Missing home

My dear cousin Amy and I were talking a couple of weeks ago. She said something profound, which is actually normal for her. We were talking about traveling--leaving and coming home. She said that everyone needs to leave home because unless we leave home, we can never miss home.

Well, I am far from home, and I miss home.

Although the feeling of missing home isn't alway pleasant, I will accept the pain. It's nice to know I have a home, a place where I am loved. When I remember where I come from, I can stand a little more confidently here in a place where I feel out of control. There is nothing familiar here even though I am becoming very much accustomed to the sights, smells, and feelings of this city.

I miss family and friends. I miss the season we are in. I missed the fall and Thanksgiving. I miss the all the lights and trees and smells of Christmas that I know are in the air at home. I miss the feel of Christmas. Ooh, what I wouldn't give for some Christmas baking!

So, happy December. Celebrate home well this Christmas season--if for no one else but me.

Ice chips

We are creatures of habit. We need our comforts. Rice when I am sick sounds awful, but to an Indian, it is essential (because you haven't really eaten unless you've had rice). Chicken noodle soup when I am sick sounds wonderful, but to an Indian, that's not enough to sustain you.

I watched as some of our ladies loved on Beth while she was sick. They were trying to bring her comfort, but it was a bit overwhelming (a lot of foot rubbing and touching the arms and face and words about water and what to and what not to do all at once). There's so much beauty in their love, but, whether we are American or Indian, when we are at our worst, we just want someone to care for us the way we were raised. The way Indians show their care and the way Americans show their care are vastly different because our cultures are so vastly different. When I am sick, I prefer to have fellow North Americans take care of me because the way they care is familiar and comforting during a time when I am absolutely out of control. So I wonder, how much of our physical comforts are more emotional than what is actually better for us physically?

Beth has brain malaria. She's been running high fevers, and what is most comforting to her physically (at least until the tylenol kicks in) are ice chips. When you are hot and when drinking water is hard, ice is so beautiful.

But, how odd we Americans are to the Indian staff at the hospital. To Indians, health is about balancing hot and cold. When you are sick, do not take in anything cold. If you drink something cold, you will get a sore throat. Ice cream will potentially give you a cold, so if you have something important coming up (like a school test), don't eat ice cream. Don't lie on a cold floor, you will get a cold. Don't put your feet on a cold floor, you will get a cold. If you are starting to feel a cold coming on or if it's cold outside (like in the 70's), then cover your throat--a hankie will do.

So, over here, ice chips are a super-big no-no.

For us in the Western world, we don't think about hot and cold like that. It's a de-bunked myth for the most part. Colds become more prevalent because of pressure differences that often accompany hot and cold weather--not just because of hot and cold things. And if I am very honest, it can become a bit annoying to me when I am constantly told not to drink cold drinks . . . I would like to rid the world of wrong thinking in this arena, but it seems that if I tried, I would be way in over my head. And then, what's to say they aren't saying the same about me?

So this morning at the hospital when Beth's fever went up, we asked the nurse for ice. She seemed a bit taken aback, but she very graciously brought in some ice. I wonder what went through her head as Beth ate the ice. She was probably incredulous with the foreigners: don't they know? But then I think about all the times in the hospital when my patients asked for things that I felt incredulous about (people can be strange), but as long as it wasn't harmful, I did what I could. I liked Beth's nurse; she was a good nurse.

Cultures are so different. I just have to remember that for as many times as I shake my head and laugh at silly things over here, they are doing the exact same back to me. Although I could swear I am right, I still feel a bit humbled.

Marriage

Yesterday, Gita got married. Gita is one of our WMF staff members and one of the founding members of Sari Bari. It was an exciting day for Gita because she is marrying a good man, which is sometimes difficult to find. Both she and her new husband work within the same area: she works for Sari Bari and he works for another organization doing similar work to Sari Bari. Quite incredible.

It was funny that when the ceremony because, Gita was not smiling--she actually looked very unhappy. At first I thought something was wrong; the no-smiling Gita is not normal. But as the ceremony progressed, Beth informed me that in Bengali weddings, the girls are not supposed to smile. And actually, if it's an arranged marriage and you really don't know the man you are marrying, you probably wouldn't smile. Gita, however, did start cracking some smiles, and she does know her husband.

And yes, it was semi-arranged by Sarah, Beth, Upendra and Radha. Funny.

It was a long day, but it was a good day. I loved seeing our Sari Bari ladies at the wedding, and they gave me such praises about my sari; however, they also critiqued everything about how I was dressed, but, as Sarah said, they only do it because they love me. And I love them. I can't really describe what seeing them at the wedding, all dressed up and smiling did to my heart. It was wonderful. They are so beautiful and precious.

It was my first Indian wedding and it was my first time wearing a sari. Dang, that sari with all the sequins was uncomfortable. It's a bit blingy-er than my normal style, but what won't we do for the sake of beauty. Something about a sari does make a girl feel beautiful.

The loss of a friend

On Thursday Melissa and I received the news that a dear friend of ours from Bangladesh, Kati, was sick. On Monday we received the news that she died.

It's hard to process this news; it all happened so quickly. In a little over a week, Melissa and I were going to go to Bangladesh to celebrate Kati and Musa's 16th wedding anniversary. We were going to stay with them. I took it for granted that even if we weren't able to make it, Kati and Musa's party was going to happen--that Kati would be there, would always be there.

Oh, how my heart grieves. Please pray for Musa through this time.

Fear-inspiring

I am not usually a person who strikes fear in the hearts of people. I tend to be a nice person who smiles easily. Today, however, I struck fear in the hearts of many . . .

Our newest Sari Bari unit is in a village about an hour by train outside of K-town in a village called Canning. Those of us who work in the city take turns going out to Canning to visit the girls out there, to get to know them, to let them get to know us. It's actually a pretty great trip because when we go, we are going to where it is green. Oh, beautiful green.

As per Sari Bari norm, whenever a group of girls finishes training (3 to 4 months duration), we begin to set them up for medical care. Part of the medical care is tetanus shots. One part of my job is to administer those shots. Since our Canning girls are all new and just finished training, none of them have had the shots before, so they didn't know that my coming foreshadowed pain.

Ugh. I don't like being known only as the one who gives shots: the ladies in the Gach unit come up to me and act like they are going to give me a shot. Kind endearing.

