Uncategorized – Page 17 – Le Dragon Déchaîné

The City With Red Doors

[From the print] Our correspondent relates the experience of an anonymous prostitute on the streets of Kolkata.

Society has always viewed prostitution as a universal evil and the people associated with it are vessels that harbour an unimaginable form of sin. Society has certain names for us, names that are meant to demean, for the purpose to abuse and shame. People in the sex industry can never escape the tag of their profession, I often feel as if there was a tilak (mark) on my forehead. Everyone I know, knows who I am and what I do. Most of them do not know my name but that does not matter because to them, I am a whore.

I was named after the Hindu Goddess of Wealth, Lakshmi. In the dichotomous framework that India finds itself in, Lakshmi was both a goddess said to bring prosperity and fortune and a prostitute with broken dreams and nowhere to go. Amma, the woman whom I was sold to by my trafficker refused to have one of her ‘girls’ be called after a goddess, whose legs were open like one of Lakshmi’s lotuses. Amma was a pious woman and her tolerance towards blasphemy, freedom, and justice was an incontestable nil.

For years, the only escape, I had was my tiny window with an ineffective mosquito net and broken dreams. I would take refuge in the dream of going back to my village but quickly shook away the thought. I was one of them, a whore, a sex worker. My village would never accept someone with that label.

So, eventually Lakshmi was forgotten and Munni was born. There were three other Munni’s where I worked. They all probably had stories similar to mine but we never asked one another. Our name had no character, no significance, a perfect fit for the profession. A prostitute was a person with no stories, to be used as an object to please and fulfil fantasies. If my client replaced my name with another, it did not affect me. I was an artificial host of the dirty and unmentionable, who was less than the rest and society had chosen her to be the sacrifice of its community.

Source: Bernard Henin

The words used to describe my kind are considered vulgar and offensive in almost every spoken language in the world. From Bengali to English, prostitution has negative connotations. My profession itself was an offence. A whore, slut, prostitute, hooker are words that are meant to bring shame to the person who is called one. Language, often provides, a good insight on society. For instance, the tone and language used for prostitution tells you just what the community feels about it: filthy and immoral. When one joins my former profession, it is near impossible to escape from its clutches. Where do we go? Everywhere we try to run or hide and all they can see is a woman who has lost her morality and ergo her identity. If you were to go to any sex worker their thoughts or educate them on societal labels. They would laugh at how little the world knows. How little the world knows and how much the world hides. The slurs that were thrown at me stopped bothering me after a while because they had helped erase all that made me human.

Source: Prateek Jain

The Sonagachi red-light district in Kolkata, my former home was and still is a favourite amongst men, the kind that always had narcotics with them and greeted us with slurs. It was also the home to men who had large bungalows in the affluent localities of Alipore and Park Street . They were awful, they saw me as nothing more than the products of their sick twisted fantasies. These men were responsible for Sonagachi’s prosperity but refused to acknowledge their acquaintance with the place. Sonagachi is known for a lot of things in the city of Calcutta but it is most certainly not known for its justice. The Government of India has failed miserably to rehabilitate sex workers. The promised voter cards have been given but we can’t do anything. The powerless do not give the powerful power, it is taken away from us. Sonagachi is a label that never goes away. Your identity revolves around it and society only fixates on that.

Yama, the Hindu God of Justice, was always a busy person and rumours spread that he had a bigger disdain for prostitutes than the society we lived in. We never saw him, he had become a myth, a legend, that would help us fall asleep but he never showed up. The police, the ‘protectors of justice’, turned out to be regular customers. So, as quickly as we had thought of Yama, he had given up on us and we were once again alone and still whores.

After all these years, it is very easy to vouch that a life of a prostitute in India can never truly escape the experiences of physical and mental displacement, feeling unrooted, and unlearning and relearning their identities. A prostitute can never forget staring at another sex worker’s eyes because the lifelessness of her eyes mirrors hers. One learns the truly understands society when one works in an industry that feeds on exploitation. Even when you have escaped the label, the profession, you can never forget the language and its meaning. Society and taboo, both do not believe in a fair trial. A name is enough.

