The airplane glided over tin-roofed houses and verdant countryside for what seemed like hours. A heavy tropical rain was falling. I was seeing Trinidad for the first time in years through the heavy rain of my plane window.

Returning to my early childhood home after spending many years away seemed oddly familiar. Thirteen years of filling in the memory gaps of a six year old. There was the ice cream parlor that had indoor swings. And there was the outdoor movie theatre that had a playground somewhere in it. Perhaps I had invented some other names and places along the way, I wasn’t sure. I had definitely romanticized others.

I remembered the Hindu festival of lights: Diwali. It was celebrated by everyone, especially the island’s numerous Hindus. I remembered the clay lamps set out every Diwali and the street vendors —working their only nighttime shift of the year—rolling dough and placing them in boiling oil. They were called phlourie and were to be eaten with tamarind sauce. But most of all, I remembered the greenery in Trinidad.

My expectations did not align with reality. I was shocked by what I found once I actually arrived. In comparison to the big American cities, Trinidad seemed like a country frozen in time. The largest city boasted a population of 40,000 and the capitol, Port of Spain, had even less at 20,000 residents. Nothing seemed to make sense. It was all tiny and cramped. Houses sprouted from every available piece of land on the island.

As we drove from the airport, I saw the occasional vacant lot. They were barely visible under the rapid plant growth of the Caribbean, yet they stood next to immaculate pink and orange houses. My mother saw my confusion and said knowingly, “someone in the family probably died and now their family is fighting over the land.”

I spent the next week driving all over the island. The capitol was unchanged from colonial times. Beautiful colonial houses lined Savannah Park— where I had spent every Diwali — (make sure dashes are same length) along with official embassies and The Red House (our (our?) equivalent to the White House). I remembered all of this, but I did not remember the decay that I found in the dense buildings in the heart of Port of Spain.

The cobblestones of the capitol crumbled under the Caribbean Sun as did the storied colonial buildings that towered above them. The slums circled all of this. Not surprisingly, I had not even remembered slums. Or the capitol being dangerous at night. What had happened?

Yet, even in the capitol that seemed like it belonged to a third world country, there were quintessentially Trinidadian elements. A middle age rasta (appropriate?) man was making and selling doubles, which a lightly fried pieces of dough that come with curry. He made doubles and sold them to a large lunchtime crowd while telling us his that he’d been working his whole life: “Since I was five. I was born in Laventille side.”( Laventille are the country’s notorious slums).

While what I expected and what I found were completely different, there were some things that were fixed hard and fast in my memory. All of the houses were painted in vivid, bright colors. There was a green house with a gold roof, purple houses and blue houses. They came in every shade and shape, some were massive others were moderate in size. They seemed to be the panoramic of an undrawn Dr. Seuss book.

Despite remembering the flamboyant houses, there were so many rules to remember. Had they even existed a decade ago? Cabs were shared. Minivans in the street could be flagged down for hire but should be avoided because they were unsafe. Even though I had never needed these rules in the past, the truth was undeniable. My original home had become foreign. I was a foreigner in a strange land. My heavy American accent did little to help.

Every hour that passed reminded me of my foreignness. I settled for feeling out of place upon seeing things that were perfectly normal for the rest of my family. They had spent much more time in the country and were not shocked as often as I was.

The first time Trinidad felt completely foreign to me, I was visiting my uncle in the north of the country. In this neighborhood cars continuously passed with speakers attached to the top that belched Hindu chants. They were dirges for the dead who were contained within. They cars were all on their way to the nearby Gulf of Paria for cremation ceremonies. The fires burning from the Gulf were constant.

In the time that I spent in Trinidad, I saw a country that I couldn’t place anymore. Driving past its different neighborhoods, including the Hindu ones where every house was studded with prayer flags, brought on the feeling of time travel.

It was time travel.

It was with mild reluctance that I finally purchased a plane ticket to Bucharest, Romania- two days before the flight. I finally gave in to a friend’s persistence to sojourn to Eastern Europe. Thus I ended up in an area of the world, and a country in which I never imagined going. What did I know about Romania besides Transylvania? Well, any castle called Dracula’s Castle (there are many) was never actually inhabited by the count.

Bucharest is, to use the well-trod witticism, a land of contradictions. The slow decay of its fabulous French-style mansions is apparent, as are the worn away bits of ornate metal gates. There is also the ubiquitous feeling of a country recovering from the heady days of Communism, and its overthrow 20 years ago, like so many countries of the Eastern European bloc.

The elaborate old buildings sit alongside unsightly housing blocs, and other modern buildings, sometimes draped in regalia of the country’s democratic party, whose symbol is two crossed hammers, akin to the sickle and axe of Communist regalia. Although now, the Communist has a negative ring, even 2 decades after the execution of the flamboyant leader Nicolae Ceausescu, who pilfered the country of billions of euro to build a massive 20-story palace termed the “People’s Palace”.

Gypsy children flit into decaying mansions built in the French style, in the heart of the city’s center. It is the land of the Roma. Predictably, hated by the rest of the population, they are a benign bunch, quietly living in unexpected corners of downtown, doing odd-jobs such as digging holes, and sweeping up park leaves at midnight. Or sitting outside of churches, begging for money.

The Onion Domes of churches, the charmingly sagging and sometimes broken power lines, even in the most affluent of neighborhoods and the monotone of ethnicity, make you realize, ‘We are not in Western Europe anymore’. If that doesn’t jolt you to this realization, then the sight of street children digging food from garbage cans, or their chain-smoking seven-year-old friends will. By now, Bucharest either seems terribly backwards, or that I am patronizing it. But to understand this city I had to leave behind all of my cultural and ethical expectations, and to accept it for what it was. The Romanians whom I befriended, all of them friendly, certainly did. They soberly told me all of their country’s problems, but did so without resignation, nor a zeal for correction. Like Romans are wont to say ‘This is Rome’, I had to remember that this is Romania.