When I first got to Canning this morning, I asked Gita if anyone knew what was coming, and she said no, but as the morning wore on, rumors started. I think they all assumed that a doctor was going to come (which is the norm here) to administer the shots, so when a man came to see Upendra, everyone began talked and yelping when Upendra left the room with him. They were saying, "That's the doctor. He's going to give us the injections!" Upendra overheard their nervous exclamations and stuck his head in the room, "No, he's not a doctor." Then he points at me, "Sheila will give the injections." I think he smirked as he said this.

All the girls looked at me like they were betrayed. They made all kinds of noise and fuss. I just laughed sheepishly at their reactions. When the shots started, some of the girls were brave, but I definitely had one who was sobbing and another who was completely terrified. It's kinda funny . . .

On the way home from Canning, two things stuck out to me: 1. I saw a beautiful story unfolding: a young man brought his girl to the train and stood outside until the train took off. His smile was what got me; his smile for her was beautiful. I had many questions for them because I assume they are not married (she was not wearing the normal red Sundor in her hair that signifies a Hindu woman is married . . . she could have been Muslim or Christian) so I wonder what their story is. One thing I did know was that they were in love. 2. When we got in our auto to get from the train station to the metro, a guy who was very high sat in front with the driver. At one point he draped his arm over the back of the seat and his hand touched my knee. My first reaction (because it's happened before) is to become angry. However, this guy was definitely not putting any moves on me--he was out of it. I actually got to the point where I was afraid he was going to fall out of the auto, so I had my hands ready to grab his arm should that happen.

All in a day . . .

Oh, this darn language

Well, I have no good news to share about my mad language-learning abilities. I am not any more confident or brave. I have had no stellar conversations.

However, yesterday Melissa and I began a new class with our language tutor here. We in K-town have been going to Protima Didi since the beginning of the field, so she knows our organization well. She's an amazing lady who has too much to do so decided to consolidate her evening language students to a three-night-a-week class. It's a lot to process and it gets out too late in the evening, but our first class yesterday was really fun.

There was one moment that made me feel so much more at ease. I was trying to speak, albeit haltingly, and I asked if I said it right--kind of shyly as per my norm. The teacher, a new teacher to us, said to me, Don't worry about if you say it right. Say it and I will correct you later. In essence, I heard him say, Make mistakes and make them boldly. Whew. I will try.

And then today at Sari Bari I was working hard sorting saris (which caused endless sneezing), and I did a darn good job organizing them by color (apparently, Upendra later told Beth that he will hire me as his assistant). After sorting saris, I was given the task of cutting bag handles, which, I found out, is not easy task. The scissors are huge, but it is tough material. Nazir, our master tailor, saw me struggling, came over to move me along quicker (at which point I thought he was giving up on me), and then tried to show me how to do it better. He was very patient, but I tried telling him that his hand is stronger. He said it wasn't not true. The entire time I was cutting bag handles, I was laughing with Nazir at myself. I think he was shaking his head at the bumbling white girl, but it was funny. Not a whole lot of language was going on, but a lot of good communication was. Laughing brings people together. And it's good medicine.

I'll take it as a God-thing

Somehow, I lost an hour this morning. All day I have been trying to figure out how it happened. I woke up at 7:30 and did my morning ritual of making coffee and oatmeal. Echoing the words Beth said to me this morning, I have to say that liking coffee is such a pleasure because each morning has a routine that no matter what happens the night before or the rest of the day, there is something that is normal and comforting.

Every Monday and Wednesday I go to Sari Bari in the south of Kolkata, which means I have to take the metro. After my first day back to Kolkata in June, I always leave at 8:45 so I don't have to fight the crowds at the height of morning rush hour.

I could have sworn I looked at the clock just before I went back to my room and it said 5 minutes till 8. So I am sitting in my room, drinking my coffee, eating my oatmeal, and reading my Bible when Melissa comes in and is startled to see me. She said, "I thought you had left already, and I was going to turn off your light." "I don't leave until 8:45." She looks at me like I am going crazy: "It's 9:15." What?! This is not possible . . .

I did this somewhere on my trip to the States where my clock was set wrong, so I woke up late, but my clock was right this time, and my alarm was set for 7:30. I wasn't putzing around. How did I lose an hour? I really have no idea; I am still quite perplexed. Melissa and Beth say I can still attribute it to jet lag if I want. But, what the heck?! Where did it go?

And so, after this realization, I decided to just take my time. At 9:15, the metro is insane, and trying to cram into a train where there is absolutely no room gives me a panic attack just thinking about it. Instead I left at 9:45 and told myself that if the first train that comes is crowded, I will just wait . . . and I did. I let 3 trains go before I finally got on one.

It's actually a bit embarrassing to admit that . . . am I that much of a wuss? Yes and no. Yes because getting caught in the middle of men and then having to stay there for at least 15 minutes until the larger part of the crowd gets off is liable to give me nightmares for days, which is what happened back in June. On the other hand, no because I want to keep my heart in a soft place where I don't become angry at everything and I don't want to be scared, so to be wise with how I react, I am choosing my battles. I was already late, so why rush now? There will be plenty of other days where I will have to get on the train in that crowd. Today was not that day.

I arrived at Sari Bari in time for tea. Really, I was only a half hour late. And as I was sitting there drinking my tea and eating my biscuits (aka crackers), I realized just how much I love our ladies. I don't always say much to them--working on that language thing, and I don't often understand the gist of the conversations floating around me, but I love being there. They are so incredibly beautiful.

God really is really great.

The Return

I was trying to tell my cousins (whom I stayed with for 3 weeks in August), that since I left them, I had such a great time . . . but it came out wrong because my time with them had been so good as well. I just meant that life is good.

The last two and a half months in the States were really good and refreshing. I am not sure that I deserved my time there, but I definitely made the most of it.

Just a quick word to say that I am back in K-town, India, and that I will be returning to the blogging world.

Great timing

In what will be a few short hours, I will be on my way to the airport. From Kolkata to Mumbai to Frankfurt to Chicago to Omaha . . .

What am I excited about most at the moment? I am going to make it into Chicago in time to watch the World Cup final game! And my team? Go Netherlands!

Melissa and I are on different flights but our layovers will overlap in both Frankfurt and Chicago. She just can't get rid of me . . . if I can make it, I will greet her each time she steps off that plane. And she thought she'd get some peace :-) The World Cup final game is especially exciting to me because I get to share it with her.

