In a concert, soloists may be accompanied by another instrument with a series of call-and-response type echoes and recapitulations of melodic phrases.
Similarly, here playing the barbat, a Persian variant of the oud, maestro Hossein Behrooznia shows how percussion and plucked string instruments can forge interwoven melodic structures that create hypnotic soundscapes:
Ancient roots
The roots of traditional Persian music go back to ancient pre-Islamic Persian civilisation, with archaeological evidence of arched harps (a harp in the shape of a bow with a sound box at the lower end), having been used in rituals in Iran as early as 3100BC.
Under the pre-Islamic Parthian (247BC-224AD) and Sasanian (224-651AD) kingdoms, in addition to musical performances on Zoroastrian holy days, music was elevated to an aristocratic art at royal courts.
Centuries after the Sasanians, after the Arab invasion of Iran, Sufi metaphysics brought a new spiritual intelligence to Persian music. Spiritual substance is transmitted through rhythm, metaphors and symbolism, melodies, vocal delivery, instrumentation, composition, and even the etiquette and co-ordination of performances.
A six-string fretted lute, known as a tār. Wikimedia Commons
The main instruments used today go back to ancient Iran. Among others, there is the tār, the six-stringed fretted lute; ney, the vertical reed flute that is important to Rumi’s poetry as a symbol of the human soul crying out in joy or grief; daf, a frame drum important in Sufi ritual; and the setār, a wooden four-stringed lute.
The tār, made of mulberry wood and stretch lambskin, is used to create vibrations that affect the heart and the body’s energies and a central instrument for composition. It is played here by master Hossein Alizadeh and here by master Dariush Talai.
Traditional Persian music not only cross-pollinates with poetry, but with other arts and crafts. At its simplest, this means performing with traditional dress and carpets on stage. In a more symphonic mode of production, an overflow of beauty can be created, such as in this popular and enchanting performance by the group Mahbanu:
They perform in a garden: of course. Iranians love gardens, which have a deeply symbolic and spiritual meaning as a sign or manifestation of Divine splendour. Our word paradise, in fact, comes from the Ancient Persian word, para-daiza, meaning “walled garden”. The walled garden, tended and irrigated, represents in Persian tradition the cultivation of the soul, an inner garden or inner paradise.
The traditional costumes of the band (as with much folk dress around the world) are elegant, colourful, resplendent, yet also modest. The lyrics are tinged with Sufi thought, the poet-lover lamenting the distance of the beloved but proclaiming the sufficiency of staying in unconsumed desire.
As a young boy, I grasped the otherness of Persian music intuitively. I found its timeless spiritual beauty and interiority had no discernible connection with my quotidian, material Australian existence.
Persian music and arts, like other traditional systems, gives a kind of “food” for the soul and spirit that has been destroyed in the West by the dominance of rationalism and capitalism. For 20 years since my boyhood, traditional Persian culture has anchored my identity, healed and replenished my wounded heart, matured my soul, and allowed me to avoid the sense of being without roots in which so many unfortunately find themselves today.
It constitutes a world of beauty and wisdom that is a rich gift to the whole world, standing alongside Irano-Islamic architecture and Iranian garden design.
The problem is the difficulty of sharing this richness with the world. In an age of hypercommunication, why is the beauty of Persian music (or the beauty of traditional arts of many other cultures for that matter) so rarely disseminated? Much of the fault lies with corporate media.
Mahbanu, who can also be heard here performing a well-known Rumi poem, are mostly female. But readers will very likely not have heard about them, or any of the other rising female musicians and singers of Persian music. According to master-teachers such as Shajarian, there are now often as many female students as male in traditional music schools such as his.
Almost everyone has seen however, through corporate media, the same cliched images of an angry mob of Iranians chanting, soldiers goose-stepping, missile launches, or leaders in rhetorical flight denouncing something. Ordinary Iranian people themselves are almost never heard from directly, and their creativity rarely shown.
The lead singer of the Mahbanu group, Sahar Mohammadi, is a phenomenally talented singer of the āvāz style, as heard here, when she performs in the mournful abu ata mode. She may, indeed, be the best contemporary female vocalist. Yet she is unheard of outside of Iran and small circles of connoisseurs mainly in Europe.
A list of outstanding modern Iranian women poets and musicians requires its own article. Here I will list some of the outstanding singers, very briefly. From an older generation we may mention the master Parisa (discussed below), and Afsaneh Rasaei. Current singers of great talent include, among others, Mahdieh Mohammadkhani, Homa Niknam, Mahileh Moradi, and the mesmerising Sepideh Raissadat.
Finally, one of my favourites is the marvelous Haleh Seifizadeh, whose enchanting singing in a Moscow church suits the space perfectly.
The beloved Shajarian
Tenor Mohammad-Reza Shajarian is by far the most beloved and renowned voice of traditional Persian music. To truly understand his prowess, we can listen to him performing a lyric of the 13th century poet Sa’di:
As heard here, traditional Persian music is at once heavy and serious in its intent, yet expansive and tranquil in its effect. Shajarian begins by singing the word Yār, meaning “beloved”, with an ornamental trill. These trills, called tahrir, are made by rapidly closing the glottis, effectively breaking the notes (the effect is reminiscent of Swiss yodeling).
By singing rapidly and high in the vocal range, a virtuoso display of vocal prowess is created imitating a nightingale, the symbol with whom the poet and singer are most compared in Persian traditional music and poetry. Nightingales symbolise the besotted, suffering, and faithful lover. (For those interested, Homayoun Shajarian, explains the technique in this video).
As with many singers, the great Parisa, heard here in a wonderful concert from pre-revolutionary Iran, learned her command of tahrir partly from Shajarian. With her voice in particular, the similarity to a nightingale’s trilling is clear.
Nourishing hearts and souls
The majority of Iran’s 80 million population are under 30 years of age. Not all are involved in traditional culture. Some prefer to make hip-hop or heavy-metal, or theatre or cinema. Still, there are many young Iranians expressing themselves through poetry (the country’s most important artform) and traditional music.
National and cultural identity for Iranians is marked by a sense of having a tradition, of being rooted in ancient origins, and of carrying something of great cultural significance from past generations, to be preserved for the future as repository of knowledge and wisdom. This precious thing that is handed down persists while political systems change.
Iran’s traditional music carries messages of beauty, joy, sorrow and love from the heart of the Iranian people to the world. These messages are not simply of a national character, but universally human, albeit inflected by Iranian history and mentality.
This is why traditional Persian music should be known to the world. Ever since its melodies first pierced my room in Brisbane, ever since it began to transport me to places of the spirit years ago, I’ve wondered if it could also perhaps nourish the hearts and souls of some of my fellow Australians, across the gulf of language, history, and time.
