Laurie Fraser's Blog, page 9

Toilets ‘Round the World.

The fanciest toilet I ever found was in Hiroshima, Japan: a sit-down with 2 arm-rests full of controls. It was Japanese to me, but I pushed them anyway and found I could warm the seat, deodorize the area, start a fountain similar to a bidet, blow dry air and play music. A faucet over the tank seemed awkward to me, so I used the regular sink instead.

Japanese Toilet

No, my hosts never knew I was taking pictures of their bathroom.

Some toilets, especially those equipped with a bidet, come with a remote control.

(Courtesy of Gizmodo)

Japanese toilet, Tokyo Hotel

I found this Japanese squat toilet in a Tokyo hotel.

It played music automatically while I used it, and then as I stood up, it flushed automatically.

It was a swanky hotel so I was surprised- I had always associated squat toilets with poverty.

Turkish squat toilet

 

This is the squat toilet in my Nevsehir, Turkey apartment. As described in The Word Not Spoken the toilets in an apartment building are attached to the same drain pipe. There is no need for a flush. The smells coming out of the small cement room are noted by Leigh more than once.

 

The toilet paper on a nail was my Cdn. touch, but the pitcher was there for family and friends who filled it with water and wash instead of wipe.

 

 

The simplest rest stop I found was near Alleppey, Kerala (India) on a backwater boat journey. When our boat stopped for a small thali on a banana leaf for lunch, I was directed to a nearby bamboo screen in answer to “Toilet please?”.

I walked down the beach and looked behind the bamboo screen but saw nothing there. I returned to the outdoor table where my banana leaf waited and asked again.

The tiny waiter pointed impatiently. ”There!”

“I don’t think so,” I murmured to a travel companion. “There’s nothing behind it.”

“That’s it!” The more experienced traveller insisted. “Go in the sand and cover it up.”

So I did. I imagined they moved the screen periodically.

 photo credit                                                                                     More backwater pics



The grossest bathroom ever:  On a mountain for the pilgrims who journeyed to a remote temple in Northern India. I smelled it long before I reached the door of a small concrete building. Two stalls without doors or toilets. Simply a floor tilted slightly toward the front and a small trough where refuse was intended to gather and be removed by someone who had apparently quit this, the worst job in the world, long ago.

The floor within and without the stalls were slippery with waste. Some places quite deep. In fact, it seemed dangerous to wade into it and squat. The “sink” was a stone trough at waist height near the door filled with green stagnant slimy water. There were no faucets or water source nearby.

The place was quite desolate and I was alone there, so I chose an out of the way spot in Mother Nature rather than step into that concrete-boxed cesspool.

photo credit

I first ran into floors used as toilets in a train station in Northwest India. The women’s bathroom was 3 stalls without doors. By habit, I chose to face forward when I squatted on the clean tiled floor that sloped toward a trough that ran in front of all 3 stalls. To my absolute dismay, a women with a broom rushed in to clean it as I was leaving. No matter how enormous, the tip I gave her couldn’t erase the shame I felt.

Still, as that train carried me to Jaipur, I saw men and women from nearby slums squatting on tracks parallel to mine, using the area as a long latrine. I turned my head to give them privacy.

photo credit

I had to replace an old water-guzzling toilet recently. I chose a middle-of-the-line model that economizes water ($225). I am grateful when I flush it – always – but I wish it used river water instead of treated water…you know, when so few of us in the world have access to clean water and sanitation.

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Goals and Gifts

Goals and Gifts

by Laurie Fraser

published by Tone Magazine Jan. 2013

Usually I write about using energy to heal physical and emotional symptoms but it is also useful to reach goals. For example, I’m publishing a book and energy work has helped me remove blocks that were slowing me down (anxiety, fears around success, letting go, etc.)

Female, 37, unemployed:

“I’m ready, willing and able to get the job I want” led (by muscle-testing through lists of options) to façade procedure (Tone, Dec. 2010). In this case, I cracked open the façade of “blocked” and stepped aside for Buddha to tend to her.

Afterwards, Buddha presented a black box (which I saw clairvoyantly). I opened it and saw a bracelet of small black obsidian beads. I was instructed to place this on her right wrist and was told that it would continue to clear blocks.

