Kendall's ASTU Blog

Hey Readers!

So, this is it. This is my final blog post as an ASTU 100A student. I can hardly believe it. Without further adieu, here are my final thoughts as we near the end of the term.

Our final academic article that we have been analyzing is Peter Morey’s “’The rules of the game have changed’: Mohsin Hamid’s The Reluctant Fundamentalist and post-9/11 fiction”. This article was a bit more challenging to read, as it covered so much in such a short amount of writing. He began his piece by focusing on the forms of The Reluctant Fundamentalist. Specifically, it being in the form of a dramatic monologue. He also emphasized Hamid’s writing style as destabilizing the readers’ identification, as well as the role of the novel in the realm of world literature.

Despite undertaking such a wide array of topics in regard to Mohsin Hamid’s novel, the article was—overall—synthesized very well. I would offer a few critiques though: Firstly, I would say that he does not thoroughly define what he means by deterritorialization, despite it being the main focus of his article. Morey does not explicitly state what he himself interprets this to mean, and its significance in regards to Hamid’s novel. It is left up to the readers to determine what the meaning and significance of this “deterriorialization” is.

Also, I would’ve found it helpful for Morey to refer back to his thesis more often throughout his paper, in order to link his analysis back to his larger idea. I often found myself thinking when I was knee-deep in analysis, “what does this have to do with his argument?” A prime example of this is how Morey briefly mentions the “naïve exoticism” of the publication process (142). I brought this up in lecture because I was genuinely curious as to what my classmates thought of this example. Was I the only one who found it strange? Aided by the fact that he does not thoroughly and explicitly state to the reader why he sees as significant, I found this paragraph hindered his argument more than it helped it.

Despite these flaws, I still found his larger ideas very compelling. World literature is growing in importance, and it is important for readers to not be passive when logging information from novels of this genre. Binaries are no longer reliable, especially in regards to cultural terms and identity. World literature, ultimately, works to expose and contest structures of power as a geopolitical tool. This is evident today, as the “the effects of 9/11 are still very much being played out” (145). World literature attempts to moderate these structures of power, and ensure readers remain critical of what they are reading.

So that’s it. I hope everyone has a happy Easter, and a great remainder of the year!

Thanks, Readers!

-Kendall Manifould

Morey, Peter. “The Rules of the Game have Changed:” Mohsin Hamid’s The Reluctant Fundamentalist and Post-9/11 Fiction.” Journal of Postcolonial Writing 47. 2 (2011): 135-146. Web. Taylor & Francis. 18 Dec. 2015.

Hey Readers,

This weekend I began reading Mohsin Hamid’s novel, The Reluctant Fundamentalist, for my ASTU class. Now, I’m only about halfway through the novel or so, but I thought I’d jot down my initial thoughts at this point in time.

The narrator, Changez, is telling his story to a nameless American, who we haven’t heard speak yet—any indication of the American’s character depth is narrated by Changez. Therefore, we are subject to Changez’s interpretations and conclusions he makes about the American. It is important for readers to understand that he could be wrong. However, the same could be said if the roles were reversed. This scenario is more prevalent in the novel. Hamid begins his novel with the narrator saying, “Do not be frightened by my beard: I am a lover of America” (Hamid 1). Changez, on multiple occasions, goes out of his way to correct the mistaken stereotypes the American has about Changez as a Pakistani.

As a stylistic choice, it is quite interesting that the author chose to format the novel in this way. Yet, choosing to format the novel in this way is actually beneficial for Hamid’s purposes, in order to portray the erroneous assumptions we make. As Sam, one of my classmates, said today in lecture, the “We” in novels is typically one of a Western construct. In The Reluctant Fundamentalist, Hamid purposefully plays on this, warping the way readers think and understand Pakistanis. It forces readers to confront this reality: our (Western) cultural perceptions and viewpoints are not necessarily infallible, or always correct in another cultural context.

Another observation I made when reading this novel is whenever Changez is giving an explanation to the American in present day, he always connects it to an American cultural reference. This way, the American will better be able to understand the situation because it is laid out to him in a context he is able to comprehend. One instance of this is when discussing the matter of whether or not Changez drinks alcohol. He does; and upon the American’s confusion, he explains, “In truth, many Pakistanis drink; alcohol’s illegality in our country has roughly the same effect as marijuana’s in yours” (53). This systematically proves two functions for Changez: the first is to make the American understand Pakistani tradition by situating him in an American context. The second is to illustrate Changez’s notable understanding of American politics and tradition. He lived there for four and a half years after all; Changez learned a great many things while he was there. This may lead the American to view Changez as less of a Pakistani and more of an American with every cultural reference uttered.

