Thursday, June 25, 2009

C/O President Obama Part 2

Thanks to our dear friend Ananda, we have Vol.2 of Leadership For An Age of Higher Consciousness ready to be sent to the White House.

We're now looking for a kind soul to donate Vol.1 All the info is below

There is a desperate need for spiritual leadership. There is desperate need for the leaders of our world to know how to care for their constituents, to know how to inspire others to serve and sacrifice for the greater good, and to bring people back to their awareness of the Supreme, the Divine, to Krsna.

In this mood, I am hoping someone will sponsor a copy of the timeless tome from HH Bhakti-Tirtha Swami, Leadership For An Age of Higher Consciousness, so that we can send it to the White House in the hopes it will reach the hands of President Obama, and enhance his already sincere style of leadership, and take it and us to a higher level.

This is real "shoot the rhino" strategy, in the mood of Prabhupada, who would always try to contact big world leaders like Gandhi, Indira Gandhi, the Pope, and even Richard Nixon.

If you would like to help, either leave a comment with contact info, or write us at

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Beefing Up Appeals To Save Cows

From the 6-23-09 edition of the Wall Street Journal

NEW VRINDABAN, W.Va. -- Saving cows, the Hare Krishnas in this village have learned, is a lot easier in India.

Created four decades ago, New Vrindaban was the first cattle sanctuary in the U.S. At its peak, it had 434 bovine refugees. Today, the cattle population is down to 80 because there's not enough money to support more. So the Hare Krishna community is borrowing a tactic more commonly used by charities that try to save people.

In New Vrindaban, Hare Krishnas have built a sanctuary for cows, which they consider sacred. The 80 beloved bovines here are treated by their Hindu caretakers like members of the family.

For $51, you can feed a cow for a month, while $108 would "provide special care for retired cows who can no longer breed or give milk," the group says in one appeal. "In one selfless stroke, you are sending a valuable message to our children and to a troubled world which sees today's gentle cow as tomorrow's dinner."

The adopt-a-cow effort promises bovine photographs and updates for donors, along with an open invitation to visit the cows in this village, near Moundsville, W.Va. The village is modeled after the childhood home of the Hindu deity Krishna, who taught his followers to revere cows.

Vishwa Hindu Parishad of America, a Hindu group that grew out of a movement to ban the slaughtering of cows, has joined the Hare Krishna effort with its own appeals to help raise the roughly $1,000 needed to support each cow for a year. "It is needless to mention that by taking special care of Lord Krishna's cows you and your family will definitely receive His special blessings," reads another appeal, targeting the estimated 1.5 million Hindus in the U.S., recently posted on the group's Web site.

'Party Animal'

Other Hare Krishna groups in the U.S. also offer adoption programs, including one just up the road, called the International Society for Cow Protection. It posts names and profiles of cattle available for adoption on its Web site, calling one a "party animal and break-out artist" and another "Mister Handsome Heartbreaker."

Cows are sacred to Hindus, a status allowing them to roam the streets of India untouched. Most Indian states prohibit their slaughter, although an illegal beef trade thrives. Krishna is believed to have encouraged the people of Vrindaban, India, to worship the land and animals that support them, preaching the power of cows to provide everything from milk for children to manure for farming.

The cows at New Vrindaban -- from the oldest of the herd to the youngest calf, 6-month-old Rama -- are doted on, often getting hugs and kisses. Devotees offer the cows' milk to Krishna in religious ceremonies and use it to make butter, yogurt and sweets.

"We look at them like our own mothers," says Ranaka Das, 54 years old, a cow caretaker. Once known as Doug Fintel, he worked at a Coors brewery in Colorado before joining the Hare Krishna movement and moving to New Vrindaban in 1977. "You take care of them like your own family," he said. "In a regular dairy operation, cows are like any piece of machinery."

Milind Bharambe, a Pittsburgh software analyst who immigrated from India nine years ago, initially sought a reward of sorts for helping to save the animals. "Cows are very dear to Krishna," he says. "If I help someone very dear to Krishna, maybe I might benefit," he thought.


But today, Mr. Bharambe -- who donates about $800 a year to New Vrindaban, half earmarked for the cows -- says his motivation is more spiritual. "I'm supporting someone very dear to Krishna. That thought itself gives so many things. You feel happiness. You feel better."

Many of New Vrindaban's cows were born on site. Devotees occasionally rescue doomed cows from slaughterhouses and bring them to the sanctuary.

"Slaughtering an animal is not natural for human beings," said Rishi Shinde, a Dallas businessman who donates about $360 a year to sponsor one cow. "It affects one's consciousness, makes one violent and makes one lose contact with the emotional self."

New Vrindaban's cow farm, or goshala, includes a giant barn for the cattle -- as many as 200 -- which spend most of their day grazing on the pasture. Only half a dozen of the 80 cows still produce milk, about 50 pounds of it a day. The rest of the cattle are left to carry out their natural lives -- as long as 20 years -- far longer than the life span for many U.S. cattle raised for slaughter.

Seventies Devotees

At the top of a winding West Virginia road, New Vrindaban was established in a small farmhouse in 1968 with 100 acres by two American disciples of Swami Prabhupada, an Indian who moved to New York City to spread his love for Krishna. As the Hare Krishna movement expanded with hippies-turned-devotees in the 1970s, hundreds of Americans -- 700 at one point, the group says -- moved to New Vrindaban, took up robes and Sanskrit names and assumed a mission of protecting cows, growing their own food and building temples.

