June 2009 Archives

by Salman Ahmad and Deepak Chopra

Suspicions over a cooked election in Iran have brought a glimmer of hope for real reform. It takes glimmers in the long, fractious fights that hold societies in thrall. Can we find one in the toxic fight that has plagued India-Pakistan relations for six decades?

We've already had a Camp David moment. When the two heads of state met to shake hands in mid-June, Mammohan Singh of India and Asif Ali Zardari of Pakistan obeyed some new forces. One was the force of economics, which has cut both ways. Economics promises to make India a prosperous player on the world scene. With money has come the expectation of rational behavior, and India can see rationally that a stable, non-aggressive Pakistan is the kind of neighbor it wants to have.

The other side of economics is the downturn. The mini-Cold War that has raged between the two countries keeps draining much needed resources that neither side can afford to squander.

The second new force is social, and it has arisen since the terrorist attack in Mumbai last November. The fact that the Indian populace did not call for reprisals against Pakistan, combined with Pakistan's seemingly genuine efforts to crack down on terrorist camps, had an unexpected result. The xenophobes and zealots on the right lost the recent Indian election, and now the ruling Congress party has seen a peace benefit in real-time politics.

Now what?

Both countries need to test if a deeper shift in consciousness has taken place. Family feuds make for the bitterest wars. Behind the facade of nationalism, Delhi and Islamabad have been acting like battling exes in a never-ending divorce dispute.

It's on this human basis that peace could make progress. The point isn't how to slice up Kashmir or brandishing useless nuclear bombs. Until the divorced parties stop demonizing each other, both sides will cling to the one thing that all family feuds are based on: feeling right. India and Pakistan mutually feel justified in calling the other side wrong, and their emotional stance has ossified for sixty years.

May we offer some suggestions as a form of couples counseling?

First, the two countries need to recognize their commonality. Both were born on the same day in 1947, share the same ethnic and many of the same tribal backgrounds. India has a massive Muslim population, and on both sides of the border millions more identify as Punjabis. Their young people go to the same rock concerts and download the same songs, while their grandparents tell the same folk tales around the fire and relive the same myths.

With this commonality in mind, we propose a new paradigm for moving toward peaceful relations:

1. Increase people-to-people exchanges.
2. Use the arts and culture in building new cultural bridges.
3. Adopt a proactive realignment in loans to serve all the people, not just the privileged few.
4. Make the public feel safer by a joint agreement renouncing nuclear weapons and massive standing armies on each other's border.
5. Agree to isolate violent extremists of all shapes and stripes, whether Hindu or Muslim.
6. Resolve the Kashmir conflict through international intermediaries.

India's current national leadership can help immeasurably in strengthening the region by playing an astute and farsighted role in normalizing relations. An older generation couldn't conceive of India without Pakistan as a blood enemy and vice versa. But the younger generation wants to be free of such rigid conditioning. With 60% of Pakistan's population under twenty-four and India's young people being globalized via the Internet, the race between MySpace.com and the politics of hatred looms large.

Given the right signals, beleaguered Pakistanis will recognize and embrace a sincere, open approach toward conflict resolution. This may take a leap of faith on both sides, but the time is ripe. Iran isn't unique. Change is in the air everywhere.

Published in the San Francisco Chronicle

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In the aftermath of Michael Jackson's death, I found myself in a surreal situation that gave me a glimpse into the dark side of bloodsuckers, media and celebrity.

In those few hours, I saw a side of humanity that saddens me - where people try to take advantage of vulnerability, confusion, and grief for their own advantage. I realized that much of media has so much more to gain when they report salacious gossip, even in the aftermath of a tragic death like Michael's. I also realized that all of us, myself included, who participate in the engagement of that media feed so-called journalists to do anything to get their information. In the end, personalities like Michael are portrayed as freaks and dysfunctional, people who love them are taken advantage of, and those seedy, washed out journalists profit.

I share my experience because it involves Grace Rwaramba, who served as the nanny to Michael's three kids. Grace is more than my best friend - I refer to her as my sister, and she thinks of my parents as her own (she actually calls my father papa).

In the last day in the aftermath of Michaels death, recent quotes have surfaced about her life with Michael, as well as speculation about her role in potential custody battles for the three children.

Grace has read this article before I published it.

Michael had a pattern of letting those close to him in and out of his life, and Grace was no exception. Lisa Marie Presley’s reflection on her emotional relationship with Michael expressed beautifully the power Michael had with those he loved. Over the years, Grace faced a similar cycle of wanting to save him and being hurt by him. It was an endless cycle that seemed similar to those faced by friends and families of other addicts. Michael had a knack of surrounding himself with enablers, and avoiding people who wanted to help him like his family, real friends who cared deeply about him, Grace and my father, Deepak Chopra.