THIS ARTICLE WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON THE CONVERSATION
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DARIUS SEPEHRI
Darius is a Doctoral Candidate for Comparative Literature in the Religion and History of Philosophy at the University of Sydney.
Irish Travellers in a decorated caravan, 1954. Unknown (via The National Library of Ireland on the Commons). Wikimedia Commons.
Travellers are a traditionally nomadic ethnic group, possibly descended from the Romany people, though their origins are somewhat debated. Today, they are found mostly in Ireland, but also live in the United Kingdom and United States. They are also subject to relentless racism in Ireland and around the world.
The exact origins of the Travellers are unknown, but it is believed that they are descended from Irish people who were made homeless by Oliver Cromwell’s military actions in Ireland in the 1650s or by the Irish potato famine in the 1840s. They remained itinerant, choosing to avoid educational and political systems for centuries in exchange for a life on the road, until vagrancy laws made it illegal to live a nomadic lifestyle; even so, many Irish Travellers still live in sedentary caravans. Most are Irish Catholic, and typically marry young and prioritize family and loyalty, though there are of course exceptions to these generalizations. Today, there are about 40,000 Travellers in Ireland, and in 2017 they finally attained recognition as an ethnic group from the Irish government. There are also about 10,000 Travellers in the United States.
Many people outside Ireland first encountered Travellers through the reality TV show, “My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding,” a show that portrays Irish Travellers as uncouth, uncivilized, and almost inhuman. When I was studying in Ireland, I was shocked to find that everyone I asked, including other American foreign exchange students, expressed an implicit belief in the fundamental “filth” or “trashiness,” words that they believed characterized all Travellers.
While abroad, I took a class at the National University of Ireland in Galway taught by a Traveller woman—a poised, beautiful, intelligent professor who has spent her life working tirelessly for Traveller rights. In the class, I was shocked to hear Irish students use ethnic slurs to describe Travellers right in front of her face.
It is usually difficult for people who are not from Ireland to identify Travellers, but during my time there, I came to realize that the native Irish are able to pick them out with ease based on specific characteristics, such as fashion choices, mannerisms and dialects. All differences are small—Travellers are white, a characteristic that certainly endows them with levels of privilege of their own—but most settled Irish people not only are able to notice Travellers, but make a special effort to reject and demonize them.
An Irish Traveller in Dublin watches neighbouring children play from her trailer
window. Photobymack. Wikimedia Commons.
In Ireland, Travellers are often ostracized, rejected since childhood on the basis of their identities. My professor told us that her own daughter was not invited to class birthday parties by settler children simply because she was a Traveller. This early rejection is a precursor of a far larger machine in which systems orchestrated around privilege and the practice of discrimination prevent Travellers from attaining certain access to healthcare, housing rights, and educational opportunities, which compromises their mental and physical health, making it nearly impossible for them to rise out of poverty.
Racism against Travellers is remarkably commonplace and socially acceptable in Ireland. Many Irish people believe that Travellers are all criminals, dangerous social outcasts that cause trouble and stick to themselves.
However, these beliefs immediately create hierarchies that disadvantages those not already privileged, further locking them out of the possibility of accessing healthcare and the tools to improve their own vitality and growth.
Fear is one of the great accomplices of the privileged, and many defend their racist actions on the basis of a fear of Travellers, labeling them as dangerous criminals. However, it is likely that this fear has much deeper roots, roots that stretch back to old wounds stemming from discrimination against the Irish back in the days of English colonization. Fascinatingly, negative stereotypes initially deployed against the Irish by the British—such as the degenerative, false stereotype of the drunk and raucous Irish criminal—seem to have transferred over to the way settled Irish people view Travellers.
This will only end when the cycle is broken and systems are created that allow Travellers and minority groups to have voices and rights that do not hinge on compromisation of their identities and culture. After all, Travellers are no longer allowed to be legally nomadic—so most live in stationary caravans, or some are able to purchase houses. They have been forced to become part of settled society by law. The least settled society can do is give them a chance.
GET INVOLVED
To learn more about Travellers and the struggle for Traveller rights, visit https://itmtrav.ie.
Eden Gordon
Eden is a journalist, editor, and creative writer specializing in the arts, climate justice, social change, and their intersections. Her work explores everything from music and intersectionality to capitalism and climate change. She’s passionate about telling stories that disrupt archaic patterns and highlight the shared truths that make us alive.
More than 4,000 miles north of the equator in Finnmark county, Norway live roughly 40,000 descendents of the Sámi, a nomadic people from thousands of years ago in Northern Scandinavia. The Sámi live in parts of Norway, Finland, Sweden and Russia. Of the 80,000 total population of Sámi, roughly half live in Finnmark, Norway.
The Sámi have their own language with five dialects currently used in Northern Norway. Of the dialects spoken, Northern Sámi, Lule Sámi and Southern Sámi are the most common. Each dialect is completely unique and does not resemble each other nor other Scandinavian languages. In the 1990s, the Norwegian government made speaking Sámi illegal in efforts to force assimilation of the Sámi people, resulting in many Sámi today being unable to speak the language. The Norwegian government has officially apologized for the past legislation, but the damage is still evident as less than half of Sámi people in Norway speak a Sámi dialect. In recent years the Sámi language has had an increasing role in new media and broadcasting, signaling efforts to keep the language alive.
A pillar of Sámi culture is reindeer herding, which played a major part in the Sámi economy for hundreds of years. Starting in the 16th or 17th century, the Sámi transitioned from hunting reindeer to becoming nomadic herders. Reindeers are used for more than just cooking — the Sámi make clothes and shoes from the skin, and the horns can be used to make traditional art. Today, Sámi herding is less nomadic; most families stay in permanent homes while the herder will travel with the reindeer.
Despite previous attempts from governments to assimilate Sámi people, their culture and traditions have remained present in modern life. Notably, Sámi Joik has had a cultural renaissance in recent years. Joik is a traditional form of music that has been passed down orally for generations. The music, performed acapella, is storied to have been taught to the Sámi by fairies and elves. Joik is very personal in nature, as the music is typically dedicated to a specific person, place or animal. Joik is a central part to Sámi culture, and many young Sámi people have begun to incorporate the traditional music into different genres of music.
New artists are revitalizing Joik after intense pressure from the Norwegian government in the 20th century caused some areas to lose the tradition. Norwegian music group KEiiNO entered the 2019 Eurovision Song contest with music that included pop, electronic and Joik, and took 6th in the competition, winning the popular vote by viewers. Joik has made a recent impact in Hollywood as well, inspiring “Vuelie,” the opening track of Disney’s Frozen.
