Commentary
Wednesday, March 8,1995 Page 5
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Telling tale is touchy subject
I learned throughout my child
hood that every person had a story
to tell — some happy and some sad,
but each was their own. I also
learned at a young age to keep my
story to myself. It was my father
who explained that to me one night
when he had overheard me boasting
about my family’s Catholic tradi
tions to one of my little girlfriends,
who happened to come from a very
Jewish background.
He said to me softly, “Lara, there
are some things you need to just
keep to yourself.”
So, because of those echoing
words of advice, one day in class
during my freshman year of high
school I had a difficult time decid
ing whether I should keep some
things to myself.
I grew up in the northern suburbs
of Chicago, where I learned a lot
about different cultures, especially
outside the classroom.
This particular day in my
Political Thought class, we were
discussing ethnicity. We were
supposed to have brought in a story
of our family heritage by interview
ing our grandparents about their
most prominent ethnically related
childhood memory.
I interviewed my father’s mother,
my “oma,” which I called her for her
Austrian heritage and because it
made it easier to differentiate
between my two grandmothers.
She had never been the sort of
grandmother to share the less
traveled road of her childhood, so I
knew whatever she would share with
me would be a treasure.
This particular evening she
untied a tale I would never forget.
In 1943 my oma graduated from
the University of Vienna in Austria. '
She was living with her family
during the time of World War II,
Lara Duda
which was about the time when the
city was anticipating a Russian
invasion. As my oma described the
city’s atmosphere, I could see the
expression on her face change as her
thoughts quickly became vivid
pictures in her mind.
She had a girlfriend in college
who lived with my oma’s family
throughout college. When the
invasion grew nearer, my oma’s
parents wouldn’t risk taking
responsibility for her girlfriend. She
would have to return to her family in
a small village in western Austria,
and it was expected that my oma
would go with her. It was obviously
safer for both of the young women
to leave the city.
In less than 24 hours, the two
young women were to pack all their
belongings onto two bicycles and
travel east the next morning. They
later learned that only two hours
after they crossed the Viennese
border, the Russians had surrounded
the city.
She described the hundreds of
children and older people traveling
hundreds of miles by foot. Their
journey ended safely and my oma
remained with her friend’s family
for two years. She later found out
that her only brother had died during
the last year of the war .
Inlhe meantime she fell in love
with an American soldier she met
while working at a village court
house occupied by American
soldiers. His name was Charles
Duda, and the rest is history.
My history.
It’s the history I was supposed to
share with the rest of my class.
So why did I hesitate?
I didn’t feel ashamed, but I was
unsure of the reaction I would get
from my classmates, since the
majority of the students in my high
school were of Jewish descent and
may have had grandparents who
died in the Holocaust or still had
numbers carved into their flesh.
I didn’t know whether they would
resent me or my family for being
“on the murderer’s side.”
And I didn’t know if I should say
that my grandparent’s family had
two Jewish families hiding in the
cellar of their tiny apartment. I
didn’t know if I should say how my
oma’s father blamed Hitler’s
madness for the death of his only
son. And I didn’t think they’d care.
But I told my oma’s story
because it was the truth, and I left it
at that. At the same time, my
father’s words echoed in my mind.
As honest and meaningful as
something may sound to one person,
it may mean something entirely
different to someone else.
I have since spoken with my oma
many times about my Austrian
heritage, because as I’ve grown
older, my heritage has become very
important to me.
However, I have also realized
that we cannot see through other
people’s pasts or through their
hearts. And sometimes, there will be
those things that I will keep to
myself.
Dnda is a jnnior news-editorial and
English major and a Dally Nebraskan col
nmnist
Eid bittersweet without family
Last Wednesday I was constantly
receiving and calling people around
Lincoln, impatiently waiting for
someone to tell me what was going
on the next day. I stayed home all
evening waiting for the call. It was
10 p.m. and still no calls. This was
driving me crazy.
But then the call came, and with
it, a sparkling smile and glittery
eyes. I told my brother sitting next
to me that the new moon was
sighted. The fasting month was
over, and it was Eid, the next day.
The ninth month of the lunar year
is the month of Ramadan. All the
Muslims around the globe fast in
this holy month. After that month,
the day that the new moon is sighted
is a big celebration for the Muslims.
It is called Eid A1 Fitr, meaning “the
feast of breaking the fast.” It is
usually celebrated for three days and
is a major festive holiday for the
followers of the religion of Islam.
I called all my friends in Lincoln
to gather at my apartment. Everyone
was blithe and ecstatic, hugging
each other in high spirits and ready
for the celebration.
I don’t know exactly why we
were so happy, since we weren’t
with our families to celebrate this
festival. It might have been because
we were cheered up by the thought
of eating at Burger King around
noon or having guilt-free cigarettes
while the sun was still up. Or maybe
an excuse for skipping classes the
next day became the reason for our
smiles.
The party was lively with music,
jokes, food and laughter. But people
did not stay all night, as everyone
had to do their laundry for the
special prayers at 8:00 the next
morning, and, of course, call home
and talk to their families.
My brother and my cousin stayed
at my apartment while the rest left.
Taking advantage of my age, I told
Yousuf Bashir
my brother that he could do the
laundry while I would call home.
How clueless and extremely
vapid I felt after three consecutive
hours of trying to call home. I guess
everyone was calling Pakistan that
night, as I kept on hearing the
recording: “All the lines are busy to
the country you are calling. Please
try your call again. And thank you
for using AT&T.”
Around four in the morning, I
finally got through. I went and woke
up my brother and cousin and put on
the speakerphone, so all three of us
could listen and talk at the same
time. Everyone at home wanted to
talk. My parents, sisters, grandpar
ents, aunts, uncles and cousins —
everyone missed us and we missed
them.