Daphne Barak, a so-called journalist who claims to be a friend of the Jackson family and who got to know Grace through them, has been cultivating a friendship with Grace over several years. Unfortunately, the story with Daphne and Grace seems to be one that echoes the vultures that took advantage of Michael throughout his life.

Daphne reached out to Grace a few weeks ago, when she knew she was in a vulnerable place, having recently been let go by Michael yet again (this was a regular pattern). In the 17 years that Grace has worked with Michael, she has never spoken to the press. She loves Michael and his children at her core.

Grace genuinely believed Daphne was her friend who was trying to help her. Daphne had offered to help Grace launch a foundation she was creating to monitor non profit work in Africa. (Grace was originally from Rwanda.) She told Grace that they should record her speaking about the work. However, every time they began to record, her questions would center on Michael. Grace would say she was uncomfortable speaking about him.

On the morning of June 26th, after finding out that Grace was also in London, I rushed to her hotel. She was staying in a suite with Daphne. Daphne told tell me she had invited Grace to stay with her in Switzerland as her guest, and how she had helped Grace with the immediate aftermath of shock hearing about Michael's death. She said that she had spent several thousand dollars to buy a business class ticket for Grace to fly to LA. She boasted about how close she was to the Jackson family, world leaders, etc.

I witnessed Daphne act as a friend while trying to bait information from Grace on her conversations with Jackson family members and friends about his death. She warned Grace that the family was going to try to set her up for Michaels downfall, and that it was critical that Grace speak with a lawyer before leaving. As a friend, she had organized a "lawyer" to get Grace's story before she left for the airport.

Continue Reading on Intent.com

This post was originally posted on www.intent.com.

Mallika Chopra is the founder of Intent.com, a site focused on personal, social and global wellness

It is with a sad heart today that I write this blog.  My brother, Gotham Chopra, and my father, Deepak Chopra, have both written beautiful articles remembering our friend, Michael Jackson.  I debated writing something or not, and in the end decided to write for my own healing process.

My brother and I had a magical childhood, and much of this was because of Michael.  For us, Michael let us visit Neverland like it was our own – from movies to playing video games to bumper car rides to playing with the chimps to eating amazing chocolate chip cookies, we were able to take our cousins and friends to this magical place and just have pure fun.  Eating meals with Michael in those days – almost 20 years ago now - was always an experience.  He would start humming a tune and then excuse himself.  When he came back, he would giggle with delight, explaining how music just came to him and he had to record it to save what came, he always said, came from some place else.  Every moment we were with Michael, I would be utterly comfortable and utterly in awe at the same time.

My relationship with Michael was very different from that of my father and brothers.  Michael and I shared an absolute love for children, and his heart cried about the pain children around the world faced.  One day, while chatting with him about his upcoming Super Bowl performance, Michael was brainstorming how he could use the worldwide exposure for a greater cause, and the Heal The World Foundation was born.  My first job, after graduating from college, was to launch the foundation with a small team.  I was so proud of the work we did in that short time, only to find that our good intentions came to a halt when Michael was accused the first time of child molestation.  Over night, understandably so, non-profits backed away from our efforts and we quietly closed shop.  My family always maintained our belief that Michael was innocent in both cases – for those that were close to Michael, all would admit he was quirky and had bad judgment at times.  But to think Michael could abuse a child was unfathomable in my mind.

Over the last decade, my relationship with Michael continued to be focused on kids, but now our own.  (We remained connected through my best friend, Grace, who served as their nanny for many years.) It was amazing for me to witness in those early years how enamored Michael was with his children.  He changed their diapers through the night, sang and played with them, rocked them to sleep, bathed them and had to change his own outfits when they threw up on him – the same routine that all parents know and love. In the few times we spoke, he would always reflect on the miracle of being a parent.  He also protected them in a way that reflected his own lost childhood, and his paranoia about being taken advantage of.  Paris, Prince and Blanket are three beautiful children.  With Michael gone, I truly pray that they will find some peace and be spared the heart wrenching pain that their father faced time and time again in his life.

I write this blog in London after having a very surreal encounter with the kind of people that Michael was always paranoid about.  I will spare the details, but in those few hours, where I felt my kids were in a vulnerable situation, I had just the tiniest insight into why Michael became so paranoid in his life.  So sad that such a trusting soul had to become so distrustful.  Because truly he was a loving, trusting soul.

Here in London, like in much of the world, every television channel paid tribute to Michael Jackson.  As I watched some clips with my two young daughters (7 and 5), I found I had so much to explain to them.  Why did he have white skin (he had a skin disease)?  Why did he look so different from when he was a kid? (A fascinating discussion about plastic surgery followed).  Why did he look so weird? Why did he hide all the time? What’s going to happen to Prince, Paris and Blanket?  I patiently answered their questions, focusing on being a mom that needs to help her children understand a confusing world.  The reality is that Michael's life and story brings up painful questions about how we see the world and treat others.    