The client said she’d been “stuck” for several months with no interviews or real prospects in her field. Since then (a month ago) she’s received 3 short freelance projects. They weren’t well-paid, but they have resulted in networking and increased confidence. She found a picture of her bracelet online and posted it on her desktop.

Male, 42:

“David” was hoping for spiritual insights, in particular, the identity of his Ascendant Master.

His session started with purple-robed St. Germaine clearing the façade of “struggle”. St. Germaine stayed as I was guided to clear blocks in chakras and organs, most interestingly, a black mass from David’s third eye that had been getting in the way of his second sight.

David saw colours during the healing, especially purple. Of course, he learned that St. Germaine, Chohan of the violet ray is his Ascendant Master. There was great joy and gratitude from both of them as they connected.

Female, in an abusive relationship:

She was given a bullet-proof vest by St. Germaine.

Female, 27:

“Bev”’s grandmother showed up at her healing as a heavy short mass of love at the side of the treatment table. I felt her but didn’t see her. Muscle-testing told me that she had a message for her granddaughter. I was shown a brilliant formal bouquet of red roses and white lilies. It was offered to Bev with extraordinary love. I relayed the message: She was proud of Bev, awestruck by her development into a beautiful woman. I had the feeling that this was a bride’s bouquet.

The choice of flowers was meaningful to Bev, who later confided that she and her partner had discussed marriage recently.

Female, 56:

“Fran” is becoming a healer. We are both students of the Ascendant Master, El Morya.

In one session, El Morya “downloaded” light into Fran causing her squirm and stretch on the treatment table. When it was over, I was told this light would increase Fran’s psychic and healing abilities.

El Morya then presented her with a golden chalice. She sat up, held it in her hands (no, she couldn’t see it), and drank the contents. (She didn’t taste it, but the 3 times I drank from a chalice it was heavy and thick, like drinking barium.) She was told that this was knowledge and a congratulatory gift for achieving this new level.

All of the above sessions also involved procedures that I do all the time: B.O.S., Comprehensive healing, Reconnective healing and others, but more and more gifts and visitors are arriving during sessions. They are real blessings for clients and I’m grateful for these new developments.

I give thanks to my teachers and helpers.

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Stay

Ottawa River, Canada

This morning I saw a school bus on the move, the first geese honking overhead, a few leaves on the grass.

This evening I watched the sunset on the beach, shivering in shorts and t, the heat pulling away like a tide.

SUMMER! I beseech you: Linger! Linger with me. I cannot bear to lose you just yet.

delicate summer

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Stay my Love

Britannia Beach, Ottawa, Canada

This morning I saw a school bus on the move, the first geese honking overhead; this evening I shivered watching the sunset on the beach in shorts and t, the heat pulling away like a tide. SUMMER! I beseech you: Linger! Linger with me. I cannot bear to lose you just yet.

delicate summer

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Help Kurdish Refugees

August 13, 2014

It really feels like exercising my right of free speech to walk with sign held high around Parliament Hill (Ottawa) “In Solidarity with Kurdistan”, answering the megaphone and marching over to the American Embassy. The words were grateful for humanitarian aid, asking for more, the end of ISIS, and call for immediate help for Yezidi refugees in danger.

At the eternal flame. We’d been drenched in a downpour but the sun came out again.

 

I met a former student there. He’d received the text at 9:30 am, dropped everything to be downtown by 11 to march. It was spur of the moment for all of us, and spirits were high…hopes are high these days that the West will help this time.

Free Kurdistan. Stop ISIS.

[image error]

Marching to the American Embassy. “Thank you!” we chanted outside. “Stop ISIS!”

I got the email the night before- the anniversary of my husband’s death- and couldn’t think of a better way to honour him and so many other persecuted Kurds, still dying as I write this.

A week later, I participated in a fundraiser for the refugees, donating book profits to the cause. “Kurdish in Ottawa” organized the event. They barbequed chicken and collected donations. We played soccer and drank tea-  a very pleasant way to raise about $2,000.

Donations for the refugees are gratefully accepted by Anatolian Cultural Foundation (ACF) 

How can you HELP?