They raised money selling wares at street corners and airports nationwide, pouring their funds into materials to build, by hand, an ornate temple for Prabhupada on the site of a former trash dump. Completed in 1979, two years after his death, Prabhupada's Palace of Gold became a shrine. Tourists came by the busload, drawing more publicity, devotees and money -- millions of dollars a year. New Vrindaban grew to 3,000 acres.

A 1986 murder of a former devotee sent the community into turmoil. Authorities raided the community, sparking years of investigations into allegations of murder, racketeering and child abuse. The New Vrindaban founder who was alleged to have ordered the murder eventually went to prison for racketeering. He received a 20-year prison sentence, which was then reduced to 12 years due to poor health. He served eight years.

New Vrindaban's cow sanctuary sits alongside communities that raise cattle for other purposes.

Today, the New Vrindaban area has fewer than 200 resident devotees, about a quarter of them of Indian descent. The site still draws about 25,000 visitors a year, the group says. A donation of $6 is sought from those who visit the Palace of Gold. Visitors of Indian descent take special interest in the cows, often bringing their children to pet the animals.

That doesn't produce the $100,000 a year needed to pay for hay, the barn, workers and property taxes. Hence the adopt-a-cow fund raising. The leaders of the community say only a few of the cows are sponsored in full for life by the donations, which are tax-deductible. But they are clear about one thing: None of these cows ever leave for the slaughterhouse.

"We've kept that promise to Pradhupada and the cows since we first came here," says Nityodita Das, one of the community's current leaders.

The Hare Krishnas' cow-protection campaign doesn't seem to be getting much traction with some neighbors. "There's not much of a push around here to save cattle," says Allen Hendershot, Moundsville city manager. "Cattle are raised for a reason."

Indeed, drivers exiting Interstate 470 in Bethlehem, W.Va., to reach New Vrindaban recently were greeted by a giant sign in the median featuring a bovine cartoon, promoting a nearby event. It read: "Bethlehem Steak Fry."

Write to Sudeep Reddy at

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

A Righteous Escape

From the Sunday, June 21st edition of the New York Times

The government limits the number of monks allowed to live in the monastery, they said. Officials cracked down on festivities honoring the Dalai Lama. When the Chinese-appointed Panchen Lama visited Labrang several years ago, monks were forced to stay indoors to prevent disturbances.

Last year, when monks in Lhasa, the Tibetan capital, began leading peaceful protests on March 10, word spread quickly to Labrang.

Thousands of monks and lay people in Xiahe marched to government offices demanding the return of the Dalai Lama. Some protesters broke into buildings and threw stones at riot police officers.

From then on, the government tightened the screws on the monastery, the monks said. A curfew was imposed. Security officers arrested several monks each night. The monastery began to empty out.

“Some monks ran off to their homes in the countryside,” said Jamyang Jinpa, 24.

The authorities began holding daily hourlong patriotic education classes, in which the monks were forced to read tracts denouncing the Dalai Lama and pledge loyalty to the Communist Party.

“As a Buddhist monk who believes in the Dalai Lama as our foundation, it was unbearable to read this,” Lobsang said.

On the night of April 8, some monks heard on the radio that foreign journalists were to arrive in Labrang the next day on a government tour.

“We immediately stopped what we were doing that night and started discussing the protest,” Jamyang said.

A half-dozen monks brought out a Tibetan flag and scrawled slogans on three white banners. “We have no freedom of speech,” read one. They wrote their wills on the back of the flag because they thought there was a good chance they would be killed by Chinese security forces, Jamyang said.

When they went to the main temple the next morning, they were struck by a strange sight: Hundreds of people were milling about the square outside. Most were plainclothes Chinese security officers.

“We knew then that the journalists were coming,” Jamyang said. “We pretended to visit the temple.”

When the journalists and their government escorts pulled up in minivans, the monks dashed across the square, unfurling their flag and banners. A few words were exchanged in Chinese. Some monks draped white ceremonial scarves around the necks of several journalists.

“The Chinese people in plainclothes took photos of us, but they dared not stop us in front of the journalists,” Jamyang said.

That night, security officers searched the cells of the monks involved in the protest, but the monks had hidden elsewhere. The next night, Jamyang slipped into the mountains and kept walking until dawn.

“After the protest, I felt I would be arrested at any time,” he said.

Jamyang spent the first two months mostly sleeping outdoors, he said, sometimes in ditches that he had dug himself. He tossed away his red robes and began growing out his hair. In the summer, he wandered to the high pastures and slept in the tents of nomads.

“In my dreams, sometimes I would see myself getting shot and dying,” he said.

Two other monks from the protest, Lobsang and Jigme Gyatso, also fled the monastery in the days after Jamyang left. The three stayed apart. After nearly a year in hiding, the monks learned of a guide in Lhasa who could smuggle them into Nepal.

Using fake identification cards, they boarded the new high-altitude train to Lhasa. A driver then sneaked them past checkpoints to the Nepal border, where they crossed a river on logs.

Of the 15 monks who took part in that protest in front of the journalists, only these three have escaped to India. That they made it here is considered extraordinary given how tightly Chinese authorities clamped down on Tibet. The refugee center here usually gets 2,500 to 3,000 Tibetans per year, but that dropped to 550 last year. By the end of May, only 176 refugees had arrived, said Ngawang Norbu, the center’s director.

The monks say they have no regrets about holding the protest — to them, there was no other way to show the world their true feelings about Chinese rule.

“I miss my friends and family in Tibet, but I try to bury my feelings,” Jamyang said. “At the moment, I can’t return to Tibet, and I don’t know about the future.”