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Filipinos Turn to Twitter as a Lifeline After Severe Flooding

By CHRISTINE HAUSER

The worst flooding since 2009 has swamped major streets in Manila and nine provincial areas around the city, as rescue workers used rafts and boats to try to rescue people trapped on rooftops or in buildings. As my colleague Floyd Whaley writes, more than 50 people have been killed and at least 250,000 have been evacuated in the last week in the flooding, which was set off by a series of storms and monsoon rains.

An aerial view of the Manila flood on Tuesday in a video posted by Mikey Bustos, a singer, appealing for donations.

As the deluge paralyzed urban areas, shutting down transportation and making it difficult for services to be distributed, residents turned to social media to call out for help and to pinpoint with names and addresses the locations of those trapped. Residents considered most at need were highlighted, like pregnant women, children and the elderly. Ho spitals were in need of supplies as power dwindled.

The flooding was the worst to strike the Philippines since 2009, which Filipinos called their Hurricane Katrina, a reference to the flooding in New Orleans after the storm in 2005. Hurricane Katrina rescuers were directed to pleas for help daubed on the walls and shouted from rooftops at boats or low-flying helicopters.

Typhoons Ketsana and Parma struck Manila within a one-week period in 2009.

The Philippine government documented rescue requests through Google to help w ith its efforts in this flooding, which officials are concerned could get worse.

As Mr. Whaley notes in his story, Manila, which is home to more than 10 million people, is particularly vulnerable because it is cradled in a low-lying area between a large lake and the ocean.

That has meant that La Mesa Dam, north of the city, has crested in recent days, forcing officials to open gates that released additional water. This, combined with high tides, has left urban areas swelling with water from the southern lake, the ocean to the west and an overflowing river down the center.

Photographs online show people clinging to wreckage or pulling themselves along rope to apparent safety. Some inched along sagging power lines like tightrope walkers.

The Philippines Red Cross said it was monitoring the water level of La Mesa Dam, which has reached an “alert” level. The organization said it has rescued 250 people in at least three areas, using rubber boats and ve hicles. It said it was working around the clock, with 63 evacuation centers serving about 8,000 people so far.

Follow Christine Hauser on Twitter @christinenyt.



Image of the Day: August 7

By THE NEW YORK TIMES

Front-Row Fashion Defines Delhi\'s Couture Week

By SUJATA ASSOMULL SIPPY

India Couture Week begins tomorrow, and this means that Delhi's most beautiful women are now in full preparation mode. For them, the real fashion show happens in the first row. From the elegant to the outrageous, Delhi's fashion plates will flaunt it all. In fact, there is likely to be more fashion off the catwalk than on it.

“This is socially a very important week,” said Tanisha Mohan, one of Delhi's best-known fashionistas and a first-row regular. “When the lights come on, they also hit row one, and frankly, I find people looking at row one more than what's on the ramp.”

Quite a few fashion weeks take place in the capital, but couture week has a more rarefied feel since it is about exclusive bespoke clothes, so dressing for this event is something that is taken very seriously. Some women will even change in between shows.

“Planning the seating at India Couture Week is hard as everyone feels that they are entitled to a front row,” said the designer and couturier Varun Bahl. “I sometimes think we should just have the show on the Delhi-Noida Expressway so everyone could just park their cars and watch from their front seat.”

The fashion-savvy woman in the first row knows that she will be judged by her peers and the media. The newspaper the next day will probably carry a more in-depth review of what was worn by those sitting in row one than the actual collection shown.

“Much of the media still treat fashion week as entertainment, and many papers in fact send their social or entertainment reporter to cover the week,” said Pearl Shah, fashion editor of Marie Claire in Mumbai. “So often you are only reading about showstoppers and who was there and wearing what, which has resulted in certain Delhi women have made being seen in the paper during fashion week their job.”

While it may be Indian Couture Week, many wo men choose to use the event to show off their international labels - a Hervé Léger dress with the Hermès Birkin bag becomes the natural choice for many in row one. It is, after all, just after the summer holidays so it's a great opportunity to show off what they bought while they were in London, Paris and New York.

“There is a social perception that wearing something international automatically shows you have global perspective,” said Ms. Shah. “Plus, I find that because India Couture Week is Delhi based, it becomes all about flaunting. It is a shame as we are at an Indian couture week and therefore need to support our talent.”