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When is Eid?

sunset is at 8:38 today    

The Islamic calendar is lunar. This is why no one is ever quite sure when Ramadan starts and when it ends too- Muslims are looking to the moon. Some believe that the moon must be seen with the naked eye while others contend that a telescope or astronomical calculations are good enough.

I sat on the South Indian beach one sultry night watching the sky with Muslim friends. It seemed very romantic to me- waiting for the moon to tell us whether fasting would begin the next morning.

I was in Kerala, on Kovalam Beach. It’s a humid place with salt in the air, where the electricity goes off every day at 6 p.m., and I always kept careful track of my candles and matches. It’s a place with spiders as big as my hand and snakes as large as my body, a place where I had to walk down a jungle path shared by such spiders and snakes twice a day.

Kovalam is very close to the equator:  sunrise and sunset were at 6 a.m. and 6 p.m. every day of the year- a 12 hour fast. (In Canada, the fast varies widely depending on the month. This July has been hot, the fast being 15 long hours without drink, food or cigarettes.)

We sat in a crowd on the beach that night, in a deep enveloping darkness, watching for the full moon over the hard-pounding surf of the Indian Ocean. The locals had relaxed into a holiday mood, but I was concerned- it was cloudy and the stars weren’t visible. We didn’t see the moon although we sat for hours, and the light-heartedness of my companions did not diminish.

“But how will you know?” I asked my friend. “Who will tell you?”

“In Saudi, they will be seeing the moon.”

“What if it’s cloudy there too?”

He laughed. “They are not having clouds in Saudi.”

“Well, how will you know tonight?” There was no electricity, no radio or television. In fact, I was quite sure he didn’t have a telephone.

“I am starting now because maybe tomorrow is being the first day.”

“But how will you know?” insisted my Western personality.

He looked at me kindly. “Ramadan is being in the heart. It is bringing me closer to my God. If I am being early it is wonderful thing and I am not taking the chance for missing even one day. It is best days of all the year. It is happiest time for me:  My heart is singing with the God every day in the Ramadan.”

I thought these Indian Muslims were quite different from the Turkish Muslims I had known. In Western Turkey, Ramadan had been announced by the imam at the mosque; the restrictions were resented but endured by the people I hung out with there. Appearances and judgmental neighbours were a real concern. I’d never heard anyone speak of Ramadan with this kind of excitement and devotion.

The arrival of Eid which marks the end of Ramadan is also washed with uncertainty. This year it may be Monday or Tuesday. Funny pie chart here lists ways of discerning the date including “My mom will tell me” and “Just keep fasting until the phone explodes with Eid texts”.

In every Islamic culture I’ve been in, and also in Canada’s Muslim community, Eid is greeted with euphoric celebrations. No holiday is greater in Islam. The joy (and even relief) is profound.

The phrase “Eid Mubarak” means “Blessed Celebration” or more loosely- “Happy Festival”, and so on Monday, or maybe Tuesday, it’s the the thing to say to your Muslims friends.

sunset on the beach

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Japanese gyoza recipe (a.k.a. Chinese pot-stickers)

A Japanese teacher invited a bunch of us newly-arrived English teachers from the Canada, U.K. and Australia to her home. The activity waiting for us was gyoza-stuffing. We sat around a table and scooped spoonfuls of the stuffing into dumpling wrappers and chatted. When we’d finish a pile, our host would take them into the kitchen for a few moments and come back with hot treasures that we dipped in a sauce that dribbled down our chins. Delectable. Her stuffing was cabbage, minced pork, carrots, garlic, and pickled ginger.

garlic, ginger,carrots, cabbage and dumpling wrappers. Fresh red chili and tamari sauce for dipping.

Gyozas are stuffed dumplings that are fried and steamed at the same time.

Suggested stuffings:

1- cabbage, carrots, tofu, ginger and garlic

2- minced pork, garlic, ginger

3- scrambled egg, green onion

4- shrimp, corriander

use the back of a spoon to wet the outer edge of dumpling wrapper

The combinations are limitless. On St. Laurent in Montreal’s Chinatown there is an exceptional gyoza shop that’s always packed with diners. They serve only gyoza, but the menu is four pages long.