Joik is not the only part of Sámi culture that has continued in contemporary forms. The Sámi Center for Contemporary Art was established in 1986 and features contemporary Sámi art. The gallery blends traditional art pieces with modern art forms of expression. Despite past pressure and action from governments, the Sámi continue to keep important aspects of their culture alive. These efforts were continued with the establishment of the Norwegian Sámi Parliament in 1989. The Sámi Parliament is made of 39 elected representatives and oversees matters that deal directly with the Sámi. The parliament is a political party for the Sámi people that promotes Sámi interests. Traditional Sami culture remains an integral part of daily life for the Sami to this day, and illustrates how the rich history of the Sami is being brought into the modern day.
Dana Flynn
Dana is a recent graduate from Tufts University with a degree in English. While at Tufts she enjoyed working on a campus literary magazine and reading as much as possible. Originally from the Pacific Northwest, she loves to explore and learn new things.
Bar Las Teresas in southern Spain. Vallausa. CC BY 2.0
Tapas bars are a long-held Spanish tradition that includes traditional food, wine, friends and a lively atmosphere. The small plates have been enjoyed at wine bars for generations, but the exact origin of tapas is unknown. There are several tales speculating how the dishes first gained popularity. One dates back to the 13th century when King Alfonso X of Castille was ill and only ate and drank in small quantities. Another story tells a more grassroots origin, with local bars in Andalucía serving wine with a saucer on top to keep flies out during the hot summer. In addition, a small amount of complimentary food would be placed on the plate to attract more customers to the bar. Even though there may be some disagreement over the origins of tapas, there is no doubt that the cuisine is a staple of Spanish food and culture. With increased tourism and popularity, most tapas are no longer free, although some wine bars still will serve complimentary tapas in smaller towns in Andalucía.
Tapas bars are typically small wine bars, with varying small plates placed on top of the bars. While many tapas may have started out as simple small plates, chefs have gotten increasingly inventive in creating new dishes over the years. Traditional cold tapas include serrano, thinly sliced salt-cured ham and manzanilla or gordal olives, classic Andalucía olives, along with a variety of salads. Seafood is prevelant, with calamari and prawns dipped in batter, called gambas gabardina, being just a few dishes offered at tapas bars. Other popular tapas include ham croquettes (a fried ball of cheese and ham), pincho de tortillas (a potato-based omelet) and patatas bravas (fried potatoes covered in sauce).
Tapas bar hopping is popular for people to socialize and enjoy traditional food. People can have tapas as a quick snack with a drink and can eat standing up at a bar, or turn the small plates into a complete meal with many people. Tapas hold so much cultural significance to Spain that in 2016 the country sought to put tapas on the UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage List. Tapas have now spread worldwide with chefs experimenting with small plates of all kinds. Despite the global reach, Spain’s beloved tapas bars are still a unique cultural experience.
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Dana Flynn
Dana is a recent graduate from Tufts University with a degree in English. While at Tufts she enjoyed working on a campus literary magazine and reading as much as possible. Originally from the Pacific Northwest, she loves to explore and learn new things.
Two capoeiristas in the streets of Brazil. Otubo. CC BY 2.0
Merengue dancer. Max Bosio. CC BY 2.0
Merengue is the national dance of the Dominican Republic; however, merengue originated in multiple sites across the Caribbean. In Puerto Rico, Cuban marching bands created the merengue initially called the “upa” in 1842. At this time, local elites considered an African variant of the dance as a “corrupting influence.” Therefore, the government passed laws to fine and imprison those who danced merengue. Forty years later, Puerto Rico’s merengue died out, but Dominican merengue lived on. Merengue has two origin stories circulating in the Dominican Republic. The first story is that enslaved people created the dance as they cut sugar to the beat of drums while dragging one chained leg behind them. The other story is about a hero who returned to his village with a wounded leg after a revolution in the Dominican Republic. Both stories explain the usage of a dragging leg movement used in merengue.
Merengue pairs dance with flirtatious gestures as dancers move in circles. Meanwhile, the music usually consists of accordions, drums and saxophones. Merengue plays an active role in many people’s daily lives; for instance, at social gatherings, celebrations and political campaigning. The dance has migrated to other Latin American countries, such as Venezuela and Colombia, where various forms have emerged.
A couple dancing street bachata. Fridaycafe. CC BY-SA 2.0
Bachata was born in the Dominican Republic during the dictatorship of Trujillo. Trujillo claimed bachata was a lower art form and altogether banned both the music and the dance. As a result, bachata was only enjoyed in brothels, not helping its status as a respectable dance. Even after Trujillo’s reign, bachata was still frowned upon by society. In the 1960s and 70s, the people considered bachata to be “the poor people’s music.” Now, bachata is accepted and celebrated as hundreds of academics, studios and schools are dedicated to its transmission. There are three primary forms of bachata practiced; the Dominican bachata, bachata moderna and the traditional style. Bachata is a passionate dance between partners characterized by sensual hip movement and a simple eight-step structure. The lyrics of bachata music typically express deep feelings of love, passion, nostalgia, and feature a strong guitar base. Recently, bachata gained popularity because artists like Aventura, Prince Royce and Romeo Santos who turned bachata into one of the most sensual and romantic Latin dances.
Tango dancers amidst their dance. Armando Maynez. CC BY 2.0
Tango emerged from the immigrant culture on Argentina’s dockside slums; it’s a fusion of New World, African and European dance styles. Specifically, the music is inspired by the African community in Buenos Aires and uses elements from African rhythm, European music and South American songs. In its early years, tango primarily took place in the brothels of Buenos Aires. The steps are considered sexual and aggressive, with music creating feelings of longing and despair. It is said that dancers acted out the relationship of the prostitute and the pimp. In Buenos Aires, the upper-class society formerly considered tango indecent and associated it with violence, illicit sex and the lower class. In 1912, the passage of universal suffrage laws granted the lower class legitimacy, giving tango higher credibility.
Additionally, as tango moved across Europe, the steps simplified and the sensual quality diminished a little. European approval made the tango acceptable to all Argentineans, and by the 1920s, it evolved into a national folk treasure. Argentinian dancers at its peak in the 1940s performed in cabarets, dance salons, social and sports clubs and restaurants. During tango’s golden age, Maria Nieves, a star from the 1980s show Forever Tango, said, “We were swept away by our love for tango. We just loved to go dancing. We didn't go out looking for sex...we didn't care what the man looked like. It was a nice, beautiful, pure group of girls, interested only in the tango.”