Mr. Bahl expressed dismay at the trend as well. “In America, Italy, Spain or any other country, you would see the women only wearing local talent for a fashion week,” he said. “That just does not happen here. And this could be a reason why Indian fashion has not grown as much as it could.”

In fact, seeing the first row all dressed in saris would make couture week feel truly like an Indian bespoke event. Also, the show of support for local designers would benefit all who genuinely adore fashion, helping the event that Delhi's beautiful women love to attend become bigger and better. But no matter what they're wearing, the front row will be putting on its best show.



From Manipur to London, Mary Kom Punches Her Way to Medal

By THE NEW YORK TIMES

Mary Kom, who for years kept her passion for boxing a secret, has a chance on Wednesday to win a rare Olympic gold medal for India when she faces Nicola Adams of Britain.

Ms. Kom, a five-time world champion, guaranteed herself at least a bronze medal when she won the quarterfinal of the women's flyweight boxing event in London on Monday. (The losers of the semifinals are each awarded a bronze.)

Ms. Kom's chance for Olympic gold began in August 2009, when the International Olympic Committee announced that women's boxing would be added at the 2012 London Olympics.

“This is my dream come true,” Ms. Kom had told Somini Sengupta of The New York Times days after the announcement.

For the boxer who was born Mangte Chungneijang Merykom, the journey from a small town in India's northeastern state of Manipur to the Olympics in London has not been easy.

When she broke i nto a sport that Indian women have largely shunned, she found little support from her family or community. Ms. Sengupta wrote:

At 17, she left home to join a government-run sports training center in Imphal, the capital of her home state, Manipur, and begged the boxing coach to let her enter the ring.

“She was so small, I told her no,” the coach, L. Ibomcha Singh, said. Tears rolled down her face. The coach relented.

Kom kept boxing a secret from her family - until she won a state championship in 2000, and everyone, including her parents, discovered what she had been up to. Her father goaded her to give it up. Boxing is too dangerous, he told her. Members of her clan disapproved. The boys in her hometown ridiculed her. She held out.

“One day, I will show you who I am,” she recalled thinking.

“The tales of my struggles have no end. I did not have enough money to afford my basic needs like sports kits and a proper diet,” she told India Ink in a recent interview.

The stumbling blocks she faced, including a lack of basic training and adequate facilities, encouraged her to create in 2006 a boxing academy in her home state for aspirants like her.

Ms. Kom's greatest test, however, was getting back into the ring after the birth of her twin boys in August 2007. “It was hard to wean the boys off her breasts, harder still to leave them at home and go off to camp for a month at a time,” Ms. Sengupta wrote in 2009.

On Sunday, just as her twins celebrated their fifth birthday, their mother was busy punching her way to victory in her first match at the London Olympics.

Ms. Kom has been fighting in the 46-kilogram and 48-kilogram weight slots for most of her boxing career, but she trained hard to gain weight to qualify for the 51-kilogram category, the lowest of the three weight classes established for female boxers at the London Olympics.

“I will pray to God to keep my body fit,” she told Ms. Sengupta. “Because if my body is fit, I can do anything.”



Being Sikh in America

By AMARDEEP SINGH

On Sunday, my wife and I were having a quiet brunch with friends at home in Pennsylvania when the phone started ringing. First my parents called from their home in Maryland. Then a cousin called from India. “Have you seen what's on CNN? There's been a shooting at a gurdwara in Wisconsin…” I felt a familiar emptiness. I had felt the same way after the morning of September 11, 2001.

Then, as now, Sikhs in the United States faced a common problem: many Americans presume that all men in turbans are Muslims. Just a few days after 9/11, a man named Balbir Singh Sodhi was shot down in Arizona in just such a case of mistaken religious identity. Other attacks followed in the coming months. Many Sikhs initially reacted with a blend of bewilderment and outrage at the seeming injustice. And yet that response - “we didn't do anything, we don't deserve this” - was not adequate, even if understandable. No community “deservesâ € this type of hostility. Would it be any less tragic if the victims in Wisconsin had been Muslims gathering for Friday prayers?