Bucharest is one of the most beautiful cities that I have seen, and rightfully deserves the name ‘Little Paris’. Unaccustomed to tourists, it is not a very cushy place, but knowing a little Italian, French or sometimes English helps enormously. A ramble down the side streets in the heart of the city, recalls the quiet elegance of old Europe, especially after the thick night fog sets in. The old houses boast triangular domed roofs, separate attic peepholes, personalized iron-wrought gates. No two houses are the same- each has its own particular motif and colors.

The exchange rate was of the dollar to the national currency Leu- is ~3:1. Nothing beats seeing the Opera for $2.25, and splurging on elaborate dinners that would cost north of $65 back in the states, but in Bucharest come out to about $20, as well as the ridiculously loud and drunk patrons at a nearby table- who got up to sing a round with the live band- at one of the nicest restaurants in the city! Now that I’m back in Western Europe, I already miss the idiosyncrasies of Little Paris.

A battle rages on in Kashmir, with no end in sight. It is a land cursed by its very location – cruelly sandwiched between three nuclear states: India, Pakistan, and China. Their political tug-of-war of greater powers has torn apart the Kashmir region, and its people.

The centerpiece of the conflict is a territorial clash over the northwestern-most area of the Indian subcontinent. In 1947, when British rule of India came to an end, the partition of land created two new nations – India and Pakistan. This partition is widely believed to be at the root of the Kashmir conflict. Although claiming, as the BBC article Partitioning India Over Lunch in 2007 did, that only a few influential people decided the fate of millions over a meal may appear excessive, it is not mere hyperbole. The British, drained of their resources after World War II and apprehensive about the freedom movements swelling in their colonies, were in a hurry to leave and created a severely problematic demarcation of a sensitive area – a decision at once careless and cavalier. Both India and Pakistan laid claims on Kashmir, which straddles the demarcation line. It was clearly sought after because of its ideal climatic conditions, sound agriculture, and healthy tourism economy. Moreover, the Kashmiri area incorporated into India had a predominantly Muslim population but a Hindu ruler, and this added more fuel to the political agitation. Since then, radical Islamist elements that believe Muslim majority areas automatically belong to Pakistan – a nation created in the name of Islam – have been active.

Astonishingly, aside from those directly involved or affected, the majority of the public does not realize the catastrophic nature of the conflict. Major Western newspapers often do not publish articles focused on Kashmir for weeks, whereas ‘peace in the Middle East’ is covered on a daily basis. Political Science major Jenny Castellana, a sophomore at the University and a regular reader of the New York Times, says she was shocked to learn of the excessive violence and human rights violations in Kashmir.

“One would think that World History or Globalization classes in high school would at least touch upon this issue,” she said. “Yet, we never covered it at all. Not once. The Western media hardly ever portrays it as a significant crisis”.

This lack of knowledge and the apparent censorship of the media seems troubling to Jenny:

“I definitely think that a conflict such as this needs to be addressed properly. If we are to be responsible world citizens, we have to know of world issues.”

As of now, the chances for a definite resolution appear slim. The Line of Control, the military-enforced border between Indian controlled territory and Pakistani controlled territory is still not a legally recognized international boundary. In many ways, it mirrors the unstable, volatile nature of the Kashmir state as a whole: a game reminiscent of the Devil’s Arithmetic, where numbers of how many ‘militants’ are caught crossing over keep fluctuating while brutalities keep increasing.

One fact is tremendously disconcerting: with the passage of time, even the residents of India and Pakistan are entering a numb state, where news of everyday atrocities seems less and less noteworthy. Bollywood depictions often lighten the intensity of the issue, for although they attempt to highlight terrorism, love stories frequently mesh with the plot and steal the spotlight. Films like Roja, LOC: Kargil, and Fanaa (to name a few) have emphasized the growing militancy in the area, but do not explore the historical context of the conflict. The result is a distortion of the history and the culture. Most filmmakers are interested in depicting Kashmir as the land of picturesque gardens, lakes and beautiful women, a land where the patriotic Hindu hero is able to marry the Muslim girl. However, the stark truth is this: this is a region where 11.6% women suffer from sexual abuse, one of the highest rates in the world, and where the Armed Forces, the protectors of the people, are feared more than revered.

Something has to be done. In an ideal world, the Kashmiri would be taken into account and India and Pakistan would reach a full and final decision. Yet, six decades of fighting have proved that we do not live in an ideal world. Despite countless resolutions, the people of Kashmir remain uncertain of their fate. Although US intervention has more often created problems rather than resolving them, is this one case where an active, powerful mediator like America is required? In spite of advice against it, and even a few threats, Barack Obama has expressed an interest in resolving this issue once and for all. How he plans to go about it remains unclear, but many are rooting for a politically binding treaty.

This issue may not have escalated to the degree of the Israel-Palestine conflict (as yet), nor does it hold any symbolic connotations that generate wide religious appeal, but the Kashmir conflict is very real, and challenges the world to take action in the name of humanity.

Mr. Hilal-ud-din Siddiqi, a ninety-year-old Pakistani citizen who fought in the wars of 1947 and 1965 against India, correctly points out: “It is ridiculous how long this issue has been stretched. We thought we were fighting for a solution, an ending to this problem, and now it seems like we all [Pakistanis and Indians] fought in vain”. Dejectedly, he adds, “It is a matter of the Kashmiri people, and yet they are the last ones who are being taken into account. Can they govern themselves? Are they ready for that? I don’t know. Yet, do we have a right to leave them crushed between hostile nations? Certainly not.”