Samba dancers in Brazil. Sfmission.com. CC BY 2.0
Samba originated in Brazil as a musical genre and dance style. Samba’s roots are in Africa. Brazil’s African descendants brought as slaves from Angola and Congo first influenced and created the dance. Samba was first born in Bahia, a coastal state of Brazil known as “Little Africa.” Some believe the Bahian priestesses would invoke the gods through song and dance. The word “samba” derives from the African Bantu word “semba.” The Kimbundo word means “naval bump” which depicts intimacy and invitation to dance. The word samba is also the infinitive of kusamba, which means to pray or do a favor to the gods through song and dance. Some believe the heart of samba comes from Angola’s traditional semba music, which is about celebrating religious worship through an ancient rhythm. The musical genre combines percussion tempo with sounds of pandeiro, reco reco, tamborim and ciuca. The dance form typically emphasizes the movements of the hip and belly. Samba has become an icon of Brazil’s national identity as a form of cultural expression.
Capoeira with instruments playing in the background CC BY-SA 2.0
Capoeira isn’t a typical dance; it’s an art form tying fighting, dance, music, ritual and philosophy together to create a unique game called jogo de capoeira. Enslaved Africans brought their traditions from various cultures to South America, including capoeira. It was practiced on plantations as means of breaking the bonds of slavery both physically and mentally. At that time, capoeira was prohibited by the Brazilian Penal Code, because it was considered a social infirmity. The term “the outlaw” became so deeply incorporated with capoeira that the word transformed into a synonym for “bum,” “bandit” and “thief.”
Nevertheless, capoeira persisted from its marginalized identity and became a cultural phenomenon. As a cultural art form, capoeira was a means to ensure African tradition would survive through slavery. Afro-Brazilians still uniquely evolve the practice throughout the years. The music along with capoeira consists of a bateria (orchestra) with three berimbau (stringed bow-like instruments), pandeiros (tambourines), an agogo (bell), a reco-reco (small bamboo instrument) and an atabaque (drum). The dance is like a game that can be playful and cooperative, intense and competitive. The movement is a fluid, swinging stance called “ginga.” Capoeiristas teach to attack and defend from any position with any part of the body to practice adaptability and preparedness for any movements. The underlying principles of capoeira are understanding the complexities of human interaction, being ready for anything, the value of cleverness and the strength of indirect resistance. As its creators were once oppressed, capoeira’s philosophy is rooted in survival at all costs through creative measures.
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Kyla Denisevich
Kyla is an upcoming senior at Boston University, and is majoring in Journalism with a minor in Anthropology. She writes articles for the Daily Free Press at BU and a local paper in Malden, Massachusetts called Urban Media Arts. Pursuing journalism is her passion, and she aims to highlight stories from people of all walks of life to encourage productive, educated conversation. In the future, Kyla hopes to create well researched multimedia stories which emphasize under-recognized narratives.
Women performing at the Guelaguetza Festival. Jen Wilton. CC BY 2.0
Oaxaca City’s Guelaguetza festival is a celebration of community and strength that occurs annually on the two Mondays after July 16. Also referred to as “Los Lunes del Cerro,” the festival has been a longstanding tradition in Oaxaca culture that predates Spanish colonization of the land in the 16th century. Although the cultural significance of the festival has shifted over the years, its core value of unity remains deeply rooted in the celebrations.
Prior to Spanish invasion, the festival had close ties to the religious celebration of the goddess of maize Centéotl in order to ensure a successful harvest season. While Centéotl still has a place in modern Guelaguetza celebrations, after Spanish colonization, festivities began to integrate Christian elements such as the feast day Our Lady of Mount Carmel which occurs on July 16.
The term “Guelaguetza” means “reciprocal exchanges of gifts and services” in the Zapotec language, which is the overarching structure of the festival. Historically, during Oaxacan celebrations, those attending would each bring some sort of item that was needed for the celebration such as food or supplies. These “guelaguetza” allowed the celebration to exist and exemplified the value of collaboration.
During the Guelaguetza festival in particular, inhabitants of Oaxaca’s eight regions unite, bringing their own unique traditions and knowledge to share with the larger community.
A couple dancing at the Guelaguetza Festival. Larry Lamsa. CC BY 2.0
Particularly, an exchange of culture occurs through song, dance and clothing. Individuals from each of the eight regions spend months prior to the festival perfecting song and dance routines to perform for the festival's attendees. After performing the number in their region's traditional clothing, they toss significant cultural items into the crowd. This exchange allows Oaxaca’s sub-cultures to not only exist but to thrive.
In addition to culture, there are plenty of other exchanges that occur during the festival, such as sharing traditional food that is prepared by inhabitants of each region and selling artisanal crafts in the city center.
The Guelaguetza festival has been traditionally celebrated on Cerro del Fortín, or Fortin Hill, in Oaxaca. In the 1970s an amphitheater was built specifically for the celebration. Seating 11,000 people, the amphitheater was built directly into a hill so that those looking down at the stage are able to clearly view the city below.
Oaxaca is home to sixteen different Indigenous groups in addition to its eight regions, so there is a vast array of cultures within the larger Oaxaca culture. Annual Guelaguetza celebrations have preserved these cultures over the years despite colonization and increasing tourism in the region, ensuring that Oaxacan traditions and stories will be preserved for coming generations.
Zara Irshad
With beautiful temples, artwork, and monasteries dating back to the 17th century, the influence of Buddhism on Thai culture cannot be understated. Although Buddhism is the country’s primary religion, its rich history is influenced by Hinduism and Animism — shaping the people’s relationship with religion.
One physical manifestation of these influences comes in the form of Sak Yant tattoos — intricate tattoos believed to be powerful symbols for protection against evil influences. While a traditionally Buddhist practice, these tattoos’ use of magic is a clear sign of Thailand’s other religions shaping its traditions.
The tattoos are blessed by monks every year at the Wai Kru festival, documented in this video. Filmed by Gennaro Ambrosino, this mini-documentary details the spiritual practices behind the tattoos, the rituals of the Wai Kru festival and the altered state of consciousness its attendees often slip into. The transformative nature of the festival mirrors the impact of religion on Thai culture and identity, something still present today.
Lights are an important part of culture and art around the world. They symbolize new beginnings, celebrate historic traditions and are glimmering, eye-catching sources of entertainment. Many countries host annual festivals with lights at their center. These seven light festivals display floating lanterns, light sculptures, intricate projections and even raging bonfires. The lights on display vary from festival to festival, as does the history behind each event, but every event is sure to dazzle visitors.