It's better when it's shared.

Please keep me in your prayers. Pray that I make all my connections.

See you on the other side!

“Hasten, Heavenly Father, the coming of your kingdom.”

I have been attending an Anglican church since being here in Kolkata. The pace of the service is different than any I have ever attended, and I have found something beautifully stable within the large, stain-glassed walls.

Sunday was a very bright, clear day, which is unusual because there is most often a layer of smog covering this city even when it’s sunny outside. As we walked toward the church, it was difficult to look at because it was so bright—the white of the outside shone. This is so contrary to every other building in Kolkata (besides the Victoria Memorial, of course).

Since I have been there for multiple Sundays, I am now getting to know the order of the service. Each week, there are more words in the liturgy that have resounded strongly with my heart.

Pausing for a brief moment after the service, I stared at the walls and paintings and windows inside the church. It’s beautiful and restful. I didn’t hear horns; I just heard the little birds that were inside. There were no crows. The wood of the pews, although dusty, is beautiful and old. I cherished the moment, and thought, this reminds me of the beauty and awesomeness of God. Not like the mountains do, but there is a sacredness within the church that reminds me God is sovereign and good.

And then the suffering and sights I see every day came pouring into my mind. A question rose in me: how can I relish this beauty when it seems so superficial to what is really happening outside?

But as my heart fluttered for a brief moment at the restlessness that wanted to stay, an answer came:

I can’t know God from going to church, singing hymns and reciting liturgy. I can only know God in as much as I know my neighbors in the world around me. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God. I cannot love God without loving my neighbor.

But the beauty I see in the church is not superficial and being there at the church is not something I should feel guilty about. It’s not an avoidance of reality, which is what the lies going through my head wanted me to believe. As I sit in this beautiful cathedral in the midst of a city of poverty and suffering, I can for a brief moment hear a voice different than the world’s screaming voice.

If I know God only from inside a church, from simply sitting through sermon and liturgy for a lifetime, my knowledge and understanding of him will be thin and will bear no weight. But, these practices will teach me about God—what is right and true and good. Living outside the church building introduces me to a physical reality contrary to what God originally intended for his creation.

It’s the collision of truth about God and the physical day-to-day living that allows me to truly know God.

In church I can know about God's character; in the world I can see God's character. If I only am told his character from inside a safe place, no one who is in the dangerous places will believe me. If I only see the world without knowledge of God, I will have a very difficult time finding the true character of God. However, once I am told his character and can see him at work in the world, then I can truly know God.

The beauty of hymns and liturgy is that they have stood the test of time. What was true when the Nicene Creed was written is still true today. Over the centuries, the church as a whole has seen more injustice and inhumanity, whether outside its walls or within, than I will ever see in my lifetime, yet the words of the Nicene Creed have not changed. God has not changed.

Church is a beautiful place to go and remind myself of God’s character and goodness, especially when all throughout the week I am struggling not to believe what “reality” is trying to teach about God. Church is absolutely necessary; it anchors me in truth. In reciting words together with the body of believers here in Kolkata and, inevitably, with those around the world, I find strength.

On Sunday, I was reminded that God is with me in church. He is also with me in the metro. He is with me walking the streets. He is with the boys playing soccer and the girls going to school. He is with our beautiful women who work at Sari Bari. He is with our women who are still working the line. He is with the little girl who just got trafficked. He is with the men who buy our women. He is with the madams and pimps and crooked officials who perpetuate mercilessness.

When I walk in a world where there is no mercy, it is not only good but it is necessary for me to be reminded that the God I serve, He whose nature is to always have mercy, is everywhere.

I am back in Kolkata.

A few things I have noticed:

It’s dirtier here. I have dirt under my nails at all times, which is very bothersome to me. I am a nurse and very much about clean hands, but my hands never look or feel clean.

It’s hotter here. I didn’t think that was possible. Two days ago, the temperature was 111 degrees, but the weather report said that with humidity it felt like 140 degrees. It was no wonder when I walked into an air-conditioned store and thought it was frigid: Imagine having a sudden 60 degree drop in temperature (if it felt like 140 degrees and you walked into an 80 degree building) . . . that’s like 80 degrees to 20 degrees at home. Yeah, that’s cold . . . Or, more accurately, dang, it’s hot.

I have also noticed the feel of going from a monotheistic culture (Bangladesh) to a very polytheistic culture (India). It’s quite different although a little hard to describe; it seems a little messier here. I noticed this when I went to Dhaka at first (although the reverse). Somehow I feel slightly more comfortable in a monotheistic culture where there are not shrines on every corner, but there is still oppression in both places.

Welcome back to India.

As an FYI, the business we have here, is growing! We are in the next five days opening a 3rd unit in a village outside of the city. This unit is a PREVENTION unit. Woohoo! We are moving from not just trying to pull girls out, but we are now trying to prevent girls from getting there in the first place.

As I tell you this hopeful news, I also need to ask for your support. Check out our website (www.saribari.com or www.wordmadeflesh.org), buy our products or donate to our cause. Pray for our women and our community. Tell people about what is happening—spread the word.

Always with hope . . .

I never thought I would be writing on this subject . . .

And as a disclaimer, I do not claim to be an expert nor do I claim to know much at all. I am just sharing what I have learned, what I am learning.

The textile factory workers here in Bangladesh went on strike the other week; they want the minimum wage increased. A friend of mine here (let’s call him Monir) described a bit of the conundrum he is in over the textile workers demanding to be paid higher wages. Monir owns a textile factory. Personally, I think it is only right and just and fair that the textile workers be paid more (currently, they are getting 1600 Taka a month, which is less than a dollar a day), but as Monir explained, there are repercussions for being paid more . . . some people will be paid more while others will lose their jobs. And then the factory will not be able to produce what is needed. I also remember learning in economics class how (usually) if the minimum wage is increased, the cost of living also increases, thereby nixing the higher wage.