These are just a few of my many swarming thoughts about this novel. I still have many questions: Why is Changez telling this story to the American? What led Changez to move back to Pakistan? Does he consider himself more of an American or more of a Pakistani while residing in New York? What factors spurred his “pleased” reaction to the terrorist acts of September 11^th, 2001? (Hamid 73).

If I want to find the answers to my questions, I better keep reading!

Until next time, Readers!

-Kendall Manifould

Hello Readers,

In our ASTU class we recently finished reading the first chapter of Judith Butler’s Frames of War: When is Life Grievable? It is a challenging read, but very interesting since it is our first glimpse of the work of a literary theorist. Butler deals with several issues, such as shared vulnerability, framing situations and the socialized responses to the world around us, as well as questioning social responsibility.

For the purpose of this blog post, I mainly want to focus on the question of social responsibility. Butler asks, “Am I responsible for all others, or only to some, and on what basis would I draw that line?” (35). This particular question jumped out at me. Lately a theme of “us vs them” has been recurring in a lot of our CAP classes. This ideology, though prominent in most societies, never really sat well with me. It is a natural human response, to be sure. “You’re either with me, or a threat to me.” This frame of mind has been the natural self-preservation instinct that has kept humans alive for thousands of years. That’s why I find Butler’s proposal of shared vulnerability so fascinating. Following a Hegelian perspective, Butler points out that in times of war, destruction leads to further destruction. She argues that war actively seeks out to deny our mutual vulnerability and shared interdependency (43). Only through “multilateral and global agreements based on the recognition of a shared precariousness” can we eliminate, or at least dilute the significance of an “us vs them” mindset (43).

Humans are social creatures. And I truly believe that we are capable of understanding one another, despite differences in culture, religion, beliefs, and norms. Despite diverging backgrounds, we are all united in our “precariousness”.

What do you think readers? Do you agree?

Until next time,

-Kendall Manifould

Works Cited:

Butler, Judith. “Survivability, Vulnerability, Affect.” Frames of War: When is a Life Grievable? London: Verso, 2009. 33-62. Print.

Hello Readers,

Sorry it’s been a while. Happy 2016!

I recently read Jonathan Safran Foer’s novel Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, and it was probably one of the most touching, thrilling books I’ve ever had the pleasure to read. While it is not a happy book, focusing on a young boy, Oskar, and his reaction to the trauma of losing his father in the attack on the World Trade Centre in 2001, it was still a highly pleasurable reading experience.

It was refreshing in that Oskar’s point of view was written in a running, sporadic style—similar to how a nine year old’s thought process works. One subject matter led Oskar to go on a tangent about a completely different train of thought, before he would resume talking about the original subject matter. (Sometimes I actually found it quite annoying.) Oskar was an interesting narrator, but there were also chapters narrated by his Grandmother and Grandfather, and these chapters are what I want to focus on in this blog post.

Oskar’s Grandma and Grandpa grew up in Dresdan, Germany. During the Dresdan bombings in 1945, both Grandma and Grandpa lost someone dear—Anna, Grandma’s sister, and Grandpa’s lover. It wasn’t until many years later after immigrating to the United States that Grandma and Thomas Sr. became “Grandma and Grandpa”. Both immigrated to the United States for reasons I can only guess—to pursue the “American Dream” and leave the horrors of Dresdan behind them.

When the two happen upon each other in a coffee shop in New York, it was hardly the beginning of a beautiful relationship. Thomas Schell had become silent—relying only on a pen and notepad to communicate. Grandmother did most of the talking, though that was not saying much. The two hardly communicated at all. The two formed a relationship and got married on the basis of tragedy—Anna, though dead, always seemed to come between them. Thomas obviously still loved Anna, and Grandma realized this, but entered into the marriage anyway.

Their relationship is formed on the collection of rules. Probably the most important rule of all is: “Your mother and I never talk about the past, that’s a rule” (108). The horrors that they experienced in Dresdan are unspeakable in their relationship. This unspeakability regarding the event leads for it to grow and fester in their relationship, poisoning it. Thomas Schell doesn’t even speak anymore about anything, so far-reaching is his trauma.