Each year over a million revelers gather in Valencia, Spain, for this five-day fire festival. Las Fallas begins on March 15, when more than 700 “ninots,” towering statues made of cardboard, papier mache, wood or plaster, are set up around the city. The ninots are eye-catching: often multiple stories tall, colorful and exaggerated depictions of current events and satirical scenes. Las Fallas originates from an old carpenter's tradition of burning materials on March 19 to celebrate the arrival of spring. The carpenters’ bonfires of old wood and rags developed into the elaborate ninots seen today. On the final day of the festival, March 19, all but one of the ninots are set ablaze in the festival's dramatic climax. The ninot that is spared from the fire, known as the “ninot indultat,” is chosen by popular vote and preserved in Valencia’s Fallas Museum alongside ninot indultats from years past. While the ninots and their burning are the festival’s main attraction, they are far from all that Las Fallas has to offer. Daily firework shows light up the sky, and music, parades and delicious authentic food are sure to keep visitors entertained.
France’s Festival of Lights, a tradition in the city of Lyon, is a pre-Christmas celebration dating back to 1852. In 1852, a statue of the Virgin Mary was scheduled to be erected on Sept. 8, but the statue’s delivery was delayed by flooding. The event was postponed to Dec. 8, the date of the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. Due to inclement weather, the official ceremonies again had to be postponed. But as night fell, the weather cleared, and citizens of Lyon placed lit candles on their windowsills and balconies in a show of unity. Since then, Dec. 8 has become a day known for illumination in Lyon. The tradition escalated in the 1960s, when shops began window-lighting competitions, making the lights in Lyon more elaborate and widespread. The illumination of the city has spread in the years since, and every year around Dec. 8, light displays spotlight city squares, streets, bridges and even rivers. Much of the light at the festival comes in the form of projections on building facades, created by visual artists, that transform Lyon into a dreamlike world of glittering color.
China’s Lantern Festival, held on the 15th day of the first lunar month, typically falling in February or March, marks the end of the Chinese New Year (Spring Festival). As the name suggests, glowing lanterns are the centerpiece of the festival. During the festival, lanterns in all shapes and sizes adorn China’s cities. The lanterns display artwork depicting traditional Chinese images like animals, fruits, flowers and people. The lighting of lanterns represents illuminating the future. The Lantern Festival dates back over 2,000 years, to the Western Han dynasty. Emperor Wen made the 15th a national holiday in celebration of the return to peace, and every household began to light candles and lanterns. A later ruler, Emperor Ming of the Eastern Han, was a devout Buddhist, and learned that monks would light candles for the Buddha on the 15th. Emperor Ming ordered that the palace and temples light candles on the 15th as well, and that citizens hang lanterns. The two events combined to form the Lantern Festival that is celebrated today. In addition to the lighting and admiration of the lanterns, visitors to China’s Lantern Festival can watch lion dances, eat “tangyuan” traditional dumplings, and try to solve riddles affixed to lanterns in order to win a prize.
St. Martin’s Day is a children’s festival celebrated every Nov. 11 in honor of St. Martin, who was traditionally regarded as the patron saint of the poor and a friend to children. Nov. 11 is the day of St. Martin’s passing, but the atmosphere of the festival is joyful, not somber. The festival is similar to American Halloween, with children going door to door to collect treats such as candy, fruits or pancakes. Unlike Halloween, however, children do not dress up in costumes. Instead, they carry lanterns and parade around the neighborhood. Adults place similar lanterns outside their homes to show that they are offering treats to the revelers. Historically, children’s lanterns were made out of hollowed-out turnips and sugar beets hanging from a stick. These days, most children make and decorate their own paper lanterns at home or school, or lanterns can be purchased at grocery stores. Rather than saying “trick or treat,” children in the Netherlands sing songs to earn their treats. There are a few common songs for the festival, but children can sing any song they like, even ones of their own creation.
On the evening of the 12th lunar month, which usually falls toward the beginning of November, the whole country celebrates Loi Krathong, Thailand's Festival of Lights. Loi Krathong translates to “floating basket,” and it is a celebration of renewal, leaving behind the old and welcoming in the new. Thousands of lotus-shaped boats made from banana leaves called “krathong” are lit with candles and set afloat in waterways. In the north of Thailand, the krathong are joined by lanterns released into the sky for another light festival, Yi Peng, which often coincides with Loi Krathong. Most Loi Krathong celebrations are concentrated around waterways, since they are necessary to float the krathong. According to legend, Loi Krathong originated with Nang Nopphamat, a beautiful lady of the court in an ancient city. Wanting to catch the attention of the king, Nopphamat constructed a boat out of lotus leaves, placed a candle inside, and floated it down the river, creating the krathong. Today, the festival includes beauty contests in honor of Nopphamat, as well as parades, fireworks and, of course, the floating of the krathong.
This celebration, also known as Guy Fawkes Day, takes place each year on Nov. 5. Bonfire Night marks the anniversary of the discovery of the Gunpowder Plot of 1605, a plan by Catholic conspirators to blow up the British Houses of Parliament. Guy Fawkes was one of the conspirators. He was captured and taken into custody the night before the attack and eventually tried, convicted and executed. The other conspirators met the same fate, or were killed resisting arrest. Today, Guy Fawkes Day is celebrated with fireworks, food, parades and bonfires, hence why the celebration is also called Bonfire Night. Effigies of Guy Fawkes, made from old clothes stuffed with paper and straw and commonly called “The Guy,” are thrown on the bonfires. The bonfires are also used to heat soup and cook potatoes to feed the crowds that gather to watch the brilliant fireworks displays.
Vivid Sydney is billed as a festival of light, music and ideas. Each year, more than 2 million visitors flock to Sydney to watch live music performances, attend creative workshops, talks and conferences, and see some of the city’s historic sites go up in lights. The festival lasts for 23 days, and the Sydney Opera House, Customs House and Taronga Zoo, among others, are all illuminated nightly at 6 p.m. Over the course of the festival, Sydney becomes a work of art, displaying light sculptures, large-scale projections and light installations. To best take in the massive array of lights, visitors to Vivid Sydney can follow the Vivid Light Walk, a route that stretches from The Rocks, a historic neighborhood by the Sydney Harbour Bridge, to the Sydney Opera House, winding through a number of attractions on the way. Several of the light installations are typically interactive, adding another dimension to the fun.
Rachel Lynch
Rachel is a student at Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville, NY currently taking a semester off. She plans to study Writing and Child Development. Rachel loves to travel and is inspired by the places she’s been and everywhere she wants to go. She hopes to educate people on social justice issues and the history and culture of travel destinations through her writing.