And then I think, seriously, Monir, I see the life you are living—the lavishness of it. Surely you could pay them more. I recognize not all of Monir’s money comes from the garment industry. I also recognize that Monir is one person, and although one person can make a small difference, this is not where the heart of the problem lies. So Monir talked about the companies that buy the textiles made here in Bangladesh. I am no economist and I am not a businessperson. A conversation pertaining to business can soon be lost on me, but this is what I understood:

Companies come in with an amount they are willing to pay. They want cheap clothes. Who doesn’t want cheap clothes? Who hasn’t gone to Walmart because clothes are cheaper there than at Target or Old Navy and you don’t have to spend as much money? Monir said that the prices these companies are willing to pay for the textiles is not enough to keep the factories running, to allow for a profit, to pay the people a livable wage. The only reason textile industries on this side of the world are even considering these prices is because of the sheer volume. Why are the companies in the US demanding lower prices? Because we the consumers are demanding lower prices.

Everyone is out for his or her own profit, right? That’s what runs the world, the capitalistic society. Two businesses are competing, one lowers their prices a fraction to attract the customers, so the other one must also lower their costs. Eventually, the prices become so low that the businesses must go to where the clothes originally come from to get lower prices so they can still make a profit. Through all this, we the consumers will only now shop where clothes are cheap (we’ve been spoiled), and because of that, the people in these factories are being paid less and less, and when they form a union (it worked in the USA), they may eventually get a higher wage, but it won’t matter because the price of all other living expenses in these countries will go up. And some will lose their jobs.

And then I think about the stores that offer clothes at astronomical prices and people still pay those prices. I have a feeling that where those clothes come from is right next door to where clothes from Walmart come from. I know because people buy the Walmart clothes and the outlandish-priced clothes in the “seconds” markets here in Dhaka. Those factory workers should get paid more, but they don’t. It’s the same wage.

This subject has been written about many times. I have heard many discussions. Many I have eventually tuned out. But I have heard. I try not to shop at Walmart . . . but mainly because I think they treat their employees like crap. Now I have a whole new perspective because I have heard the textile factory owner’s story.

I still think he has too much money and that somehow he could treat his employees better, but I am seeing that it looks like a futile battle on this end when the American consumers are on the other end of the tug-of-war.

I never thought I would meet the owner of a textile factory in Bangladesh. I never thought about what I would say if I met one. I have had many bad thoughts about textile factory owners. Surely, I could have said quite a few choice words concerning them. But then I met Monir. He told me about a girl that went off on him while on a plane when she learned what his job was. He laughed it off. That girl didn’t change his life. Now I have gotten to know his family. I was invited to a thank you party he and his wife threw for those who’ve helped them throughout the year . . . I did nothing but go to a few dinners with them. Maybe Melissa and I opened Monir to a view of the world through our eyes: seeing what we do and why we do it. Maybe that’s affected him more than I realize or maybe that’ll affect him down the road; maybe it won’t. I do know that I can learn from him. And I will tell others this story, this bit of truth.

Don’t shop at Walmart. Learn to do with less. Try to find the fair trade stores where at least they try to only buy from factories where the employees get paid a living wage. I am told Target at least tries (Monir does business with Target). Walmart does not try. Target still isn’t the greatest. I know there are better out there. It’ll cost you time to hunt down stores that try to pay fair costs. Pay a little more and have a smaller wardrobe; it’s not the end of the world.

That little girl and boy might have a chance to eat an ice cream cone.

American Burger

American Burger is a hole-in-the-wall restaurant that looks very sketchy on the outside. I walked by it many times—even after friends said it was fantastic—without going in because it looked so dirty. A few weeks ago, Melissa and I worked up the courage to go in and much to our amazement we fell in love. The burgers are without the usual Bangladeshi taste, and the fries taste like real American fries (none of the egg taste other places have).

Yesterday I was sitting at the counter in American Burger facing the street waiting for my food. I watched as a garbage bike pulled up with a father and son who picked up trash. The garbage bike is a bike attached to a trailer of sorts. I have often seen men picking up trash, and I have often held my breath as I have walked past: it smells awful. Thus far, I have not seen any garbage trucks (I’ve been told the big trucks are only allowed in the city at night).

So the little boy, dressed only in dirty shorts, comes to the door that is right beside me and yells out, “Moyla!” Dirty. Trash. The smell of trash wafted up from the little boy of only seven or eight years (maybe six years?). He was a smiling kid. I watched him as he waited for the trash. His skin was dirty, and unlike the smooth skin of other children his age, his skin looked slightly bumpy, like there was a rash all over him. A man walked out the door and said something to the little boy, touched him on the head.

He should have been in school.

The guy from the restaurant handed the little boy the first barrel, which was too big for him, but he pulled it outside the door and started rummaging. What I was expecting was for him to start pulling the plastic bottles out to sort the trash like I have seen many of the other men working with trash do.

No. The little boy found a fry and put it in his mouth.

My stomach heaved.

Oh, God. I couldn’t watch. But then I looked back. It’s a normal reaction I have. The little boy kept rummaging, putting little remains of food into his mouth.

How could I sit there and eat a burger and fries that were freshly made while this little boy had nothing? Could I be that heartless? I faced the inside of the restaurant, shocked. What kind of a person am I as I turned away because I couldn’t stomach what I was seeing? Should I not eat my food when it came? Should I take it to the little boy? Should I leave? What do I do?

Earlier that day I had been with my friend in her car. We had gone to a store to buy a gift for someone, and as we were driving back, we passed many, many people. Nothing unusual. I noticed a little girl walking across a lot and she was holding a bag above her head. She didn’t have a shirt on, and her ribs stuck out. Again, nothing unusual, but at that time I started thinking about how apparently little she has to eat. Does hunger rule her life? How can she play and be a child when she is constantly hungry? What is life like when all you do is want from meal to meal? You never have enough. You never get to try ice cream. I am not sure why my mind went there because this is a common sight to me. However, yesterday I tried putting myself in her shoes.

I couldn’t. I have never been without.

Bangladeshis love their rice and curry. A common joke among expatriates is that if a Bangladeshi doesn’t eat rice with their meal, then they did not eat a meal. Poor people eat rice with green chilies and salt.

But rice and chilies and salt don’t sustain you. That little girl was testimony of that.

And then I went to eat lunch and saw this little boy.

Many times I see people who are hungry right before I walk into a restaurant, and when I walk out, they are still there asking for something. What do I do? Because there is no easy answer . . . Most of the roads are “owned” by someone, so if someone who begs is standing there, they are paying to stand there. Someone gets a cut of what the people who beg earn. I could buy food for people and watch them eat, but I can’t do that every time because I would never go anywhere. My life would be spent there on the street moving from one person to another. That’s not a bad idea, but that’s not why I am here. I pray someone is called to be that person. I am going to the Gach in Kolkata. And then there are so many economic implications behind giving to people who beg or giving extra to people who pull rickshaws. It’s a sticky issue always. I wish I had an answer. I know that when I stop wrestling with this issue, that’s the moment my heart becomes hard. I vacillate between feeling completely heartless and feeling angry with compassion.