On Monday, the shooter in Wisconsin was identified as Wade Michael Page, a U.S. Army veteran reportedly associated with white supremacist groups. Surely more details and clarity on the shooter's motives will emerge in the days to come, but at this point it seems reasonable to assume that he targeted Sikhs because they looked like enemies of his own twisted version of the American ideal.

In the fall of 2001, I had just started a new job as an assistant professor in the English department at Lehigh University in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. In the weeks after the terrorist attacks, I felt intense hostility whenever I was away from the protected space of the college campus. The hostility wasn't simply a matter of small-town xenophobia; that fall, I also heard ugly taunts and insults, some threatening violence, on the streets of Philadelphia and even in New York. I felt spooked, and like many other Sikhs I put a bumper sticker on my car with a U.S. flag that announced me as a “Sikh American.” About a year later, everyone started to calm down and I put my feelings from that first year behind me. (And yes, I eventually took the bumper sticker off the car.)

To its credit, the Sikh community realized very quickly that it wouldn't do to simply say, “Don't hate me, I'm not a Muslim.” Sikhs got organized shortly after 9/11, forming advocacy organizations, chief among them the Sikh Coalition. These groups were emphatic that they opposed hate crimes directed against any group based on religious hostility. To spread awareness, Sikh groups also distributed educational materials and bought advertisements to try to reduce ignorance about the Sikh turban.

In light of the Wisconsin shooting, many Sikhs are now suggesting that we renew our educational efforts about Sikhs and Sikh ism. These are well-meaning and valuable efforts, but here's the thing: I am not sure that the shooter would have acted any differently even if he had known the difference.

As I have experienced it, the Sikh turban reflects a form of difference that can provoke some Americans to react quite viscerally. Yes, ignorance plays a part and probably amplifies that reaction. But it may also be that visible marks of religious difference like the Sikh turban are lightning rods for this hostility in ways that don't depend on accurate recognition.

I am not sure why the reaction can be so visceral - perhaps because wearing a turban is at once so intimately personal and so public? Walking around Philadelphia waving, say, an Iranian flag probably wouldn't provoke quite the same reaction. A flag is abstract - a turban, as something worn on the body, is much more concrete and it therefore poses a more palpable symbol for angry young men looking for someone to target. Whether or n ot that target was actually the “right one” was beside the point for the Oak Creek shooter.

I am by no means suggesting Sikhs not wear turbans to avoid hostility. But I also don't think we should fool ourselves that all hostility will be resolved purely by education, nor should we presume that this shooter suffered only from ignorance. As a white supremacist, it seems safe to suppose, what mattered to the shooter was that he hated difference - and saw, in the Sikh gurdwara at Oak Creek, a target for that hatred.

I am at a loss right now as to how to understand this tragedy, or how I might explain it to my 5-year old son (we haven't told him about it and don't plan to). I was born in Queens, after my parents joined a wave of South Asian doctors who came to the United States after immigration laws were reformed in 1965. They initially planned to return to India but decided that the economic opportunities would be better for them in America.

At times, li ving in the United States has seemed like an amazing privilege for my family. This year, we were out waving our little American flags with the rest of the neighborhood during the July 4th parade in our suburban Philadelphia town. And yet a senseless event such as this one reminds one how awfully precarious the American dream can be. Perhaps my son will have to learn that lesson, as I did in the weeks after 9/11 more than a decade ago. But I hope, for his sake, that the moment doesn't come too soon.

Amardeep Singh is an associate professor of English at Lehigh University in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.



Delhi Strays Thrive on Affection From a Few

By GARDINER HARRIS

India's vast population of stray dogs mostly survives on mounds of garbage, but there are many Indians who routinely feed the dogs out of a sense of charity and love.

Among them is Veena Singh, 69, who spends four to six hours every day feeding strays in some of Delhi's richest neighborhoods. She fills her tiny car with bottles of milk, buckets of rice and loaves of bread and begins her rounds about noon â€" just as summertime temperatures often soar past 44 degrees Celsius, or 110 Fahrenheit. She has no air conditioning and is soon soaked with sweat. But dozens of dogs in Delhi thrill to see her car and hear her voice.

“Paro! Paro!” she sang out her car window one recent day. Three dogs sprang from hiding places and trotted after her car, their tails wagging. She stopped and, cooing softly, mixed several bowls of food. Paro and another dog ate hungrily but the third hung back about 1 0 yards.