Shetland ponies in a field on one of the Shetland Islands. Infinite Ache. CC BY-NC 2.0.
Located 110 miles northeast of the Scottish mainland are the Shetland Islands, a sub-Arctic archipelago in the north Atlantic Ocean. The islands, with a population of 22,920 centered around the town of Lerwick, are home to one of the most unique cultures in the British Isles, with the islands’ residents maintaining a blend of Nordic and Celtic influences.
While travel to the archipelago is largely limited due to the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic, following the global crisis, any traveler looking to take the road less traveled will find joy in visiting the Shetland Islands. Given the region’s rich history, diverse local culture and beautiful wildlife, the farthest north region of Scotland should not be overlooked when planning future adventures abroad.
A parade through Lerwick during Up Helly Aa, an annual Shetland fire festival which pays tribute to the archipelago’s Viking origins. Vicky Brock. CC BY-SA 2.0.
While humans have inhabited the Shetland Islands since at least 2700 B.C., with evidence to suggest that the Romans knew about the archipelago during the height of their empire, modern Shetland culture began at the end of the 9th century A.D. with the colonization of the archipelago and the nearby Orkney Islands by Vikings from Scandinavia.
The Shetland Islands would remain under Norse rule for around 600 years, during which the islands’ population Christianized and gained a grounding for the region’s culture that is still seen to this day. For instance, remnants of Norn, the predominant language of the time but one that is now extinct, has influenced the Shetland dialect spoken in the region. Likewise, festivals such as Up Helly Aa, an annual midwinter fire festival which honors pagan and Christian traditions, can trace their roots back directly to Viking colonialism.
Following several centuries of conflict and growing Scottish influence in the region, sovereignty over the archipelago was sold to Scotland in 1468. This transfer of power, which lasted until 1707 when Scotland and England joined together under the name Great Britain, saw the adoption of more Celtic customs, as well as increased trade with the rest of Europe. The introduction of folk music, the cuisine of the region, and the English language can trace their origins back to this time period.
Into the contemporary era, the Nordic and Celtic cultures and heritage have blended together. This is represented in the aforementioned festivals and language of the region, as well as in the archipelago’s civil parish names, which feature both Old Norse and Celtic origins.
Lerwick, the Shetland Islands’ largest settlement and only town. Balou46. CC BY-SA 4.0.
Given how remote the Shetland Islands are in comparison to the rest of Scotland, visitors to the islands can either arrive via a 12-hour overnight boat ride from Aberdeen, or by plane from one of six cities in Scotland or from Bergen, Norway.
Once on the archipelago, visitors have a number of experiences to partake in. Lerwick is home to a number of festivals throughout the year, including the Shetland Folk Festival, the Shetland Accordion and Fiddle Festival, and the largest celebration of Up Helly Aa. Likewise, the town is home to the Shetland Museum and Archives, which is dedicated to documenting the unique history and traditions of the region.
Venturing away from Lerwick, travelers can take in the untouched nature of the islands in one of three national nature reserves, the most popular being the Hermaness National Nature Reserve, a seabird colony on the island of Unst. For those more interested in the island’s oceanic location, Lonely Planet recommends kayaking, sailing and surfing for those who can brave the frigid waters of the north Atlantic.
For a taste of the local cuisine, the archipelago offers a number of highly recommended restaurants. Steamed lemon sole from The Dowry, reestit mutton soup from Peerie Shop Cafe, and saucermeat, a spiced breakfast sausage, from Fjara Cafe Bar, are all favorites among travelers and locals alike.
The Shetland Islands represent the best of what Scotland as a whole has to offer. The archipelago’s rich history, unique culture and variety of experiences offer something for everyone to enjoy. Following the pandemic, a visit to the Shetland Islands is a must for any world traveler.
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Jacob Sutherland
Jacob is a recent graduate from the University of California, San Diego. Previously, he worked for The UCSD Guardian, serving both as News Editor and a columnist. In addition to his work at Catalyst, he writes the online column, PC Princess, and centers his writing around social justice issues.
Indigenous women sewing. SriHarsha PVSS. CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.
Nothing about this year’s Indigenous Fashion Week Toronto (IFWTO) went according to plan. The pandemic demanded a totally virtual fashion venue without a live audience, forcing the Indigenous communities that comprise it to rethink what a fashion week could be. Then again, reimagining the fashion industry is the forte of many Indigenous designers.
The IFWTO featured 16 designers with their own unique takes on Indigenous fashion, the clothing created by designers from a native background. It included artists from across the world who are united by a shared Indigenous heritage. Combining traditional figures and techniques with mainstream styles yielded some of the week’s most exciting work. Mobilize, for instance, fused Indigenous writing and designs with streetwear hoodies and jackets to innovate style while staying true to its roots. Audiences took well to Mobilize’s style; most of its items sold out.
Mobilize and other Indigenous brands seek to fundamentally change the fashion industry’s status quo. Jamie Okuma, a California designer of Luiseño and Shoshone-Bannock descent, emphasizes resourcefulness and respect for nature in her garments. “All of my work has tradition at its core ... So I try to utilize everything possible in my work—with my art, supplies, fabric—and not be wasteful.” Crafted with patience, detail and care, her pieces are meant to be worn again and again. “We all have those go-to pieces in our closet that we keep for years and literally wear out before we retire them,” she says. “I'm here to make the go-tos, the keepers.”
Shoes designed by Jamie Okuma. nonelvis. CC By-NC-SA 2.0.
Okuma’s approach is a welcome change to the dominant fad of “fast fashion.” These items, mass produced by large companies, are designed season by season and intended to fall out of fashion and be thrown out within a year. This approach to fashion differs starkly from that of Indigenous creators, who value durability, tradition and craftsmanship, even if it comes with a much higher sticker price. Though fast fashion allows consumers to don the latest runway fashions at an affordable price, it comes at a steep environmental cost. Products often fall apart within weeks or are thrown out having never been worn, earning the style the nickname “landfill fashion.”
A billboard for Grace Lillian Lee’s fashion. Brisbane City Council. CC BY 2.0.
Grace Lillian Lee, designer and co-founder of First Nations Fashion and Design in Australia, seeks a place for Indigeneity in the mainstream. “There’s definitely a lot that non-Indigenous people and designers can learn from Indigenous people,” she says, “especially in terms of sustainability.” Her work relies heavily on the weaving techniques of Torres Strait Islanders. More than a way to promote sustainability, Lee calls her clothing “a soft entry into reconciliation and healing our people.” Such meaningful craftsmanship doesn’t fall out of style by next season; it is passed down through generations.
Lisa Folawiyo. NDaniTV. CC BY 3.0.