This letter is in no means for sympathy but serves as a reflection on Indian society. The pride that we hold so close to us about the balance of the ancient and the modern is nothing more than a nicely wrapped fallacy. Oppression has not been moderated but has merely transformed into other forms, just as bad as its predecessor. We live in our own cocoons that keeps us ignorant to the grave injustice, millions face right outside our doors. We turn our heads away from taboos because of the blasphemous and licentious stamp stuck to it. Taboo is blasphemy and all the greatest truths start as blasphemy.

If you want to learn more about the lives of sex workers in Kolkata, you can give this short video by the Youtube channel Ross Kemp Extreme World.

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Edited by Pailey Wang, Philippe Bédos and Maya Shenoy

« Grease », le musical débarque au Havre à la Salle François 1er

[English below] Après «Hairspray», «Mulan» et «Mamma Mia!», c’est l’intemporel «Grease» qu’interprète cette année le club de comédie musicale du campus du Havre de Sciences Po.

Une fois de plus, la troupe de comédie musicale du campus du Havre s’est surpassée pour proposer un spectacle de qualité qui enchantera les petits comme les grands.

La comédie musicale « Grease », introduite à Broadway en 1972 met en scène Danny Zuko, adolescent rebelle au style ténébreux, leader de la bande d’amateurs de cire coiffante et de courses de voitures: les T-Birds, et la douce Sandy Dumbrowski, un brin naïve, dont la pureté et l’innocence font le charme. Tous deux pensent se dire adieu après une romance estivale secrète, mais c’est sans compter sur la récente inscription de Sandy dans le même lycée que Danny, dont la réputation de « bad boy » est à défendre. La comédie musicale de renommée mondiale suit leur relation face aux pressions exercées par leurs pairs à Rydell High.

« Grease » à la Salle François 1er le 13 avril prochain :

C’est dans un véritable marathon que les 53 membres du club (24 acteurs, 24 membres de production et 5 capitaines) se lancèrent en septembre dernier pour la réalisation de cette œuvre qui verra son avènement le 13 avril, à la salle François 1er du Havre. En effet, durant les sept derniers mois, toute l’équipe répéta les quelques 2 actes, 11 scènes et 16 chansons qui composent la comédie musicale. « Les répétitions auront été fatigantes, […] mais la magie réside sur scène, sous les projecteurs, le micro fixé, lorsque tous les efforts sont oubliés et qu’il ne reste que la joie » nous confie Salomé Cassarino, interprète de Rizzo.

Cette longue préparation ne fut pas pas sans sacrifices, nous indique Tatsuaki Tsukuda, qui endosse le rôle de Danny Zuko. « On commença par deux répétitions par semaine, mais au fil du temps, le rythme s’intensifia pour atteindre les cinq-six répétitions par semaine. Il m’a fallu sacrifier quelques heures de sommeil ». Restant positif, celui qui a déjà participé à plusieurs performances musicales ajoute : « Je ne pense pas que cela affecte négativement mes performances scolaires, […] c’est parfois difficile, mais ça n’en reste pas moins excitant ».

Mais que se cache-t-il derrière un tel engouement pour le musical ?

« C’est avant tout parce que c’est le plus grand club du campus ; un sixième y prend part, et la diversité des gens investis couvre l’ensemble du corps étudiant » nous explique Noa Liaudet, la coordinatrice des danses. « Le fait que la performance soit le moment phare d’une année de travail ajoute également à l’attrait du musical. Le CROUS, l’administration ainsi que Vincent Fertey [le directeur du campus, ndlr] s’investissent. Tout le monde attend ce moment ! » ajoute-t-elle.

L’an dernier déjà, les représentations de “Mamma Mia !” avaient enchanté les spectateurs. Dans les couloirs du campus, on entend encore les louanges de ces performances passées et l’engouement pour la comédie musicale qui les accompagne. “C’était très professionnel, j’ai été impressionnée par leur jeu d’acteur et la qualité des chants!” nous confie Inès Benkacem, une étudiante du campus du Havre. “C’est l’une des principales raisons pour laquelle j’y retourne cette année, j’ai hâte de voir un spectacle organisé par des étudiants du campus, […] de découvrir leurs talents!” renchérit-elle.