“That one is afraid of the black one, so I have to feed him a little distance away,” Ms. Singh said as she ambled over. “Come, Mingus, come.”

She petted each dog in turn, filled a clay bowl with water and headed off. A block away, she stopped again to feed and water two more. Each had a collar that Ms. Singh had sewn herself in hopes of demonstrating to others and to the dogs themselves that they were loved. There are so many strays in Delhi that her rounds resemble those of a Federal Express driver in an office park: she rarely drives more than two blocks before stopping in another pack's territory.

After several hours and dozens of stops, Ms. Singh - surrounded by flies - mixed together a large bag of milk, rice and bread, put several plastic bowls under an arm and entered Lodi Gardens, Delhi's most majestic park.

Ms. Singh said that many Delhiites scold her for feeding strays.

“‘Why are you doing this?' they yell. ‘Take them to your house! They're such a nuisance,'” Ms. Singh said with an exasperated shrug. “I just ignore them, and now I mostly feed the dogs in back lanes.”

Ms. Singh's husband left her at 22, and he briefly converted to Islam to avoid providing any support to her and their two young children, she said. Ms. Singh was forced to raise the children on her own, so she understands abandonment. As a result of her efforts, she hopes that Delhi's dogs feel somewhat loved.

For many dogs, the streets are better than the alternatives. At Friendicoes, a Delhi shelter shoehorned under a highway overpass, 250 dogs and 12 cats were squeezed into far fewer cages. Most cages had at least two dogs, and several dozen dogs were tied up outside of the cages. Many had been hit by cars or injured in fights. One lost much of his fur after being splashed with acid. Most were pariah dogs that licked a stranger's hand and whined with delight when petted. The shelter treats pariahs f or free but charges for pedigrees. Volunteers come every day to walk the dogs, but their prospects for better lives are poor.

“Nobody adopts the Indian breeds because everyone wants a pedigree,” said Resham, a volunteer.



Where Streets Are Thronged With Strays Baring Fangs

By THE NEW YORK TIMES

“Victims of the surprise attacks limp into one of this city's biggest public hospitals,” Gardiner Harris wrote in The New York Times, of dog bite victims in New Delhi. “Among the hundreds on a recent day were children cornered in their homes, students ambushed on their way to class and old men ambling back from work.”

“All told the same frightening story: stray dogs had bitten them,” Mr. Harris wrote.

Deepak Kumar, 6, “had an angry slash across his back from a dog that charged into his family's shack,” Mr. Harris wrote.

No country has as many stray dogs as India, and no country suffers as much from them. Free-roaming dogs number in the tens of millions and bite millions of people annually, including vast numbers of children. An estimated 20,000 people die every year from rabies infections - more than a third of the global rabies toll.

Packs of strays lurk in public parks, guard alleyways and street corners and howl nightly in neighborhoods and villages. Joggers carry bamboo rods to beat them away, and bicyclists fill their pockets with stones to throw at chasers. Walking a pet dog here can be akin to swimming with sharks.

A 2001 law forbade the killing of dogs, and the stray population has increased so much that officials across the country have expressed alarm.

Read the full article.



Being Sikh in America

By AMARDEEP SINGH

On Sunday, my wife and I were having a quiet brunch with friends at home in Pennsylvania when the phone started ringing. First my parents called from their home in Maryland. Then a cousin called from India. “Have you seen what's on CNN? There's been a shooting at a gurdwara in Wisconsin…” I felt a familiar emptiness. I had felt the same way after the morning of September 11, 2001.

Then, as now, Sikhs in the United States faced a common problem: many Americans presume that all men in turbans are Muslims. Just a few days after 9/11, a man named Balbir Singh Sodhi was shot down in Arizona in just such a case of mistaken religious identity. Other attacks followed in the coming months. Many Sikhs initially reacted with a blend of bewilderment and outrage at the seeming injustice. And yet that response - “we didn't do anything, we don't deserve this” - was not adequate, even if understandable. No community “deservesâ € this type of hostility. Would it be any less tragic if the victims in Wisconsin had been Muslims gathering for Friday prayers?

On Monday, the shooter in Wisconsin was identified as Wade Michael Page, a U.S. Army veteran reportedly associated with white supremacist groups. Surely more details and clarity on the shooter's motives will emerge in the days to come, but at this point it seems reasonable to assume that he targeted Sikhs because they looked like enemies of his own twisted version of the American ideal.