And if one tragedy wasn’t enough, another catastrophic event occurred during their lifetime—causing the loss of the life of their only son, Thomas Schell (Jr.). The misfortune seemed to follow Grandma all the way from Germany. (Grandpa abandoned her as soon as she found out she was pregnant—since it was a rule, that they would not have children, and Grandma broke that rule.)

In class we discussed the theme of American exceptionalism. We asked if Foer’s novel was a representation of that theme, or whether or not the events and Dresdan counteract that interpretation. The novel focuses on 9/11, but other catastrophic events are found scattered throughout the novel (Sam Goldberg’s character is a quiet reference to the Holocaust).

Oskar, as a young boy who just lost his father, views September 11, 2001 as “the worst day.” The day that everything changed. Nothing will ever be the same after this event. Grandma and Grandpa, on the other hand, have experienced more than just this one tragedy in their lifetimes. Therefore, by incorporating the narrations of the grandparents, this offsets the theme of American exceptionalism. America is not the only country to have experienced a tragedy, and have a population that is suffering and in mourning. Calamities have occurred in many nations throughout history.

The characters of Grandma and Grandpa offer so much to the story, enhancing it, making it richer, adding to its depth. I really enjoyed reading their narratives in the novel.

Do you guys agree with my opinion? Let me know what you think. Please feel free to drop me a comment so that we may discuss it!

-Kendall Manifould

Works Cited:

Foer, Jonathan Safran. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 2005. Print.

Hey Bloggers,

This week’s blog post will be focusing on our fascinating visit to the Rare Books and Special Collections archives last Thursday. There, we were able to get our hands on Joy Kogawa’s personal archives. Joy Kogawa, author of the Obasan, was a residence of British Columbia and was kind enough to donate her records and documents to our university. It was really neat to experience because most library sources are generally secondary sources, duplicated and available in other locations, whereas Kogawa’s archives are only available at UBC! This is an opportunity that not many other people would have a chance to witness and experience.

In total there are 156 boxes in the Joy Kogawa Collection. Included in these boxes are initial paper drafts of Obasan, letters to editors and publishers, old newspaper clippings and other historical documents Kogawa used for research. What I found most interesting, however, were the letters from readers of Obasan to Kogawa. The content of these letters varied, but most interesting were the speculations about Canada’s actions and role during this time period.

In his letter to Joy Kogawa, David Holdaway says, “Whether Aunt Emily was correct that Japanese Canadians were discriminated against worse than Japanese Americans… the fact remains: fear drove otherwise rational governments to irrational acts.” Holdaway criticizes the actions Canada took against its citizens of Japanese descent. He later tells Kogawa, “Though I was not even alive then, nor a citizen of Canada, I nonetheless feel responsible for what happened.” Apologizing profusely, he attempts to express to Kogawa how deeply ashamed he is for Canada’s action (or lack thereof) towards reinstating Japanese Canadian’s citizenship standing.

Others, like Featie Vernie [approximation of handwriting–hard to distinguish] felt conflicted, and disbelieving. In her letter to Joy Kogawa, she says, “Like many (most?) Canadians, the events you speak of are not “news” to me; I always “knew” about them from history books and such. But, really, I had no idea of the degradation, the despair, and, above all, the injustice!” We also discussed this briefly in our ASTU class. It is one thing to read about these events in a textbook, which is much more objective and impersonal in its reporting of events compared to other technologies of memory, such as Obasan. As Muriel Ford says in her letter so eloquently, “Facts can be buried: a literary gem containing those facts cannot.” This speaks to how Obasan, although a work of fiction, also functions as a semi-autobiography, effectively depicting actual events that transpired in a fictitious work.

Vernie later speculates: “…it is difficult to imagine [these events] happening in Canada, my Canada—or is it?” She then goes on to recall how in her hometown in Manitoba, “Canadian “Indians”” were subject to certain “attitudes”. Canada, often viewed as a welcoming nation, a “melting pot” of cultures and peoples, has had a history of racism and discrimination. This is indisputable.

The fonds were fascinating to witness, especially after reading Obasan for our ASTU class. It really made me appreciate the work all the more, having these tangible records accessible to me.

Before I leave you, Readers, I have a question for you: Do you think that Obasan was more effective in expressing the horrors of the time through a fictional novel loosely based on actual events, or would you argue that a nonfiction novel is more irrefutable and a better representation?