And, as we were watching, the Heal the World video came on.  And finally after holding back all morning, my tears streamed down freely, as my two daughters held me.  Hearing that song, in which Micheal sang about healing the world…

Michael truly had a gift to heal – his music and his sweet soul touched billions - and for that, I hope he will be remembered.

Mallika Chopra is the founder of Intent.com, a site focused on personal, social and global wellness

When I was in my second year of college living on campus (at Columbia in NYC) with 4 suite mates, every time the phone rang, there was a race to answer it. Everyone wanted to be the guy to hear the "hello" on the other side just in case it was my friend Michael Jackson calling.

Most of those days, Michael was holed up on top of the Four Seasons, roughly 60 blocks away from where I lived on the Upper West Side of Manhattan just near Harlem. I'd happily drift downtown, gain clearance from security downstairs who knew I was allowed free access to Michael's suite, take the elevator all the way up and start ordering room service and watch movies on Mike's tab. Eventually, Michael and I would get down to work. He was working on a new album and asked me to help him write lyrics for songs. It was an informal relationship - I'd wander downtown with a backpack full of dictionaries, and thesauri, and rhyming books. Michael would hum songs and talk about what he wanted to say with the song and we'd try and marry our skillsets and come up with something. We came up with great stuff. Michael swore me to secrecy those days. I happily complied.

After we were done with those sessions - they'd usually go until about 2 AM or so - Michael would wander into the bathroom and come out with a sack he'd pulled out from under the toilet. In it, he kept several thousands of dollars. He'd ask me how much I wanted. I just sort of shrugged and he'd hand me a couple of thousand dollars. Soon, I'd be packing my dictionaries and thesauri and rhyming books in my backpack, calling my friends and telling them to meet me downtown. Within an hour, we'd be at Flashdancers "making it rain."

Michael was always envious when I told him about my adventures with my friends. More than a few times, he'd get dressed up - dawning some sort of quasi-disguise - preparing to go with me, only to back down at the last minute or be held back by his security who would shake their heads and plainly say no to his misguided ambitions. Instead, he'd pour himself a tall glass of orange juice and settle in for the night to watch an old movie on TV, telling me to spend a few extra bucks for him. I happily complied.

My friendship with Michael was very special to me, and I like to think it was the same for him. Over the last few years, it always felt awkward to explain the origins of our friendship - that I met him initially when I was fifteen-years-old and that we instantly hit it off. I'd spend days at his Neverland Ranch, my sister, cousins, or other friends joining us in fantastical stretches filled with candy, arcade rides, late night movies and the absolute best chocolate chip cookies of all times. Likewise he'd visit our house in Massachusetts (he was very close to my father as well) where he'd sleep in the guest room. My mom got a great kick out of the fact that every morning Michael stayed, he'd try to make the bed (very badly) and offer to cook breakfast (very badly). Then when I was about 17, Michael invited me on the road with him - he was heading out to Europe on the biggest rock concert at the time (Dangerous tour) and wanted company. I begged and pleaded with my parents to let me go and they eventually said yes. Not a bad way to spend your summer vacation between junior and senior year of High School.

Over the years, as Michael faced his scandals, I often reflected on my own experiences with him as a teenager. People would ask me if I had endured anything strange or awkward with him. I'd answer truthfully that in all of my years with him, in every single moment, Michael was nothing but dignified and appropriate, never once doing anything that would be deemed scandalous with me. It was really that simple.

Check that. Back to those college days. One night he did call me in a panic. He had just gotten married to Lisa Marie Presley and needed advice - sex advice. He was incredibly nervous and said that he wanted to make sure that Lisa was impressed with his "moves." He asked me if I had any advice. I answered with one word: "foreplay."

"Really?" He answered. "Girls really like that?"

Over the last few years, Michael's and my relationship evolved and matured greatly too. We both became fathers and that was the centerpiece of our most recent conversations the last few months. Returning the favor from my days as his "lyrical advisor," he's the one who monikered my half-Indian, half-Chinese son "The Chindian" which little Krishu Chen Xing Hua Chopra will now forever go by. We'd talk about how great it would be for our kids to grow up together, become as good friends as us, and set the world on fire. Michael admired the fact that I was able to find a wife, keep a wife, and gain her trust. I'd joke it was all about the foreplay! When his daughter Paris befell an accident a few years ago, he called my wife Candice (a physician) pleading for us to come to his house to check her out.

We did - Paris had fallen from a tree and cut herself deeply beneath the eye. Michael was devastated and confessed to me that he felt like the world's worst father. I calmed him as Candice helped Paris get up from the bed where she lay so we could take her to the Emergency room to get some simple stitches. When I advised Michael of the plan, he pulled me into the bathroom, pulled a sack filled with thousands of dollars from beneath the toilet and asked me how much I needed for the Emergency room.