The dumpling wraps are available at Asian shops but I noticed the package also says “perogy wrappers” so that may be easier to find in some towns. I always buy a few packages and freeze them until the urge for gyoza hits.

add stuffing

 

So here we go- this is more fun with company- thanks Anne!

 

Grate all ingredients (or in the case of shrimp, chop small) and mix in a big bowl.

 

moistened edges stick easily

Put one wrapper flat on your hand and use the back of a wet spoon to moisten the outer edge.

 

Put a big spoonful of stuffing in the middle, fold it over and squeeze the edges shut in a half-moon shape.

 

stuffed gyozas

 

 

 

Yeah, maybe put some music on.

 

 

non-stick pan

 

Put a little oil in a non-stick pan and bring up to medium heat.

Place the gyozas in the pan and shake to be sure they aren’t stuck.

Stand back and add a little water. Say 1/4 cup.

Cover.

hot gyoza

 

 

They take about 10 minutes- just check the bottoms- they’ll be brown and crispy.

By now they’ll be stuck together- hence the Chinese name: pot-stickers.

brown and crispy on the bottom

 

 

 

 

Flipped a few here so you can see the colour.

Gyozas freeze well.

dip in sauce

The sauce is vital. You can use tamari sauce with a bit of water to thin it, or soy sauce thinned by 50% water or, if you’re lucky, you can find and buy gyoza sauce.

Regardless, add a teaspoon plus of fresh red chili sauce (comes in jars- most grocery stores carry this now) to about 3 tablespoons of tamari. It’s thin and drippy.

Dip and slurp and tell me you love me.

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Canada is a good place to be.

I was in downtown Ottawa today for a haircut. That took 10 minutes, so I went for a walk down Bank Street in the sweltering heat. Immediately, I came across a new Asian restaurant (202 Bank St.) that screamed BUBBLE TEA in two-foot high letters. To my delight, they served bento- a Japanese box lunch. As I sat by the wide-open double doors and people-watched, I picked up one treasure after another with my chopsticks: tempura shrimp, yam and bean; candied chicken satay; california rolls; gyoza; chicken teriyaki with rice. It came with a green salad and miso soup. Took me back to Japan- yum. And only $10.99.

I was unable to eat it all so I gave the leftovers to some pigeons in a small square. A gull came and harassed them, but they got a bit. One male pigeon was all fluffed up- larger than the rest- and uninterested in food. He was hounding a pretty female who kept 2 steps ahead of him at all times.

A smelly man, quite drunk at 1 p.m., stopped and watched with me. “The gulls are bullies,” I said. “Everyone’s gotta eat,” he answered.

A young Chinese man stopped me for directions to Rideau Street. We chatted and I learned he was from Shanghai and would study at the University of Ottawa. Today was his first day in Canada, so I walked with him down Sparks to the Rideau Centre where he would find the monthly bus pass he wanted. That made me happy…and hot, so I slipped into the Lord Elgin Hotel for some air conditioning.

The hotel is quite posh, but I thought that since I was wearing a fedora and the holes in my cut-off shorts were few, that I could fit in. I chose a comfy couch by the window of the lobby and read a newspaper someone had left behind. The bathroom is the cleanest that I know of downtown, one George Costanza would approve of.

Once refreshed, I hit Elgin Street and soon crouched beside an ancient black man sitting on a step playing the harmonica. Summertime blues. A little further down the street, at the Human Rights Monument, I came upon a rally for peace. The flags were Palestinian and as I got closer I read the signs: “Stop killing our children!” “Violence must end.”

I’ve known many Palestinians over the years, and I wandered through the crowd looking for Students I Have Known. No familiar faces, but familiar music, familiar black and white scarves, familiar troubled expressions. I wasn’t the only Caucasian Canadian there; I settled on a stone and watched.

Soon four men in black coats, round furry hats, beards and ringlets by their ears came walking toward the crowd. Hasidic Jews. Without a word, they stood in the middle of the crowd and unfurled their signs: “Stop the violence!” “Judaism does not condone war.”

Emotion caught in my throat as a throng of Palestinians gathered in front of the Jewish men to read their signs. Eyes comprehending; eyes meeting and touching. I had no camera, so my mind took the shot- a moment to remember.