Indigenous fashion is just beginning to enjoy its long overdue time in the sun. Dresses by Lisa Folawiyo, a Nigerian and West Indian designer, have been worn proudly by the likes of Solange Knowles and Lupita Nyong’o. Her intricate, flowing dresses explode with color. Boasting hand-embellished designs, Folawiyo’s dresses can take up to 240 hours to complete. Her West African designs have won the plaudits of the international fashion world and effortlessly outshine the mass-produced artifacts of fast fashion.
A dress by Lisa Folawiyo. Museum at FIT. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
Indigenous people still generally lack a place at the corporate level. Sage Paul, a member of Canada’s English River First Nation who now lives in Toronto, called for the post-pandemic “new normal” to include the voices of Indigenous people in an article for The Kit. Fashion emerged from a 14th-century European aristocracy, she argues, and colonized Indigenous people to steal resources, goods and fashion trends. “The colonial systems we are operating under no longer serve our society, and the only way we will evolve is by allowing new and interconnected systems to come to the fore.” That means moving Indigenous brands into the mainstream.
The IFWTO is a good place to start. Its online market links viewers directly to designers’ websites. Live panel discussions provided a glimpse into the questions and concerns of some of Indigenous fashion’s most admired artists. Videos of models strutting the catwalk resembled music videos, showcasing the unbridled possibilities of Indigenous fashion. Most importantly, it put more Indigenous designers on the map. As of now, they show no signs of slowing down.
Michael McCarthy
Michael is an undergraduate student at Haverford College, dodging the pandemic by taking a gap year. He writes in a variety of genres, and his time in high school debate renders political writing an inevitable fascination. Writing at Catalyst and the Bi-Co News, a student-run newspaper, provides an outlet for this passion. In the future, he intends to keep writing in mediums both informative and creative.
An Ainu couple before assimilation; their features are still different from those of their Japanese counterparts. Stuart Rankin. CC BY-NC 2.0.
In July, Japan unveiled the Upopoy National Ainu Museum, the country’s first cultural center dedicated to Indigenous identity. Located on the island of Hokkaido—one of the Ainu’s ancestral lands—the Upopoy Museum showcases the history of the Ainu through performances and historical relics. What is remarkable about the museum’s opening is not its resiliency amid a pandemic, but that the structure opened at all. Much like the power dynamic between American settlers and Native American tribes, the Ainu endured a legacy of forced assimilation by the ethnic Japanese and their ruling government.
Before this, the Ainu were a hunter-gatherer tribe that inhabited the northern islands of Ezo (present-day Hokkaido), the Kuril Islands and the Russian island of Sakhalin. According to archaeological records, the Ainu called these lands home as early as the 14,500 B.C. The Ainu also had strong ties to animism, a belief that manifested itself in the relationship between the Ainu and the bears on the islands. The Ainu even created a ceremony in which bear cubs were taken, raised and then sacrificed in a ritual offering. These symbolic rites guided Ainu tradition and their balanced connection with nature.
Ainu women performing a welcome dance on Hokkaido. Vladimir Tkalcic. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
When the Meiji government annexed Hokkaido in the late 19th century, the Ainu’s pastoral way of life was interrupted. While the Ainu lived in Japan, they physically differed from their Japanese counterparts. The Ainu have a more European look with lighter skin and thick hair. Men sported full beards, and women tattooed their lips once they reached adulthood. Because of this, the Japanese derided the Ainu as backward and foreign. Around this time, Japan also became the first non-European country to have defeated Russia in battle. Flush with victory and newly acquired lands, the Japanese sought to build up a national myth of military might and cultural homogeneity. One of these initiatives included a policy of forced assimilation on the island of Hokkaido.
The Japanese government enlisted the help of American consultants who had reeducated their own North American Indigenous groups. The Ainu were forced into Japanese-speaking schools and were required to change their names. As the land was repurposed for industrial and agricultural uses, the Ainu were pushed into wage labor and became an impoverished and politically disenfranchised minority. Even after World War II, the Ainu were deprived. To participate in the scientific advancements of the mid-20th century, the Japanese government essentially emboldened researchers to rob Ainu graves and remains.
The Upopoy National Museum is housed in Hokkaido, one of the Ainu’s ancestral homelands. Marek Okon. Unsplash.
In February 2019, the Japanese government introduced a bill that would officially recognize the ethnic Ainu minority as an Indigenous people for the first time. The bill included measures that would support Ainu communities, fund scholarships and educational opportunities, and allow the Ainu to cut down trees in nationally owned forests for use in traditional practices.
While many lauded the proposal, some felt that the bill missed a crucial element: an apology. In an interview with CNN, musician Oki Kano shared that he was only 20 years old when he found out that he was Ainu. Thanks to rigorous assimilation policies, the Ainu in Japan bear more resemblance to ethnic Japanese than past generations. Because of the ugly legacy of discrimination, however, the true number of Ainu still left in Japan is unknown. Due to fear, many of the Ainu have chosen to hide their background, leaving younger generations with limited if any knowledge about their heritage. The Ainu language is also at risk of extinction.
Although the bill became law in August 2019 and Tokyo University returned some of the robbed remains the following year, the fight for the Ainu people’s rights is just beginning. Despite widespread recognition and gradual acceptance of the Ainu, some feel the Ainu culture is at risk of tokenization. Though the preservation of Ainu culture is commendable, the Ainu’s future should also be considered if they are to have a chance at survival.
Rhiannon Koh
Rhiannon earned her B.A. in Urban Studies & Planning from UC San Diego. Her honors thesis was a speculative fiction piece exploring the aspects of surveillance technology, climate change, and the future of urbanized humanity. She is committed to expanding the stories we tell.
What does it feel like to lose your home and start your life again in a foreign land with a foreign culture? How would you anchor yourself to feel safe? How would you find the familiar in so much unfamiliar?
A Taste Of Home is a recipe book created by refugee families across Lancashire who have had to live through the unimaginable venture of fleeing home. The book shows just a small glimpse of how they have begun to rebuild and recenter their life while honoring the homes they’ve lost.
Food, family and friends are at the core of Syrian culture; and what better way to honor the land they've let than by sharing good food with others.
This one of a kind cookbook is now available to for order at mezepublishing.co.uk/product/a-taste-of-home-available-to-pre-order/
Rural Thailand. Ol’ Pete. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0
Thailand is a country known for its beautiful landscape, beaches and ornate Buddhist temples. Its largest exports include technology such as computers and automobiles, and it is also the world’s largest producer of rubber and second largest of rice and sugar. People from all around the world come to visit the cities and experience the cuisine and culture that Thailand offers. However, beyond city life, the rural parts of Thailand are like a whole different country.