Nobody wanted to hang up the
phone and end the call, but it had
been more than an hour and AT&T
was keeping track of the time.
After we hung up, all three of us
were quiet. The feeling was mutual:
We wished were at home with
everyone. We talked about the old
times when we were among our
family and how special everything
was.
We remembered the nights
before the Eid when we used to drag
our parents out and make them buy
new clothes. The night before the
Eid was lively. There were lights
everywhere and swarms of people
out shopping, eating and celebrat
ing. Women bought colored-glass
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bangles and painted their hands with
henna. Everyone donned smiles and
high spirits. The city glowed.
On the day of the Eid everyone
got up early, bathed and put on their
new threads with fabricated designs
and festive colors. With a special
glow and a fresh spirit, everyone
marched off to the mosque.
After saying the prayers, the men
and the women separately hugged
each other. No matter who you
were, rich or poor, young or old,
related or not related, everyone
hugged everyone.
After the hugging session at the
mosque, it was time to go home to
the family. Mothers waited with
open arms and sisters greeted with
loving smiles. All the elders gave
money to the younger ones. People
came to the house all day long with
gifts. The holiday lasted for three
days. No school, no business—just
parties.
And now, here we were in
Lincoln, remembering those days
and wishing we were among our
family. In keeping the spirit alive,
we went to the mosque and said the
prayers. At night, we had a big
dinner at the mosque.
It wasn’t the same. I guess this is
life.
But this made me realize how
much I miss my family, which I
never did realize before. So actually,
this has been a good experience for
me, as now I appreciate my family
more and know how special they are
and what they mean to me.
It is true that the best things in
life are free. But we take them for
granted, and it is only when they are
taken away from us that we know
how precious they are.
Bashir Is a senior food science major
and a Dally Nebraskan colnmnlst
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Death’s cause lost
in pilot’s PC wake
So it was the engine after all.
Not the pilot. Lt. Kara Hultgreen
did not die on the altar of
“political correctness” or “prefer
ential treatment” or “reverse
discrimination.” She died because
the F-14A Tomcat stalled as it
approached the aircraft carrier.
The Navy brass played the
videotape of the crash over and
over again. The officers relayed
the findings of their investigation
succinctly: It wasn’t her fault. It
wasn’t her sex.
Kara Hultgreen had grown up
fearless, a daredevil who believed
she could do anything. At 10, she
deliberately ran through a glass
door. At 28, she broke the glass
ceiling.
When the Navy finally lifted
its ban against women fighter
pilots in 1993, this gung-ho pilot
who knew all the lines from ‘Top
Gun” was the first to join an air
combat squadron. Last October
she became the first to die.
But before Kara Hultgreen’s
body had even been recovered
from the sea, 4,000 feet deep,
strapped to her ejection seat, the
anonymous phone calls, the fax
attacks, the rumors had all begun.
She was only a pilot because the
Navy was trying to be “politically
correct” in the wake of the
Tailhook scandal. She was
unqualified. She was given
preferential treatment. She was, in
the modem slang, an affirmative
action baby.
In her too-brief career, Kara
Hultgreen had flown across the
whole trajectory of prejudice. At
the beginning, she was banned
from her job because she was a
woman. At die end, it was said
that she only got the job because
she was a woman. One double
standard was twisted into another.
Even Ted Koppel on
“Nightline,” probing her qualifi
cations, asked if she had received
a “kind of affirmative action.”
Maybe this is Lt. Hultgreen’s
last, unwitting service. The
people who cast a shadow on her
reputation have thrown some light
on the debate about discrimina
tion and affirmative action.
In today’s language and
climate, affirmative action has
become synonymous in the public
mind with lowering standards.
The remedy for discrimination
has become a code word for it.
Those who oppose affirmative
action will say Kara Hultgreen’s
story proves how much these
programs tarnish every successful
woman or minority, even one who
rose by the most rigorous of
single standards.
Those who favor affirmative
action will say the story proves
how far we still are from a race
Ellen Goodman
blind, gender-neutral society. The
people who want to keep the
outsiders where.they belong—
down — have found a new way of
expressing an old prejudice.
But either way you look it,
affirmative action is now tainted.
It’s become a fighting term.
Affirmative action plans, the
goals and goads designed to
remedy past discrimination, have
made a difference in the lives of
women and minorities.
The plans have also created
antagonism between men and
women, whites and blacks.
This antagonism is stirred
every time an employer tries to let
a white man down, falsely but
easily, by saying that “we have to
hire a woman.” It’s stirred every
time a politician wants people to
believe that a black American has
taken “their” job, not a Sri
Lankan or a Mexican.
Those who have favored
affirmative action — as I have —
have been too busy fighting
opponents to confront our own
conflicts. We haven’t squarely
faced the dilemma of fostering
group rights to promote indi
vidual rights. Nor have we fairly
computed the competing disad
vantages of race and class, gender
and poverty.
It’s late in the day, and we
haven’t laid out our own
endgame. We haven’t decided
when the time is up for this
temporary policy. If not now,
when? How will we know? It’s no
wonder that the country believes
the temporary is permanent.
But the opponents of affirma
tive action also have their work
cut out. As the mood of the
country shifts, so does the burden.
Those who would end programs
that have given women and
minorities a chance are now
obliged to describe the tools they
would use on the still-rocky road
to equality. Without such a plan
we can only assume that the goal
is to go backwards.
While this debate goes on, it’s
worth remembering how much
prejudice there still is in this
world. Enough prejudice to
follow a young pilot into her
grave.
© 1995 The Boston Globe Newspaper
Company
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Mike Luckovlch
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