Les tickets, mis en vente dans le hall principal du campus à partir du 1er Avril vous permettront de plonger dans l’univers pétillant de Rydell High. Alors succombez aux sons riches et entraînants de « You’re the one that I want » ; le rythme électrifié de « Greased Lightning » et les déhanchés endiablés de « We go together » et n’oubliez pas : « GREASE is the word ! ».

[English translation]

“Grease” the musical set to take Salle François 1er by storm

After “Hairspray”, “Mulan” and “Mamma Mia!”, the Musical Theatre Club of Sciences Po, campus du Havre will be performing the timeless “Grease” this April 13th.

Musical club has once again outdone itself, and is set to offer a first class show that gets the whole audience jiving.

“Grease” the musical, introduced on Broadway in 1972, tells the story of young teen rebel Danny Zuko, the leader of the leather jacket-clad T-Birds, a gang of drag race aficionados; and the sweet, yet a little naïve, Sandy Dumbrowski whose beauty and innocence becomes the center of Zuko’s attention. After an intense summer romance, they painfully say their goodbyes, but suddenly find themselves head to head again, when by a sheer stroke of fate Sandy enrolls in the same high school as Danny. The classic bad boy-good girl story narrates their relationship amidst the pressures exerted by their peers at Rydell High.

“Grease” at Salle François 1er this April 13th

It has been a long run of preparation for the 53 members of the club (24 actors, 24 production members and 5 captains) which started in September and will culminate with two showings on April 13th at the Salle Francois 1er. During the past seven months the whole team has poured their hearts into the 2 acts, 11 scenes and 16 songs of the two-hour show. “The rehearsals were tiring, […] but the real magic will be on the stage, under the lights, mic turned on, when all the hard work is forgotten and only joy remains” said Salomé Cassarino, who plays Rizzo.

The long preparation took a toll, as Tatsuaki Tsukada, who stars as Danny, explained: “We started with two practices per week, but with time the pace picked up to reach five to six practices per week. I had to give up a few hours of sleep”. Perhaps drawing on his previous experience in several musical performances, he added: “I don’t think it negatively impacted my academic results, […] it’s sometimes difficult, but that doesn’t make it less exciting”.

But what explains the campus’ passion for musicals?

“It’s first and foremost; because it’s the biggest club of the campus, one in six students are part of it, and the diversity of its members covers the whole student body” Noa Liaudet, the dance captain, pointed out. “The fact that the performance is the apogee of a full year’s work also adds to the great appeal of the musical. The CROUS, the administration, and even [campus director] Vincent Fertey have given us their support. Everybody is waiting for this moment!” she noted.

Last year’s performance of “Mamma Mia!” enchanted spectators. In the halls of the campus, you can still hear praises of the past performances and the fervor that the annual theatre production brings with it. “It was truly professional, I was really impressed by the quality of the acting and singing!” Inès Benkacem, a student of the campus, commented. “It’s one of the main reasons I’m coming back this year. I’m looking forward to seeing a show prepared by the students of the campus, […] and to discover their talents!” she continued.

The tickets, still on sale in the main hall of the campus, will allow you to dive into the thrilling world of Rydell High. So let yourself be swayed by the catchy tunes of “You’re the one That I Want”; the electrifying rhythm of “Greased Lightning” and the joyous tune of “We Go Together” and don’t forget: “GREASE is the word!”

Edits and translation by Philippe Bédos & Pailey Wang

The Production of Destruction

“If space-junk is the human debris that litters the universe, junk-space is the residue mankind leaves on the planet.”

This quote by architect Rem Koolhas confronts you as you enter Jean Castorini and Vinzent Wesselman’s exhibition The Production of Destruction. The paradoxically titled exhibition attracted a steady stream of curious visitors to its opening on Monday evening. Clutching cups of cider and walking around the gallery in a low buzz of voices, groups took in the powerful assemblage of modernising urban scenes in South East Asia and glacial landscapes of the Arctic.

As a self described visual metaphor, the photos are curated to elicit a sense of dissonance between the two environments and spark conversation on the nature of modern industrial consumerism and the effect it has on the natural world. Framed in the heat of a political climate that remains deeply divided on climate change, the photos contribute to an ongoing discussion that questions the man-made construction of the urban environments we inhabit and the negative effects their creation has on natural spaces from which we are sheltered. The stark juxtaposition of the two settings immediately brings to attention their subtle symbiosis, as photos of rapidly retreating glaciers are placed next to those depicting rapid vertical urban expansion. The images present incredible glaciers that are formed over centuries, and highlight how they are now deteriorating simultaneously with the proliferation of new skyscrapers- an unlikely but powerful predator of these ancient ice forms.