I shook my head: "this one's on me."

RIP in peace my friend.

Gotham Chopra regularly blogs at www.intent.com

Michael Jackson will be remembered, most likely, as a shattered icon, a pop genius who wound up a mutant of fame. That's not who I will remember, however. His mixture of mystery, isolation, indulgence, overwhelming global fame, and personal loneliness was intimately known to me. For twenty years I observed every aspect, and as easy as it was to love Michael -- and to want to protect him -- his sudden death yesterday seemed almost fated.

Two days previously he had called me in an upbeat, excited mood. The voice message said, "I've got some really good news to share with you." He was writing a song about the environment, and he wanted me to help informally with the lyrics, as we had done several times before. When I tried to return his call, however, the number was disconnected. (Terminally spooked by his treatment in the press, he changed his phone number often.) So I never got to talk to him, and the music demo he sent me lies on my bedside table as a poignant symbol of an unfinished life.

When we first met, around 1988, I was struck by the combination of charisma and woundedness that surrounded Michael. He would be swarmed by crowds at an airport, perform an exhausting show for three hours, and then sit backstage afterward, as we did one night in Bucharest, drinking bottled water, glancing over some Sufi poetry as I walked into the room, and wanting to meditate.


That person, whom I considered (at the risk of ridicule) very pure, still survived -- he was reading the poems of Rabindranath Tagore when we talked the last time, two weeks ago. Michael exemplified the paradox of many famous performers, being essentially shy, an introvert who would come to my house and spend most of the evening sitting by himself in a corner with his small children. I never saw less than a loving father when they were together (and wonder now, as anyone close to him would, what will happen to them in the aftermath).

Michael's reluctance to grow up was another part of the paradox. My children adored him, and in return he responded in a childlike way. He declared often, as former child stars do, that he was robbed of his childhood. Considering the monstrously exaggerated value our society places on celebrity, which was showered on Michael without stint, the public was callous to his very real personal pain. It became another tawdry piece of the tabloid Jacko, pictured as a weird changeling and as something far more sinister.

It's not my place to comment on the troubles Michael fell heir to from the past and then amplified by his misguided choices in life. He was surrounded by enablers, including a shameful plethora of M.D.s in Los Angeles and elsewhere who supplied him with prescription drugs. As many times as he would candidly confess that he had a problem, the conversation always ended with a deflection and denial. As I write this paragraph, the reports of drug abuse are spreading across the cable news channels. The instant I heard of his death this afternoon, I had a sinking feeling that prescription drugs would play a key part.

The closest we ever became, perhaps, was when Michael needed a book to sell primarily as a concert souvenir. It would contain pictures for his fans but there would also be a text consisting of short fables. I sat with him for hours while he dreamily wove Aesop-like tales about animals, mixed with words about music and his love of all things musical. This project became "Dancing the Dream" after I pulled the text together for him, acting strictly as a friend. It was this time together that convinced me of the modus vivendi Michael had devised for himself: to counter the tidal wave of stress that accompanies mega-stardom, he built a private retreat in a fantasy world where pink clouds veiled inner anguish and Peter Pan was a hero, not a pathology.

This compromise with reality gradually became unsustainable. He went to strange lengths to preserve it. Unbounded privilege became another toxic force in his undoing. What began as idiosyncrasy, shyness, and vulnerability was ravaged by obsessions over health, paranoia over security, and an isolation that grew more and more unhealthy. When Michael passed me the music for that last song, the one sitting by my bedside waiting for the right words, the procedure for getting the CD to me rivaled a CIA covert operation in its secrecy.

My memory of Michael Jackson will be as complex and confused as anyone's. His closest friends will close ranks and try to do everything in their power to insure that the good lives after him. Will we be successful in rescuing him after so many years of media distortion? No one can say. I only wanted to put some details on the record in his behalf. My son Gotham traveled with Michael as a roadie on his "Dangerous" tour when he was seventeen. Will it matter that Michael behaved with discipline and impeccable manners around my son? (It sends a shiver to recall something he told Gotham: "I don't want to go out like Marlon Brando. I want to go out like Elvis." Both icons were obsessions of this icon.)

His children's nanny and surrogate mother, Grace Rwaramba , is like another daughter to me. I introduced her to Michael when she was eighteen, a beautiful, heartwarming girl from Rwanda who is now grown up. She kept an eye on him for me and would call me whenever he was down or running too close to the edge. How heartbreaking for Grace that no one's protective instincts and genuine love could avert this tragic day. An hour ago she was sobbing on the telephone from London. As a result, I couldn't help but write this brief remembrance in sadness. But when the shock subsides and a thousand public voices recount Michael's brilliant, joyous, embattled, enigmatic, bizarre trajectory, I hope the word "joyous" is the one that will rise from the ashes and shine as he once did.

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