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Mandula Bashu van den Berg

Mandula loves feminism, philosophy and the possibilities of theatre and education in fighting for social justice. For the past two years she has volunteered in a camp for internally displaced in Bosnia and Herzegovina where she attended the United World College in Mostar. Here, she was also active as one of the leaders of the Global Awareness group and she learnt to appreciate the power of simple dialogue. Her goals for the year are to immerse herself completely in the Indian culture and to learn how to let go. She is inspired by passionate people and those who are willing to listen.

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Capstone

Mandula Bashu van den Berg

2016-05-20

Yet another attempt to answer that eternal question: “How was India?”

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‘Too much salt’

Mandula Bashu van den Berg

2016-05-16

Throughout the last months of my stay in India, I put a lot of effort in my so called Final Community Project. ‘Too much salt’, a street art project on domestic violence was supposed to be an attempt to demonstrate my learnings and give something, however small, ‘back’  to my community. At first, I was...

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Live From The Field

Mandula Bashu van den Berg

2016-03-16

Because sometimes there is no lesson. No takeaway. Sometimes things are just fun.    

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Swallowed

Mandula Bashu van den Berg

2016-02-06

Sunday morning in Pagdandi, the book chai cafe that I love so much. I’m trying to finally write some letters when Ashwath suddenly asks me: “So Mandula, how do you experience it? To be a woman here in India, I mean?”  I stop for a second and consider which answer I’ll give him. But I’m...

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Confession To My Diary

Mandula Bashu van den Berg

2015-11-24

Dear Diary, There is something I have been meaning to tell you for a while now. It’s been bothering me quite a bit and I can no longer go on pretending that nothing is wrong. I want to put some things right between us. As it is, I am not being fair to either you...

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A New Journey

Mandula Bashu van den Berg

2015-08-29

PROLOGUE Strangers cry in California and I am there, dressed in vibrant red. Knots tie my stomach to my skin, the patio shuffles my bare feet apart.  They, we, us, them, she, him, I are leaving.  Really now.  FIRST CHAPTER  In the corner of our stuffy common room, a boy softly plays the piano. People...

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