I watched as the little boy climbed into the back of the bike-garbage-truck and helped his dad sort. My lunch came. I ate. I walked out of American Burger and got on with my life.

What kind of a person am I? What kind of a world are we living in? It’s cruel and not what we were meant for.

Some things just don't translate

There have been some beautifully funny moments in language class where we as students seemed absolutely ludicrous to our teachers:

- Melissa and I go over to our friend Sue's house every Saturday to do laundry, bake, and generally spend time with Sue. As per norm, our teacher, Evans, asked us on Sunday what we did over the weekend, so Melissa proceeded to tell our teacher and the class about us doing laundry and baking at Sue's. He appeared confused for a bit, and then asked, "Sue, what were you doing?" Sue answered honestly, "I watched them," as we talked and enjoyed each other's company. Our teacher was even more baffled. Finally he said, "Well, did you pay them?" We burst into laughter! He thought Melissa and I were doing Sue's laundry and cooking like househelp would. And even when he realized that it was our own laundry and cooking that we did, he couldn't understand why we would do that there or that Sue would allow us to. The whole thing was a foreign concept.

- There is a word in Bangla that means "to visit." As Americans, we use this word very loosely: we visit a park, we visit a friend, we visit the doctor, etc. In Bangla, though, it means to visit a friend or distant family member either for a short time or for a few days. During class, we are asked to use new vocabulary in a sentence, so one of us (Melissa or I) said we were going to visit our parents' house. Our teacher, Pulak, said, "No, that is impossible. That sentence does not work here." Why? Because in this culture, my parents' home is my home, my family home, and I cannot visit my own home. I can go home, but I cannot use this verb to visit my parents' home. We tried explaining that in the States, our parents' home is not our home. Our teacher told us he understood, but that no one else in this culture would. And just to see if our teacher was lying (he happens to be the one who understands Western culture the best), we tried this out on another teacher. That teacher was more confused and said "Impossible. You cannot use it like that." Ha!

- "ki keyechen?" What have you eaten? This is a very common question to get us talking at the beginning of class. So one day our friend Sue said she had made and eaten deviled eggs (where did the name come from anyway?). In order to practice Bangla and to understand what the heck we were talking about, our teacher, Evans, made Sue describe how to make deviled eggs. After we muddled through it in Bangla with lots of help from the teacher, Sue ended by saying we put the yolk and spice concoction back into the eggs. Our teacher paused and then asked us, "Then what do you do?" He thought there had to be more to it . . . do we fry it? No, then we eat it. He looked a little confused and disgusted. "Do you eat it with rice?" No, just by itself. "You don't eat it with rice?" Nope. We then tried to tell him it's a picnic food or a side dish, but still, this deviled egg made no sense to him. Unless rice Bangladeshis eat rice at a meal, they have not eaten a meal.

As I find amusement within this culture, I realize the same goes for them. We Americans/Westerners are very strange people. Some things just don't translate.

after a short interlude

I have slipped into an old habit of procrastination . . . and this includes everything. I am procrastinating studying Bangla, procrastinating writing emails, procrastinating writing on my blog.

I thought I could shake it. Alas . . .

This life in Dhaka is not at all what I expected. I knew that the amount of time I would be spending here is equal to the amount of time I spent on my internship in Kolkata, so I should have expected making lots of friends, having lots of experiences, but I just never foresaw any of this. I couldn't have imagined it. I'm glad God gives us one day at time.

This next month is going to be about a lot of transition. At the end of May, we will be returning to Kolkata where life as we will know it for the next three years will begin. It seems like I have been here a long time already, but these four months are only a part of the move. Soon the settling will happen.

This Friday, a couple who Melissa and I have come to know will be returning home to Alaska. They have been here since we have been here. They were our Thursday night plans . . . dinner and games at their apartment. I have been trying not to think too much about their leaving, but today my heart is sad. So begin the good-byes.

I have always seen myself as someone who blends into the crowd--never one who stands out or leads the crowd. Actually, I think it is quite a feat if someone remembers me. However, some of the people Melissa and I have come to know in this city are people of influence, and this I don't understand, little 'ole me from Amish-country Ohio. We can point to the steps of how we came to know the people we have, but when we were at a friend's house Saturday evening, gathered around talking with three people of political influence, all of whom are from different political parties within this country, I had to think, who am I and how did I get here?

I can see God working in the relationships we are building. I often feel like I have nothing to offer people in terms of gifts or influence--so why would people care to know me? Sometimes, I think of how in the States I have no influence or power, I don't eat at fancy restaurants or drive a super-nice car. I am satisfied with all my belongings, but what I have is nothing compared to what they have. I am just a little nobody. What makes me special? And I keep thinking, I have nothing to give but the hope God has given me. And I pray that I can give that away.

Please keep Melissa and I in your prayers, for wisdom, for love. God allows our paths to cross with others' paths for a reason. My greatest desire is to love people as Christ loved us, to be a friend, to be a catalyst for whatever God has in store. I can see strands of hope running through each of our relationships. It's a good view.

Always with hope . . .

"We still live in the unredeemed world, but we may walk with our heads held high; we know that the kingdom is coming because it has already come. We live within the creative tension between the already and the not yet, forever moving closer to the orbit of the former. We Christians are an anachronism in this world: not anymore what we used to be, but not yet what we are destined to be. We are too early for heaven, yet too late for the world. We live on the borderline between the already and the not yet. We are a fragment of the world to come, God's colony in a human world, his experimental garden on earth. We are like crocuses in the snow, a sign of the world to come and at the same time a guarantee of its coming."

- A Spirituality of the Road, by David J. Bosch

ami tomake biye korte cai

I received my first marriage proposal this week . . .

At school, which is our home, there is a large class of Japanese volunteers (semi-equivalent to the Peace Corps—but better, from what Melissa and I have heard) who have been doing an intense language class for the past three weeks. I have not interacted much with them since I have not been around a whole lot this past week.