-Kendall Manifould

Works Cited:

Ford, Muriel. Letter from Muriel Ford to Joy Kogawa. 27 Jan. 1983. Box 13 File 4. Joy Kogawa fonds. University of British Columbia Library Rare Books and Special Collections, Vancouver, Canada.

Holdaway, David. Letter from David Holdaway to Joy Kogawa. 14 Mar. 1983. Box 13 File 4. Joy Kogawa fonds. University of British Columbia Library Rare Books and Special Collections, Vancouver, Canada.

Vernie, Featie. Letter from Featie Vernie to Joy Kogawa. 15 May 1983. Box 13 File 4. Joy Kogawa fonds. University of British Columbia Library Rare Books and Special Collections, Vancouver, Canada.

Hello Readers, it’s been a while!

In our ASTU class we’ve recently completed two projects: one presentation and one paper, each centred on a key term that is theme in our class. My term was “national memory”, and this held particular significance in our most recent reading, Safe Area Goražde. However, this blog post I am going to focus on Joe Sacco’s retelling of the events that transpired, and how the way he portrays them are significant.

First, a little bit of background. Joe Sacco is journalist and comic book artist, often combining the two forms (written and visual) to provide a compelling depiction of events. This is certainly the case in Safe Area Goražde, which is a retelling of the war in Eastern Bosnia in the early 1990s.

The organization of Safe Area Goražde is very structured. It begins in the present time; Sacco arriving on the scene via the UN protected Blue Road, and is followed by historic events told on a black backdrop. These present tense and past tense scenes alternate consistently throughout the entirety of the work.

Another note-worthy observation is that at the beginning of each chapter where Bosnians give a testimony, it begins with a zoomed-in portrait of the person’s face. (An example of this is Edin at the top of page 18.) Sacco does this purposefully, in order to demonstrate this is THIS PERSON’S story. This is particularly evident in Rasim’s testimony (109-111). Beginning with a portrait of Rasim’s face, Rasim repeatedly says, “I was an eyewitness”. Sacco chooses to focus on a portrait of Rasim’s face every time he says these words.

Sacco has a unique perspective and precarious role reporting these stories. Most reporters blow in to town, get their story in 15 minutes, and blow out again. Sacco gets a much more up close and personal recount of events from the friends he makes there (from Dr. Begovie, to Edin and Riki, and even the “silly girls”). At one pivotal moment, Sacco remembers himself: “I was International Press. Suddenly I’d remembered. And the Real Truth was I hadn’t come to Gorazde to record the antics of some silly girls” (151). Despite the friendships he had made in Gorazde, he was still under obligation as a journalist to report the events that transpired. By recording the testimonies of the Gorazdans, Sacco borrows their authority from their eyewitness accounts. However, it is important to note that these are their individual truths, not necessarily the whole “Real Truth”. As a journalist, that is Sacco’s role: to try to uncover the “Real Truth”.

What do you think, Readers? Do you think by collectively pooling together testimonies, journalists like Sacco seeking the “Real Truth” will be able to uncover it? I’m not too sure. And another thing: do you think testimonies have the authority to be transmitted into historical fact? I’m curious; let me know what you think!

Until next time,

-Kendall Manifould

Hello again Readers,

Last week I talked about memory, with a central theme being the question: Is memory a reliable source for recounting events? This week I am going to further this topic of recounting events from memory by focusing specifically on the subject of authority.

In class we continued to focus on Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis. A primary topic of today’s class lecture was: Does Satrapi have the authority to recount the events that transpire in her graphic memoir? The fact that it is a memoir, and is a retelling of events that happened to Marjane Satrapi personally, leads one to believe that Satrapi does have the authority to tell this story. After all, it happened to her. Arguments could be made, however, that because these events happened to her when she was a child, and Satrapi is writing about them much later as an adult, that it cannot possibly be a 100% accurate retelling of the events that transpired.

Of course. No one is claiming Satrapi has a photographic memory and can recall every conversation she ever had as a child with perfect clarity. In fact, Satrapi throughout her graphic memoir drops subtle hints that undermine her authority as the author. On page 98, Satrapi is describing a scene where a representative of the school called all the parents in to discuss the behaviour of their children. (It’s important to note that Marji wasn’t actually there to witness the conference between the parents and the principle.) The scene ends with Marji’s father flippantly stating to the principle, “If hair is as stimulating as you say, then you need to shave your moustache!” Marjane proceeds to input, “My father actually said that.” This statement then undermines all the other lines of dialogue on the page, and perhaps the whole of Persepolis. It causes the reader to think, “Wait, if he actually said this line, did he not actually say any of the others?”