Outside of the big cities, rural Thailand takes up most of the country while holding many of the historical pieces of Thailand. Villages and towns such as Kanchanaburi are found near the border with Myanmar and are surrounded by mountains. Sitting right next to the River Kwai, it houses the “Bridge on the River Kwai,” the Death Railway, wartime cemeteries and museums. In Thailand’s northeastern village of Ban Na Ton Chan, people make textile fabrics to sell by softening them with mud and boiling them in salt water to produce soft and naturally dyed textiles. You may have heard of Chiang Mai - the largest city in northern Thailand - but just an hour north is Mae Kampong, a beautiful village nestled within a bright green forest with jungles nearby. Finally, if you go further south, you’ll find Baan Bang Plub, where they harvest and cultivate coconuts to sell and are quick to teach the curious traveler about it. In short, going into the north of Thailand you are sure to find mountains, wartime villages and rivers that flow with historic importance. If you’re looking to find a more quaint village, going further south you will find more waterfront villages with basket weaving, boats, jungles and lush forests.
Regardless, if you’re looking to master the skill of basket weaving or hope to visit wartime museums, rural Thailand offers a completely different experience than any city in the country. Here are some facts you should know before visiting.
Thai farmer. Eric Bagchus. CC BY-NC-SA 2.0
Visitors traveling to see the landscape of foreign countries often find themselves lost with no signal, no travel plans and no surefire way to communicate with locals. However, in Thailand the local farmers are known for being incredibly hospitable. Often, many take in lost travelers, give them food and a place to rest and help them on their way. Chittiya, a native Thai who immigrated to the United States, stated, “they’re the nicest people you’ll ever meet. You never have to worry about getting lost because there will always be someone to help you along the way and make sure you have food and water to get there.” Ultimately, if you find yourself lost along the way and pass through a village, ask someone for help and they will most likely go out of their way to help you or find someone who can.
Chiang Mai harvest. Ol’ Pete. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0
When moving from the large, bustling cities to the villages in rural Thailand, one might feel as though they’ve entered a completely different country – or even moment in time. Many in the villages like to hold to the old, simple way of life that was prevalent before Thailand’s industrial development truly took off. Farmers are dependent on the turn of the seasons, growing their own crops and raising their own animals, hoping to sell them at local markets and in the cities. During the off-season, most young people travel into the city for temporary labor work until the monsoons end. They then head back to join the family farm and help tend to the animals and crops and the cycle continues.
Thai monks. Carl Parkes. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0
More traditional Thais observe Buddhism and spend their lives trying to live well and do good according to their religion. Many men believe it is their duty to help pave the way for their parents and ancestors to reach nirvana or have a better life after their reincarnation. Furthermore, it is not uncommon for young men to feel obligated to spend around three to four months at a monastery to truly understand their duty, and what their purpose is. These men spend a lot of time praying, giving up worldly material things and staying celibate during this period.
On the road in rural Thailand. Lee Craker. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0
Finally, the impact of technology has started to create negative consequences for farmers. When living the simple rural life, materialism is not prevalent. However, now with developing technology, views such as “everyone needs to have a car” are common and many have become more materialistic. Problems with debt have been on the rise as farmers lack credit but still want to buy more – even though their current lifestyle cannot support it. A lot of cars get repossessed or taken back when the period to pay them back passes. In the old days, rice farmers kept some to feed their families and sold the rest of the rice to buy what they could not produce themselves. However, nowadays everyone wants cars and gadgets even when they do not need them. The problem is that the nature of their livelihood depends on unreliable seasons that mean they cannot always pay back their debt. Additionally, in today’s age many young people have lost interest in continuing the family farms. Most grow up and move into the cities and work corporate jobs, leaving their families to take care of the farms themselves or ultimately selling them.
Thailand is a beautiful place to visit, and the culture that hides in the rural, more obscure countryside is almost an entirely different one from the cities. In the past and even into the present there has been tension between city people and village people, and many crimes or issues that take place are usually one side pitted against the other. Taking the time to understand both the city people and farmers is important in getting a full picture of Thai culture.
Elizabeth Misnick
is a Professional Writing and Rhetoric major at Baylor University. She grew up in a military family and lived in Europe for almost half her life, traveling and living in different countries. She hopes to continue writing professionally throughout her career and publish her writing in the future.
Originally a sparsely populated collection of coastal islands, the territory of Macau has become a major resort city and the top destination for gambling tourism. In fact, it is the ninth-highest recipient of tourism revenue and its gambling industry is seven times larger than that of Las Vegas. A far cry from what the grandparents of videographer, Vhils, experienced during his childhood. A homage to his grandparents, Vhils explores the changing high-tech culture and its effect on relationships, social life and worldview. And he isn’t alone, Macau has a rich and predominately rural history. These fast-paced changes toward technology has left a huge wage gap throughout society. So, while Macau has preserved many historical properties in the urban areas, the government is heavily criticized by its citizens for ignoring the conservation of heritage and tradition in its urban planning and technological development.
There is so much more to Peru than Machu Picchu. From the heart of Lima to deep in the Sacred Valley, 'Rhythms of Peru' takes you not only to Peru's most iconic, but also far off the tourist trail for a chance to experience a more intimate view of this beautiful country.
Throughout human history, we’ve used pictures to express what words cannot or created whole languages out of symbolic representations to better express our emotions and thoughts. That’s nowhere more true than in Guizhou, China, where the Miao marry handicraft and art to recount their history, legends and traditions without a written language at all.
That art? Embroidery. The Miaos’ pictorial language isn’t drawn or scribed, it’s stitched. Miao women begin learning their ancient, traditional form of embroidery at age 7 Their mothers and sisters teach the girls not only the physical aspects of the craft but the symbols and style that preserve the stories of their people.
Animal imagery, like horses, snails, dragons, chickens and goats have meaning in narrative form that Miao women embroider into intricate garments. It takes years to complete one of these wearable histories, and the results are as beautiful as they are important for preserving a culture and history that doesn’t use written words.
The goal of all language is to communicate clearly and effectively to represent the shared experiences, thoughts and emotions we live and breathe as a species. The Miao certainly understand that like few other people as they proudly stitch and wear their language.
Running isn’t simply a sport for the Hopi people. It’s a tradition with deep spiritual purpose. For centuries, Hopi runners carried messages to distant villages, and ran to springs to deliver prayers to bring rain. Rick Baker runs the cross country program at Arizona’s Hopi High Schoo, and his young athletes run the same dusty trails their ancestors blazed.
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