However, one day while walking through the hallway, one of the Japanese students suddenly starts asking me all sorts of questions in Bangla. Haltingly, I answer in Bangla, and then he returned to class. It was an abrupt, odd conversation, but not unusual at the school.

The next afternoon while Melissa and I are sitting in the drawing room waiting for class to begin, this same student who had talked to me in the hall came out of the bathroom and announced to Melissa and I that he had diarrhea. Immediately, we start laughing . . . along with all the teachers in the room. This guy was quite the ham. He sits down on one of the couches and proceeds to tell us all in Bangla that Japanese women are the most beautiful women in the world, but in the next breath, he says that he wants to marry an American. Hmmm . . .

Someone then proceeded to ask him if there were any girls waiting for him in Japan. He said there were. Well, how many? 99.

We all laughed hard, and then this Japanese student left to go play futbol.

The day after that, right after my class, while the Japanese students were having a break, this same student sits down close to me and begins by asking me if I have “done marriage” yet. After I tell him that (according to Bangla culture) marriage “happens” to women, I inform him that, no, marriage has not happened to me. He then declares (all in Bangla, mind you), that he wants to marry me.

I doubled over laughing. My two female teachers were shocked. The other students who were able to understand him began to listen.

Somewhere in this conversation (it was quite a blur), after the proposal, he asks me if I have a boyfriend in the States. Because I did not know the word for boyfriend, I had to have help from the teachers to understand. My two female teachers were making eyes at me trying to tell me to tell him I did have a boyfriend, but I could not lie. So, when the bell rings and the students have to go back to class, I ask him what his name is (Yoshi . . . wasn’t that a character in Mario Brothers?), and he tells me, “You better remember your boyfriend’s name.” Ha!

As Bangladeshis, my female teachers were quite aghast at the audacity of Yoshi. As an American, I just laughed . . . and was kind of flattered when I was told that over the last week he has been asking about me. I think I was supposed to find that scandalous.

Yesterday, he plopped down beside me and declares that I am the most beautiful girl in all the world. What girl doesn’t want to hear that . . . after the same person says that Japanese girls are the most beautiful? Sadly, I am not Japanese, so I cannot be the most beautiful, so I told him I did not believe him. He acted hurt. This guy was pulling out all the stops.

Don’t worry, all you folks at home; I did not agree to marry him, and today the Japanese class is finished. As fun and flattering as it was to know Yoshi, we must go our separate ways.

In a world where I am always hot and sweaty and gross, it is nice to be told I am beautiful . . . even if the guy is just a tease.

back again

Nepal treated Melissa and me wonderfully. When we first arrived, we found that exam week for the students in class 10 was happening, so the load-shedding schedule was at a minimum (as in, we had electricity the majority of the day). Also, the weather was much cooler than Dhaka. Although Nepalis would say it is heating up, Melissa and I were happy.

We spent Saturday in Kathmandu with friends old and new (a new British friend we met in Dhaka and our Nepali co-worker). The afternoon was spent in a garden called “The Garden of Dreams,” which actually lives up to its name—a beautiful oasis in the middle of a busy Asian city. On Sunday we took a bus to Pokhara in search of the mountains. The three days we spent there were very restful. On Tuesday we rented bicycles and rode out of town a ways. Getting on the bicycle felt like freedom. It was very good for my heart.

Wednesday morning as we were arriving at our bus, I saw what had eluded me up to that point: a clear view of the Annapurna mountains. It was incredible. Pictures do not do it justice because it doesn’t convey the enormity of the highest mountains on earth. And, still, what I saw was blocked by buildings. Someday I will come back and take a trek . . .

Yesterday Melissa and I went once again to the Garden of Dreams where we were pleasantly surprised to see our co-worker and her fiancé. Again, the garden lived up to its name.

As I sit in the airport looking ahead to arriving in Dhaka, I find mixed emotions. Nepal and Bangladesh are very different countries in terms of people, culture, and religion. While I am here in Nepal, I feel like my guard is down, but I know that that is because most of where I have stayed in Nepal is where the tourists stay. I have not begun to know the Nepali people like my co-worker has; I have not begun to feel the pain and brokenness of this country. Nepal might not be quite as abrasive toward me as a woman, but that is only on the surface.

I am ready to take on the last two months of language school. I am ready to get back to the friendships Melissa and I have begun. When we left Bangladesh to come to Nepal, I began to feel the pain of leaving . . . a premonition of what will be in two months.

Before I came over to Asia, I did not take into account that I could and would form deep friendships in Dhaka. I didn’t think about how I would in four months have to let go once again of a beautiful community. Now I am beginning to see what is ahead. There is a little apprehension to the next two months because of what comes at the end. There is this tension of knowing I will be heading to K-town where I meant to come in the first place, but knowing that I have to leave dear friends behind in Dhaka.

This is life. One day at a time. I will enjoy each moment I have now, and when the day comes to say good-bye, I will say good-bye. Please pray that I will take it as it comes, as God gives the grace.

Always with hope.

Talking about the weather

Well, I said earlier that I felt like the frog in the pot that's about to boil. Yes, well, my sentiments are still the same, only, it is now even more evident that I am the frog in the pot, which makes me even more nervous about the pot boiling.

Today it reached 100. And next week is going to be the same. And I have heard through rumor that May is the pinnacle month for distressingly hot weather. Oh, glorious day.

It is definitely bearable . . . but the humidity is picking up. I've never lived through this, so when I wake up at night now when the power is cut, I lay awake pondering what the situation will be in a month when the power is cut more frequently and the heat and humidity are even higher. It's weird: as soon as the fan stops, I wake up.

Last week is rained hard for an evening. During the rain, the air cooled and was cleaned. That night I slept so blessedly with the window open. The next morning when all the teachers got to school, the principal asked me if "sheela hoeche?" which means "did it hail?" Yes, hail is called sheila. I feel so special.

This Friday, Melissa and I will be flying to Nepal for a week. We are going on a visa run, which simply means we have to leave B-desh so we can come back again. Many countries require visitors to leave every so many days (every 180 days for B-desh). We are leaving now because we have a break in school. The break will be good because both Melissa and I are feeling a wall of Bangla-learning coming up. For me, frustration comes just a little quicker than it should, and moments of discouragement are easier to come by. Leaving for a week will be good for our hearts and minds.

There is a huge praise with this. I have heard from our British friends that it is only the Americans who are able to get long visas (mine is good for 5 years). So, our visa run is simply to leave B-desh. We do not have to go to the embassy to work out any issues; we get to simply enjoy the rest.