I walked away then, but all the way back home I felt grateful to be living in Canada. And so grateful for all the people who have made it here, no matter why they came. This is a good place to be.

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Iris Puppies

Iris puppy tongue panting

Giant iris puppies loll

deep purple among the daisies,

lush tongues panting.

Sun bounces off white petals

Wild geranium

Cherry tree laughs

Heart opens

Cottonwood seeds snow in lavender breezes.

Crow calls:

“Here be your now!

Now is the time!”

by Laurie Fraser

Iris puppies

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“Lullaby” by Ava Homa- a review of the short story tribute to Farzad Kamangar

Lullaby is a short story written by Ava Homa and published by Novel Rights (literature re: human rights).

“Lullaby” is a moving account of Farzad Kamangar’s last days spent in Iranian prison. The influential Kurdish teacher and writer was executed 4 years ago. I found this story to appear deceptively simple, when, in fact, it is full of portent information- the state of political prisoners in Iran, the impotent judge and the human guard, the passing of the days and the exchange of goods with visitors.

Although the situation is certainly an overwhelming one, Ava Homa manages to share the emotion and the prisoners’ tactics for managing the impossible place they are in, without crushing her readers with pain.

This is mature writing that admits things are never black and white, and attempts to balance the characters, who are human enough to be complicated. Lovely prose too, that draws parallels with counting and delights us with chocolate. Absolutely a fascinating account and eminently readable. Homa has paid tribute to a stubbornly brave man who moved many with his integrity and words. May he never be forgotten.

With Homa’s permission, the story begins like this:

“The call rings out. I tell myself the students are still learning, in secret, the history of the Kurds. The call for prayer echoes through Evin Prison. It turns me cold with fear.

Footsteps! I know the sound of those heavy boots. I know them well. My pen falls down from my bed and I curl into a ball, shrinking with fear. The pain in my head and face, legs and back, stomach and ribs becomes much sharper. Clutching at the pillow does not stop me from shaking. The footsteps stop before they reach my ward. “Hands up,” I think, and almost say it out loud.

“Hands up,” the old guard says.

I know what they are doing in the other cell. The blindfold, the click of the handcuffs, and the guards take Ali out, pushing and kicking him.

I toss and turn and follow them in my head as Ali is taken downstairs, dragged nineteen steps to the right, down nineteen stairs and delivered to the interrogators. Under his blindfold, Ali will count the pairs of shoes in the room: four, six, eight . . . black, formal shoes that are thick with blood, polished by blood. The whipping will start soon after the curses. If the man they call “Mongrel” is there, the interrogation will last longer and be much more painful. Every Kurd knows that man’s strange voice, an unusual mixture of high and low. In his vocabulary, “fucking murdering savages” means “Kurds.” It is rumoured that Mongrel’s brother had been killed in Kurdistan thirty years ago during one of the uprisings. Five, six whiplashes and Ali will think about concentration camps, pyramids, the Great Wall of China, but he will not feel the whipping anymore. I hope.

The number of cracks on the wall is three hundred and five today. I sneak a pen out from under my mattress and take some paper, folded four times, out from my underwear. “My dear students,” I write, lying on my left on a stinking army blanket. “All I have been able to do for you is to secretly teach you our Kurdish alphabet, our literature and our history. Please, children, remember your heritage and pass it on. Dear little ones, never allow this knowledge to steal from you the joy of childhood. May you keep the joy of youth in your minds forever. It may be the one and only investment you can use later when the agony of earning the ‘bread and butter’ dominates you, my sons, and the sin of being ‘the second sex’ overpowers you, my daughters. When you are picking flowers in the valleys to make crowns for your children, tell them about the purity and happiness of childhood. Remember not to turn your backs on your dreams, loves, music, poetry and Kurdistan’s magical nature. Get together, sing the songs and recite the poetry as we used to do.”

***      want to read more? 

                                      1 COPY only  €1.99

By Buying “Lullaby” Novel Rights ePUB Short Story written by Ava Homa, You will help us to create more HRL (Human Rights Literature) short stories and produce many more events around the globe promoting literature that supports human rights values.

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