By MONICA YUNUS

Last December, I traveled to my birth country, Bangladesh, for the first time since I came to the United States as an infant in my mother's arms. For me, traveling to another country has always been the only way to truly understand its culture. Seeing the way other people live provides a window into something outside ourselves while informing us of the commonality we share as human beings. Having experienced this cross-cultural understanding in my travels through Europe, I could only imagine how my perspective would be broadened by returning to my native land.

Monica gave a recital for a small audience of family and other notables at the German Cultural Center in Dhaka, the capital of Bangladesh. (Photo by Nasir Mamun )

Flying into Dhaka, the capital city of Bangladesh, I tried to memorize the landscape below and wondered what it would be like meeting family—including my father—for the first time. I stepped off the plane to begin a whirlwind two-week trip that included not only a visit to the hospital where I was born, but also trips to Pakistan and India.

Before arriving, I had heard many things about Bangladesh. The first thing that comes to most people's minds is the crushing poverty, or the infamous monsoons that strike and leave entire villages underwater. What one doesn't expect is the lush, tropical green and the friendliness of the people—their intense desire to know foreigners, and their openness to sharing their culture with others.

Growing up in the U.S., I had been exposed to my mother's Russian background. I went to Russian school in Lakewood, N.J., to learn about Russian culture and language, and I spoke Russian at home with my grandmother. However, my Bangladeshi heritage had always been a bit of a mystery to me. Having left Bangladesh as a baby when my parents divorced, I was now returning to a place where I had seven uncles and aunts and countless cousins awaiting me.

Upon my arrival, I received a crash course on everything Bangladeshi: the food, the dress, the customs, the hospitality, and the Bangla language, which evolved from Sanskrit. I had not known what to expect, and had imagined that I wouldn't be able to bear witnessing the hopelessness of extreme poverty. Right away, my preconceived notions were dispelled, for life there is not hopeless at all. The kids play in the dirt with bare feet, without video games and Barbie dolls, improvising games and music using whatever materials they have on hand. The parents walk or ride rickshaws; the houses are made of tin and bricks, and it doesn't look like there are many safety precautions taken. For example, at many construction sites, ladders were made out of bamboo sticks that were tied together, and the men would run up the precarious ladders three or four stories high! But life continues and even thrives despite the poverty.

Left: Monica with her father in Bangladesh. Below: A woman spontaneously runs to greet a member of the U.N. Foundation in Pakistan. (Photo by Monica Yunus )

Having heard about my father's work for years, I finally had the opportunity to visit a village where people were receiving his microcredit loans. Microcredit is the practice of providing very poor people, especially poor women, with very small loans so that they can start small businesses and provide better nutrition, education, and general standard of living for their families. In impoverished parts of the world, a tiny loan of $150 or less, provided at a fair interest rate, can enable families to break the cycle of poverty.

My father, Muhammad Yunus, who was awarded the 2006 Nobel Peace Prize for his work, is the founder of the Grameen Bank. Grameen (which means "rural" or "village" in Bangla) has been instrumental in alleviating poverty for millions in Bangladesh and around the globe. My father believes that credit is a human right, to be extended even to those who are traditionally not considered credit-worthy. With a tiny loan, a borrower becomes an entrepreneur. Some decide to buy a cow and sell the milk; some decide to buy a sewing machine and sell the clothing they make; others use it to buy materials and make bamboo stools that they sell. Whatever they choose to do, what is important is that their own idea, not a government handout, provides upward mobility out of destitution. This concept is now applied in more than 100 countries around the world.

It is difficult to describe what I saw in the recipients of these loans whom I met in the village that day. Women make up 97 percent of the nearly 7 million people served by Grameen loans. The faces of the women I met were shining with pride and a newfound sense of self-respect. A few of them told stories about how, before they were members of the Grameen Bank, they begged for a little bit of rice just to survive—and now they had cows, rickshaws, and most importantly, dignity, because they could provide for their families. Instead of accepting dowries for their daughters, they sent them to school, resulting in an entire generation of both young men and women with higher levels of education.

After 10 days in Bangladesh, I traveled to India and Pakistan with the United Nations Foundation board, of which my dad is a member. Delhi was fantastic, with its Mughul Empire history and spectacular vistas. In Pakistan, we boarded U.N. helicopters for a tour of the earthquake-ravaged areas. We landed right on the line of control between Indian Kashmir and Pakistani Kashmir. Provisions were being handed out to the thousands who had lost their homes in a place that had been ripped apart by gunfire just days before the earthquake. The border between India and Pakistan was being opened one day a week, so people could visit family on either side. With the Himalayan winter fast approaching, survival was the main concern. Seeing the victims of the earthquake battling to salvage parts of their homes or just to survive in general left me with a powerful impression. All they could do was put up tents, or simply hope that at least one wall of their homes still stood so they could use it for some sort of shelter. Nevertheless, the people kept on going, because, just like in New Orleans, they didn't want to leave their homes.

In August, I visited Bangladesh again. This time, I saw familiar sights, familiar family faces. The missing link in my heritage has been found. In addition to establishing this cultural and familial tie, last summer also found me further connected with my father's world. Having long desired to find a connection between my musical world and his humanitarian work, I have spent much of this past year

co-directing the Sing for Hope Foundation (www.singforhope.org) with my friend and colleague, soprano Camille Zamora. Sing for Hope uses music to reach out to communities in need, creating benefit concerts and events specifically for the humanitarian organizations with which we have established partnerships.

In December, my father will receive the Nobel Peace Prize at a special ceremony in Oslo, and I have been invited to sing on the Nobel Peace Prize concert. Oslo represents, for me, the end of my most recent journeying, and the beginning of a new chapter of travel. When I sing there, it will be with a heart filled with pride for my heritage in all of its many dimensions.

Soprano Monica Yunus earned a B.M. in 2000 and an M.M. in 2002, both from Juilliard. She will sing at the Metropolitan Opera this December and January in performances of Die Zauberflöte.