I appreciate your thoughts and prayers!

Always with hope . . .

Generosity

Change is always a challenge in this part of the world. And when I refer to change, I am referring to money. Small bills are difficult to come by. And when I say "this part of the world," I also remember that change is difficult to find in Bolivia, too.

Sometimes, this lack of change causes a lot of grief. You have to constantly be thinking about small bills, making sure you have enough, and then hoarding it away so you'll have it when you need it. I realize the hoarding is what just perpetuates the problem.

When you really need the small bills is either for transportation or for the market. Sadly, this lack of small bills causes a lot of frustration and anger in my heart because it can be used by those providing services as an excuse to get more money from the foreigners. If I go to get on a rickshaw, I am always certain I have the exact amount of money because when I go to get off, inevitably, the rickshaw driver asks for more money, and if you have a 50 but had agree on 20, the rickshaw driver may only have 10 or 20 Taka change.

The problem is, I know they have the change. And this makes me angry. But the anger is not even about the money because 10 or 20 Taka is not a lot of money--less than 50 cents.

It's the principle.

Also, it's the foreigner who always gets charged a higher price, but we have figured a good way of working this system. If we know what a Bangladeshi would pay for a rickshaw ride, and if we know what is fair for a foreigner, we don't even ask for a price when we get on the rickshaw. We get on, take the ride, and when we get down, we hand the driver the money and walk away. We know we are being fair. He knows we are paying more than we should. Somehow we all walk away satisfied because we didn't have to haggle and fight for justice in this small thing.

The other day, Melissa and I took a ride that we figured would just be a 20 Taka ride, but the driver, legitimately, had to take a long way around to get to where we wanted to go because there are certain roads he can't drive. At first we figured we'd be generous with 30 Taka rather than the standard 20, but the harder he was working, the more we thought that 30 is just too little for what he was doing. We decided to give him 50. One of my concerns with our system is that some driver might try to fight us once we get down even though our price is fair. Who would win? The Bangladeshi. So the closer we get to our destination, the more I am wondering if 50 is fair. But it is more than double the normal rate.

When we get down, I hand the driver the 50, and this time I pause to see his reaction. Is it fair?

He looked grateful.

He didn't have to fight the foreigner. I didn't have to haggle with the Bangladeshi.

It was at this point that I realized how easy it is to be generous. It does my heart so much good to not fight and become angry. I stay in a better place mentally, and although my system may fail a time or two, overall, my attitude is much better.

A Mennonite thing?

I have loved many of the Mennonite values I was raised with. One of those values is taking care of those in the community who are in need. That has often presented itself in the form of meals. Whenever a baby is born or someone has surgery or someone dies or someone moves, there are women in the church who are there with meals. I have loved how my mom helped institute this tradition/value in many of the churches we attended.

As a small admission, I remember times when either my mom or my dad had surgery, and although I didn't like the fact that they were going through something terrible, I loved the surprise of what we were going to have for dinner. It's quite fun to be on the receiving end.

About a week ago, I started with a sore throat that developed into a chest cold. By the third day of coughing through class, people were starting to ask if I was okay. At the peak of my cold last Tuesday, I received a phone call late afternoon from my Pakistani friend. The conversation went as follows.

"Hello?"
"Hello, Sheila, you want soup?"
"Soup? Do you mean tomorrow?"
"No, tonight. I make you soup. Okay?"
"Oh, okay. Tonight?"
"Yes, I will send over around 7:30. Tik?"
"Yes, okay."

I hung up the phone a little stunned. Really? How did I get so blessed to have this kind of treatment?

And with that, I found out that the Mennonite tradition of taking meals to people who are sick is not just a Mennonite thing. It's a Pakistani-thing, too. Around 8 that night, my friend's driver brought over pulao (fried rice), amazing chicken, tomato soup, and delicious mishti (dessert). I was blown away by the kindness of my friend.

A funny note to this was that Melissa and I couldn't eat all of the rice or the mishti, so we offered the rest of what we had to the guard here at the school. We didn't figure that the rice leftover would be nearly enough for him for his evening meal (since Bangadeshis can pack away the rice). We also figured he would eat only a little of the mishti (since there was still three-fourths left after we had our fill). Later we realized when we went to put the mishti in the fridge that there was no mishti left. He ate all the mishti?! Yep. We figured he substituted the mishti for the rice.

Not that I blame him at all. Who wouldn't want to eat mishti rather than rice? But, dang, I really liked that mishti.

Heating Up

I am beginning to wonder if I am not the frog in the pot that’s about to boil . . . slowly, slowly it heats up until it’s boiling and you’re cooked without ever realizing what’s happening.

Despite knowing what’s happening, though, I can’t prevent it. Darn that.

When I first got to Kolkata at the end of January, sweaters and warm pants were necessary—especially at night. When Melissa and I got to Dhaka, it was still sometimes cool, even to the point where I had a blanket I covered with at night. The blanket is gone now as is the sheet for the most part. The fans are now on, and I find that as I am writing this early in the morning, I am still sweating slightly as I am sitting beneath the fan.

Gosh, the humidity hasn’t even come yet.

This is not complaining—I will do my best not to complain. I have never been in Asia during the hottest, wettest months. This is going to be quite an adventure.

Yesterday a new month of classes began. Last week we took our test to see where we were level-wise. At first I was a little nervous because the word “test” just has that effect. However, I found out that here at language school I simply have to get above a 30% to pass to the next class.

Just so you know, I passed with flying colors (for here, anyway . . . maybe not for Indiana Wesleyan's nursing program).

Life stays interesting. The other day I accompanied a Pakistani girl to a design institute so she could get admission papers. I went because her sister was sick and she’s not allowed going alone (even though her driver was with her). After that we went to our friend, Sue’s house who is in our class. She is from Texas, so she was treating three of us American girls and one Pakistani girl to Mexican-food-cooking lessons at her house. The whole time we are cooking and jabbering away in the kitchen, I wondered what this experience is like to a Pakistani girl . . . I’ll never really know.

Please keep my Pakistani friend in your prayers.

And if you send up any prayers on my behalf, I would be grateful.

Always with hope.

Where did it go?

Oh, my brain is tired.