A different example of Satrapi impairing her authority is on page 62. Marji’s uncle, Anoosh, is seen in the last panel stating, “…she’s just a child who repeats what she hears!” The Islamic Revolution happened at a critical time in Marji’s life: adolescence. This is the time that she is most impressionable, most likely to develop her intrinsic values, and most likely to change her mind (as can be seen by her radical flip-flopping of religious beliefs early on in the memoir. She begins by wanting to be a prophet, and then proceeds to cast God out of her life entirely when the war begins.) This is Satrapi acknowledging the fact that she was young and didn’t always understand what was going on at the time. The fact that Satrapi acknowledges the flaws in her authority, and the limits of her own view, leads readers to trust in her authority more.

This is Marjane Satrapi’s testimony of her experiences during her childhood, but they are also reflective of the larger community as a whole. The Islamic Revolution did not solely affect Satrapi and her family. So, in this context, does Satrapi still have the authority to tell this story? I think she does.

This relates to the whole “message in a bottle” idea that we briefly talked about in class. Satrapi, by writing Persepolis, is essentially just putting her story out there for someone to receive the message. Satrapi is wholly within her rights to do so, and do so with authority.

Hillary Chute, a Junior Fellow in Literature in the Harvard Society of Fellows, analyzes Persepolis in her article “The Texture of Retracing in Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis”. She mentions how Iran did not approve of Persepolis, refusing to sell copies or allow it to be published there. They also criticize the film as being “anti-Iranian” and “accus[e] it of trying to ‘sabotage Iranian culture’” (Chute 106). So, I guess it’s safe to say that the Iranian government does not approve of the message Satrapi is trying to broadcast.

Before I leave you, readers, just food for thought: A classmate of mine mentioned in today’s lecture how, in court testimonies, we never question someone’s authority until it becomes outlandish or defies a fact that most people know to be true. Do you believe that the same is true for literature testimonies? I wonder…

Until next time, Readers.

-Kendall Manifould

Hello Readers,

My name is Kendall Manifould. I am a student of the Global Citizens CAP stream here at UBC, and as such, am a participant of an Arts Studies (ASTU) class. In this class in the past week we have discussed, in-depth, many topics. However the subject that I am most interested in is the topic of memory.

Memory is such a broad and all-encompassing topic. Memory can be regarded as strictly individual, memory can also be collective—within a group, society or culture—memory can even be passed down through generations. The reason why this subject is so interesting to me is because even though memory is a part of everyone’s lives, there’s so much mystery surrounding it. What causes one memory to be stored over another? Why do we foster some memories, while trying desperately to forget others? And, the real question: Is memory a reliable source for recounting events?

Scott Fraser, a forensic psychologist, argues in his TED talk that no, memory should not be regarded as a reliable source of recounting events. He argues that reconstructed memories fill in too many of the gaps when we recall events—that “the human brain fills in information that was not…originally stored.” (Note: Fraser’s TED talk deals mainly with eye-witnesses to crimes such as murder.) And this may be true—I do believe that the human brain only picks up bits and pieces and that it is impossible to recall events with perfect clarity—however, I also believe that memory is arguably the most authentic way to record history. First hand accounts may not get all the nitty-gritty details correct, but if the event leaves a powerful impression, first hand accounts are also the most likely to be true, and not muddled by governments, editors, or societies and will not be glossed over like in history books.

I recently finished reading Marjane Satrapi’s graphic memoir, Persepolis. It recounts Satrapi’s experiences as a child living in Iran during the Islamic Revolution, and all the horrors that were a part of her daily life growing up. What is unique about this memoir, besides its graphic format, is the fact that the main character, narrator, and author are not all the same person. That is, the plot is told from the viewpoint of a younger Satrapi, recounting her experiences and what she thought of them at the time, but narrated by a much older and more knowledgeable Satrapi. It is a powerful juxtaposition.

A question posed during our discussion in class was, does the fact that Satrapi is writing based on experiences that happened so long ago cause the meaning and significance of the work to lose its authority? Something Dr. Luger stated off hand that really stuck with me was that it is “a story of childhood, not a story of politics.” Satrapi is simply recounting events that happened to her, personally; her main aim is not to recount a historical summary of the Islamic Revolution in complete historical and political accuracy.