The exhibition also acknowledges the people who inhabit these places. A photo of soccer pitch nestled between mountains and an ocean speckled with icebergs. A transitory looking church in a Inuit town. A discarded gold religious relic amongst a pile of rubbish. A handless statue of Madonna. Reflections off the ocean, and off shiny skyscrapers. Through the presence and lack thereof of modernisation, we are given a clear expression on mankind’s differences.

Castorini and Wesselmann’s exhibition brings a collision of two continents into a 30 square metre gallery in Le Havre, that forces us to confront the truism that our behaviour in urban settings has immense impacts at the poles of the Earth. The

Production of Destruction is a thoughtful collection of photos that give insight into a global concern. The gallery’s program for the coming fortnight is a promising lineup of debates with guest speakers and film screenings that will continue the discourse on the most significant issue of our generation.

See below for a full schedule of the upcoming programming. The exposition closes on the 16th of April.

Joyce Fang is the Public Relations Manager of the Bureau des Arts and a reporter at Le Dragon. She is covering an exhibit by second-year students, Jean Castorini and Vinzent Wesselmann at Galerie MS.

To Speak or not to Speak

From asking a question to giving a presentation to Prix Richard Descoings, the fear of speaking never leaves. The finalist of Richard Descoings shares his fear of speaking and his speech about fearing.

I stood against the blinding darkness. My words precipitated at the tip of my tongue. All things froze for an instant before my speech as I took in the deafening silence.

I was in the Theatre Auditorium de Poitiers, which sits 1000 people. It was the final round of the Prix Richard Descoings. I carried with my every word the reputation of Le Havre.

Every February, Sciences Po undergraduates gather together for the Prix Richard Descoings, an oratory competition to select the most eloquent English and French speaker from Sciences Po. I took part in the English category while Salomé Cassarino represented the French category.

Predictably, someone who made it past two rounds of a public speaking tournament would be perfectly comfortable on a stage and under the spotlight. I am not. The fear of speaking is perhaps the most understated fear in modern society.

This fear is silent: it is the unsaid words that built up in my lungs. It is the scrutinising eye contact of those looking, the prolonged silence before speaking, the deoxygenated air breathing. It was this fear that I carried from Le Havre to Poitiers – a fear that grew with the stakes.

In the waiting room on D-day, it was this fear that united the speakers from each campus – each clutching their script and pacing in quiet momentum. When asked, each would tell you that they are not nervous, and you would believe them. After all, they are representatives of eloquence. Yet, as the clock ticks and each speaker’s turn to speak approaches, you will see the little droplets of sweat forming at the fringe of their foreheads.

The fear of speaking is perfectly normal. Receiving the prompt: “we must all face the choice between what is right and what is easy,” a quote by J. K. Rowling in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, I decided to speak about speaking itself. I decided that the steps that led me to Richard Descoings were all choices I made between what is right and what is easy. Here, I share that choice, that fear, and that speech:

[Start-of-speech]

“To speak, or not to speak, that is the question. When I open my mouth, and these words flow into your ears, in this particular order, every syllable, every movement of my lips, my tongue, every eye contact, every molecule in my body is making a choice.

You see, we are not just atoms. Words are not chemical reactions. Standing up here is not part of natural selection.

To speak is to put my life story up on the podium, where I can no longer control the reaction, the interpretation, the direction of where and how I want to hear – me. My story is my choice, but when I speak, I give this choice to you: to be silent, to clap, to laugh, to mock, to ridicule, to open your ears but not listen.

To speak is a choice. But, to speak is the 11-year-old me sitting in my class, with my teacher asking: “do you have any questions?”, and my thoughts formulating, my palms sweating, my arm not raising, my heart beat racing. I wanted to ask a simple question…but I could see the audience, the microphone that amplifies my imperfections, the spot-light of failures, the stage of my fear. All on me as I stood up and asked one…simple…question. And it was always this one…simple…question, that I rehearsed in my head, over and over again, and perfected in the exact same intonation that echoes but will never be heard. And the class is over. And I keep this question for tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Because speaking is a choice…but is it really for the ones who can’t be heard?