In the fall of 2001, I had just started a new job as an assistant professor in the English department at Lehigh University in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. In the weeks after the terrorist attacks, I felt intense hostility whenever I was away from the protected space of the college campus. The hostility wasn't simply a matter of small-town xenophobia; that fall, I also heard ugly taunts and insults, some threatening violence, on the streets of Philadelphia and even in New York. I felt spooked, and like many other Sikhs I put a bumper sticker on my car with a U.S. flag that announced me as a “Sikh American.” About a year later, everyone started to calm down and I put my feelings from that first year behind me. (And yes, I eventually took the bumper sticker off the car.)

To its credit, the Sikh community realized very quickly that it wouldn't do to simply say, “Don't hate me, I'm not a Muslim.” Sikhs got organized shortly after 9/11, forming advocacy organizations, chief among them the Sikh Coalition. These groups were emphatic that they opposed hate crimes directed against any group based on religious hostility. To spread awareness, Sikh groups also distributed educational materials and bought advertisements to try to reduce ignorance about the Sikh turban.

In light of the Wisconsin shooting, many Sikhs are now suggesting that we renew our educational efforts about Sikhs and Sikh ism. These are well-meaning and valuable efforts, but here's the thing: I am not sure that the shooter would have acted any differently even if he had known the difference.

As I have experienced it, the Sikh turban reflects a form of difference that can provoke some Americans to react quite viscerally. Yes, ignorance plays a part and probably amplifies that reaction. But it may also be that visible marks of religious difference like the Sikh turban are lightning rods for this hostility in ways that don't depend on accurate recognition.

I am not sure why the reaction can be so visceral - perhaps because wearing a turban is at once so intimately personal and so public? Walking around Philadelphia waving, say, an Iranian flag probably wouldn't provoke quite the same reaction. A flag is abstract - a turban, as something worn on the body, is much more concrete and it therefore poses a more palpable symbol for angry young men looking for someone to target. Whether or n ot that target was actually the “right one” was beside the point for the Oak Creek shooter.

I am by no means suggesting Sikhs not wear turbans to avoid hostility. But I also don't think we should fool ourselves that all hostility will be resolved purely by education, nor should we presume that this shooter suffered only from ignorance. As a white supremacist, it seems safe to suppose, what mattered to the shooter was that he hated difference - and saw, in the Sikh gurdwara at Oak Creek, a target for that hatred.

I am at a loss right now as to how to understand this tragedy, or how I might explain it to my 5-year old son (we haven't told him about it and don't plan to). I was born in Queens, after my parents joined a wave of South Asian doctors who came to the United States after immigration laws were reformed in 1965. They initially planned to return to India but decided that the economic opportunities would be better for them in America.

At times, li ving in the United States has seemed like an amazing privilege for my family. This year, we were out waving our little American flags with the rest of the neighborhood during the July 4th parade in our suburban Philadelphia town. And yet a senseless event such as this one reminds one how awfully precarious the American dream can be. Perhaps my son will have to learn that lesson, as I did in the weeks after 9/11 more than a decade ago. But I hope, for his sake, that the moment doesn't come too soon.

Amardeep Singh is an associate professor of English at Lehigh University in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.



Wisconsin Killer Was Fueled by Hate-Driven Music

By THE NEW YORK TIMES

“His music, Wade M. Page once said, was about ‘how the value of human life has been degraded by tyranny,' Erica Goode and Serge F. Kovaleski wrote of the music by the suspect of the Wisconsin shooting.

But on Sunday, Mr. Page, “an Army veteran and a rock singer whose bands specialized in the lyrics of hate, coldly took the lives of six people and wounded three others,” with a 9-millimeter semiautomatic handgun in a Sikh temple, Ms. Goode and Mr. Kovaleski wrote.

Mr. Page, 40, had long been on the radar of organizations monitored by the Southern Poverty Law Center “because of his ties to the white supremacist movement and his role as the leader of a white-power band called End Apathy,” they wrote.

Oak Creek's police chief, John Edwards, speaking at the news conference, identified the five men and one woman who died at the Sikh Temple of Wisconsin: Sita Sin gh, 41; Ranjit Singh, 49; Prakash Singh, 39; Paramjit Kaur, 41; Suveg Singh, 84; and Satwant Singh Kaleka, 65, who was the center's president.