Another question that was posed during our first lecture was “Is remembering a moral act? What about forgetting?” and this is also a subject that young Satrapi grapples with throughout her memoir. I personally believe that remembering is a noble act, and forgetting is an atrocious crime. Forgetting as a self defense mechanism in reaction to trauma is one thing, but I wholly believe that it is one’s duty to remember and be a witness to important events. It is the brave, and noble thing to do. Even in the introduction of Persepolis, Satrapi ends it by stating, “One can forgive but one should never forget.”

Individuals all have collected and stored memories within them. These memories then, in turn, shape who they are as an individual.

People are stories, just waiting to be told.

Until next time, readers.

—Kendall Manifould

Hello Readers,

I want to first congratulate everyone on their excellent blog posts this week; I thoroughly enjoyed reading all of them! You all raised some interesting points and brought very thought-provoking questions to the table.

A common theme for this week’s blog post was Farhad Shahzad’s “The Role of Interpretive Communities in Remembering and Learning”, as well as the subject of scholarly academic writing. Jennifer Lai, Kristen Lew, and Sania Shoaib highlight these topics. Kaveel Singh and Sam Tuck zoom in on Shahzad’s theory of “interpretive communities”.

Another popular subject this week was our discussions in class, specifically regarding different technologies of memory. Mariana Drok described the importance of storytelling as a technology of memory, especially its significance to First Nations’ history. Ina de Weerdt went on to talk about how blogging is another technology of memory that has greatly impacted her, and how she feels that she belongs to a blogging interpretive community.

Another source of speculation was regarding the issue of “bias”. Jacqueline DeSantis speculated whether “bias” was any different from “perspective”; she views that one has an inherently negative connotation while the other is viewed in a more positive light. She claims, “The difference between bias and perspective is not as cut and dry as it seems. If we replace the word bias with perspective then it seems like people are less critical of an outside influence.” Meanwhile, Mariana Dork argues that bias is the only way for events to be accurately recorded in history. She says, “Information is a powerful tool of manipulation in the 21^st century. When it is being distorted the only way to learn the truth is by listening to people, who have experienced a particular event themselves.” Taylor Khatkar proposes an interesting view on this topic while referencing Nigerian novelist, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s TED talk “The Danger of a Single Story”.

I personally find this subject very interesting to debate. I feel on the one hand, bias should not cloud one’s judgment and prevent one from considering other possibilities or perspectives, but on the other hand, how can you experience ANYTHING in your life without having a bias? It’s just not possible. In that regard, bias shouldn’t be viewed as a bad thing.

Some of my classmates mused over the question that has been presented to us from day one: “What is a global citizen?” Raphael Gamo asserts, “…global citizenship is the privilege to learn and interact with people from all over the world, to discover issues and solutions, and to just in general communicate on a scale larger than your immediate locale.” He also went on to talk about his experiences living in Jakarta, Indonesia and attending an international school there. “Due to this high concentration of different cultures and nationalities, I feel drawn towards international communities, and in turn, the idea of global citizens. I can’t really imagine any other way when it comes to the communities. I’m a part of, the mix of people just seems to feel right and comfortable.” This particular statement resonated with me because I, too, lived overseas and attended an international school in Singapore. Diversity was a largely influential factor in my decision to attend UBC. Ken Sakamoto also shares a similar view on this topic.

Nicolo Jimenez wrote about the Syrian Refugee Crisis, and our responsibilities as global citizens to aid them in their struggles: “I do not think it is appropriate at all for one country to be spearheading the Syrian Refugee Crisis or for countries who are more stable financially and politically to stand back and remain lukewarm! I take it my responsibility to advocate for more countries to rally as a whole and tackle this phenomenon in unity because we are stronger together.” The Syrian Refugee Crisis is a very critical issue in the world at this time, and as students in an ever-increasing globalized world, it is our responsibility to be aware of the crisis, and be educated in the nation’s responses and policies regarding the refugees.

As an endnote, the majority of students discussed how grateful they are to be in the Global Citizens CAP stream. They are able to pull connections between lectures and academic perspectives to form a more interconnectedness view of the world around us. This was a main theme in Carolina Judkowicz’s blog, as well as many others.

Keep it up, bloggers!

-Kendall Manifould

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