At 16 years old, I had to give my first class presentation. I knew I must face the choice between what is right and what is easy. At least now, questions could be whispered in tiny pockets of mid-air suspended confidence, before it deflates like a balloon, as my face reddens, when my teacher says: “wow, that is a stupid question.” How then am I supposed to hear nothing but the silence of my voice for 300 seconds? How am I supposed to hear myself when I can only hear you and your loud mental judgement as I stammer…as I stammer…as I stammer…as I stammer…as I stammer? How can you say speaking is a choice when I don’t have the choice to be heard?

At 21 years old, I made a choice between what is right and what is easy. I joined a competition and it is my first time speaking to more people than in a classroom. I listened to hours and hours of “I have a dream” and watched myself in the mirror, until fear was so used to being in my veins that when my mouth finally opened, fear flew out like a butterfly ready to escape from a cocoon. I am still the 11-year-old with my thoughts formulating, my palms sweating, my heart beat racing. I am still the 16-year-old with mid-air suspended confidence in a tiny pocket of 5 minutes, before it deflates like a balloon, again.

You see, when I open my mouth, and these words flow into your ears, in this particular order, from beginning to end, from end to beginning again, every syllable, every movement of my lips my tongue, every eye contact, every molecule in my body is making a choice that is anything but easy.

We must all face the choice between what is right and what is easy. And today, I choose, to speak.”

[End-of-speech]

To speak or not to speak? The answer is yours.

Edited by Philippe Bédos & Maya Shenoy

The Le Hood Chronicles: Oh Lord, Not the Board

I was free. The crisp, fresh air of Normandy nipped at my face and rushed along my thick down coat as I sped along the boardwalk of Le Havre. Locals tried not to stare as they saw such a big boy show such mastery of a skateboard so small, but I’d gotten used to the fame by now. It didn’t phase me anymore. Last time I’d been this far, I fell down by the hair salon I now visit twice a month to keep my hair just long enough to cover my eyes without blinding me completely. Now, I raced down that street without blinking once, confident as I rode over the very spot I fell on months ago. I was a tank moving over the rubble of my failure, crushing every piece of disappointment as I found my way back to my dignity. I gained more and more speed, my heart racing at the thought of falling with nothing but my $100 Canada Goose toque to protect my fragile head. Suddenly, I was whizzing past La Petit Rade. I’d never been this far before. I slowed down as kids skated by me on the new multicolored Pennyboards they had gotten for Christmas. That’s when I realized I wasn’t the only skater in this part of town. A boy of about 12 years of age raced by me, looking back to grin at the man twice his height lagging behind him. A deep sense of shame began to churn inside of me, but I wasn’t going to let it get me down. Not this January 4th. I continued along at my own pace, not faster than a jog, when, suddenly, it happened.

My back wheels got stuck in a crack but instead of the board stopping and throwing me to the ground again, it sacrificed itself and split in two!

It was a truly noble act which I may never be able to repay. Heartbroken, I picked up the two pieces of my board and set them next to me on the ledge looking out to sea as the sun set behind us. An elderly couple walked by and asked “mais qu’est que s’est passé” to which I replied “C’est triste, mais ça va”. But it wasn’t ça va. I grabbed my two pieces of plastic polymer and walked down the path that I had just gleefully skated down minutes before. People stared at me once again, but this time not in awe. As they watched the funeral procession of one, they looked at me with sorrowful eyes. Maybe they too were once skater bros like me and had lost their board to the fury of the natural world. Or maybe they saw the broken heart of the skater boy who lost his very identity in the simple snap of Chinese manufactured plastic. Either way, they wouldn’t understand. But when I got back home, I put the pieces of board on my table and smiled. Maybe the journey with my red-wheeled board was over, but my own journey as a skater boy wasn’t. So I sat down, got out my laptop, and ordered my first pair of checkered Vans. As soon as I confirmed my order, I felt the rush of rolling over concrete come back to me and I knew my life had found its path again. Once a skater boy, always a skater boy.

Leon is an enigma.