Peter Hoyt, 53, a neighbor of Mr. Page's in Cudahy who often stopped to chat with him during morning walks, said he was “stunned” that the man he had known could have done something so violent. Mr. Page, he said, told him that he had broken up with a girlfriend in early June.

“He didn't seem like he was visibly upset,” Mr. Hoyt said about the breakup. “He didn't seem angry. He seemed more emotionally upset. He wasn't mad. He was hurt.”

Read the full article.



Push by Syrian Rebels Opens Space for Foreign Journalists to Report on Conflict

By ROBERT MACKEY

As my colleagues Damien Cave and Hwaida Saad report, the White House claimed on Monday that President Bashar al-Assad's “grip on power is loosening,” amid continued fighting on the streets of Syria's commercial capital, Aleppo, and the defection of the country's prime minister.

While forces loyal to Mr. Assad appear unlikely to give up their effort to crush the uprising any time soon, one tangible sign of a tilt in the balance of power is the increasing number and frequency of reports from foreign journalists who have managed to enter Syria without government permission. After months of being forced to piece together a rough sense of events in Syria by comparing footage posted online by opposition activists with reports broadcast on state-run channels, several foreign news organizations have placed correspondents on the front lines of the battle for control of Syria's two largest cities, Aleppo and Damascus, in recent we eks.

In just the past few days, reporters like Javier Espinosa of El Mundo, Martin Chulov of The Guardian, Hadeel Al Shalchi of Reuters and Ben Wedeman of CNN have offered vivid descriptions of the battle for Aleppo. Further south, barely three miles from the presidential palace in Damascus, Paul Wood and Fred Scott of the BBC filed a remarkable video report on Monday, showing young rebels training on the outskirts of the capital.

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These reports are striking in part because the ruling Baath Party was previously so successful in preventing reporters f rom working freely inside Syria - forcing journalists and bloggers to engage in a kind of triangulation of official and opposition media reports on demonstrations and violence.

Until the rebels took up arms, the Syrian state's monopoly on violence also gave it a near-monopoly on information. While nothing has come of calls to open humanitarian corridors in Syria - to create the kind of internationally policed “safe areas” that provided some measure of protection to Kurds in northern Iraq the 1990s, and almost none to Bosnians in Sarajevo and Srebrenica a few years later - one byproduct of the armed insurgency's success in taking control of isolated patches of territory, even inside cities, has been the creation of an archipelago of unsafe areas inside the country that foreign journalists can be smuggled into and report from successfully.

The presence of foreign reporters is particularly important since Syrians working both for and against the government have an interest in distorting the truth to further their political aims and garner support from other countries.

Last month, the German reporter Christoph Reuter, a correspondent for the weekly news magazine Der Spiegel, managed to reach the region of Houla, where a notorious massacre was carried out recently. While both sides have blamed their opponents for the killings there, Mr. Reuter returned with video recordings of testimony from witnesses who made a compelling case that forces loyal to Mr. Assad were responsible for the atrocity. Mr. Reuter's report, which is worth reading and watching in full on Spiegel Online - the magazine's English-language site - was inspired partly by influential reports in the German press, citing anonymous sources, which cast blame on the rebels.

The witnesses who spoke to Mr. Reuter on camera, and away from any government-assigned minders, told a very different story.

Even with the presence of more foreign reporters, video post ed online by supporters and opponents of the Assad government remains an important source of information. Earlier on Monday, my colleague David Goodman examined footage broadcast on a state-run channel, showing the aftermath of an apparent attack on a government television studio. Two clips posted online by opposition activists, said to have been recorded on Monday, appeared to offer vivid glimpses of fighting in the north of the country and a small, bold demonstration in central Damascus, near the recognizable landmark of the Abbasyin stadium.

Video said to have been recorded during a demonstration in central Damascus on Monday.

While the demonstration in Damascus did not appear large, the relative freedom of the protesters to chant “Leave!” and “One! One! One! The Syrian people are one!” in this brief clip appears strikingly different from images recorded surreptitiously just four months ago, apparent ly showing tight security in roughly the same location.

Video said to have been recorded secretly in March, showing tight security in central Damascus.



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