I am in two classes for language: the first in the day is a phonetics class and the second one in the day is a script class. The phonetics class I am doing semi-decently in, but I think that’s because I had a good start from two years ago.

However, I’m not going to lie; I feel like the slow kid in the script class. Granted, the class is comprised of Melissa and me so one of us is bound to be slightly better, right? I can learn the letters, but when it comes to reading, it takes me so much time to put the sounds together and form the word. Compared to me, Melissa is quite fast. When it comes time to the reading, I cringe. It’s quite humbling.

Just to be clear, there are 39 consonants, 11 vowels, and a gazillion combined letters that sometimes make sense and other times are a complete crock (so says the American).

And I think I have learned something about myself (it’s either a lacking synapse in my brain or an excuse . . . take it as you will). A ton of language study is learning the vocabulary. Before I learned the enough of the Bangla letters to form words, all my vocabulary was written phonetically in our English script. I found that I was relatively decent at learning vocabulary in the beginning. However, now that my vocabulary is coming to me in Bangla script, I cannot get the words to stick in my mind. I can say the vocabulary over and over and over, but when I try to come back to it, it’s gone.

Where did it go?

I am thinking that my brain is wired to learn in English script (because that’s all I’ve ever learned in)even if it is another language. And I am a visual learner. I think. Now I have to develop new synapses in my brain to learn in Bangla, and it is just slow in coming. Ugh. My brain is working very hard.

It doesn’t help that Melissa is a whiz.

So today during script class I, the slow one, was trying to sound out a word and I kept coming up with the word Bangkok. Now, mind you, we had read the word for Bangkok yesterday, so it was in my mind. I kept saying it, Melissa kept laughing and the teacher was trying to have me look at it and say it again. Gosh. The word was bank.

Later on in the day, Melissa and I were sitting in the front room pretending to study, and the teacher who had taught our script class said he was leaving. I replied in Bangla, “kothaY jaben?” Where are you going. “Bangkok,” was his reply, holding up a ledger. I hung my head sheepishly, laughing. To the bank. We all laughed.

Our teachers like us. It helps that we are almost always here when they are here because we live here. We get many free lessons as we ask questions while the teachers are trying to take their breaks. I don’t really think they mind, though; they seem to get a huge kick out of us. We all laugh a lot. Several times they have told us they are going to add all their extra teaching to our bill.

Instead, I will give them chocolate. Who doesn’t like chocolate?

To be like Jesus in pain

I don’t know what I saw the other day. Half of me wishes to know so I could dispel the rampant horror stories going through my head, but the other half of me knows that if I really knew, I would probably hate.

Melissa and I were walking on a footpath along the river, heading to a friend’s house. I was in the middle of speaking when something made me look across the river to the other bank. Thinking back, I assume it was the commotion that turned my attention there. What I saw was a man with a large bamboo pole beating a woman who was lying on the ground; several people stood around. She was screaming. The screams were distant to my ears, but I heard them clearly enough.

“Oh, God.” I gasped, but by the time Melissa saw where I was looking, the beating was over.

What had I seen? I was terrified, but it wasn’t for myself that I was terrified. It was a scene I wanted to still be a world away from. Sickness rose in the pit of my stomach, and I looked away, but then I looked back. What was happening?

More screaming and yelling. The man was circling the woman on the ground. I looked away. I looked back. He threw the pole down and started yanking at a tarp the woman was lying on.

My heart was beating wildly. I know my pace sped up. What was going to happen to the woman? Was she alive? And I was sick inside.

Disbelief wanted to set in immediately because I didn’t want what I saw to be true. Maybe it wasn’t what I thought it was. Maybe that wasn’t a woman on the ground . . . Melissa didn’t see it, so maybe my own stress within the culture is projecting out what is not there . . .

It’s the fact that humanity has been degraded. It’s the fact that humanity is not seen in a beating, that the image of a Creator “whose love endures forever” is nowhere near that portrayal of mankind. It’s that I know this happens over and over everywhere around the world, but it’s also that here, in this new world that I am walking in, it’s acceptable . . . well, maybe not acceptable, but it’s accepted.

Oh, God, what do you do with this? What do you do when humanity becomes animal and no trace of your character remains?

I can do nothing, and I feel trapped. I know truth that sets people free, but in this situation, I can do nothing. I don’t even know what I saw. My insides churn; my heart aches.

And then I remember what someone said to me when I related feeling helpless in a brothel room not being able to communicate or to fly the girls away. He said that when I am in a room and want to be like Jesus, it’s not just in the giving of hope or love that I become Jesus to others; it’s also in the suffering and feeling what they feel that I become like Jesus.

Jesus, if this is where you lead, help me not to become skittish and flee. If bearing pain means becoming like you, make me more like you.

Another reason I am thankful for Melissa

I mentioned earlier that at the Westin Hotel Melissa and I encountered some athletes who were competing in the South Asia Games.

Melissa used to play soccer at our university. Her dad used to coach track. She loves the summer Olympics. So, when we asked one of the teachers how much tickets cost to the South Asia Games, he told us it was free. Free? How is that possible? If Olympic-class athletes were anywhere competing in the States, there is no way it would be free.

Bangladesh is a different country.

I like to say I am an adventurer, but the ideas behind my adventures are often not my own. This was the case when yesterday Melissa and I ventured down to Old Dhaka to see if we could catch some of the events of the South Asia Games.

Old Dhaka is a much more congested area of the city, a place that is not as safe as where we are staying. Going there by ourselves made me nervous--definitely outside my comfort zone. We made it to the stadium without difficulties. When we entered the outlying area of the stadium, we immediately saw an entrance that appeared to be the main entrance. There were many men (no women) crowded around trying to get in. Just looking at that entrance was a little overwhelming. Melissa commented how it was relatively empty for such a huge event, but even if we went in there and found seats by ourselves, we would soon have a crowd around us. So it goes.

Before we entered there, we decided to see if there were any other entrances . . . and there were, but they were all VIP entrances. After walking to the other side of the stadium and approaching the third VIP entrance (realizing there was only one main entrance), we decided we needed to bolster our courage and just go in through the main entrance. Very smartly, Melissa decided to ask an official-looking man first if we were at the right stadium before we faced the crowds of men. Immediately he says yes yes and motions us toward the third VIP entrance. He walks with us there and ushers us through the security guards.

Melissa and I act like we belong there. Just go with it. Everyone around us had badges; we simply have white skin.

Compared to what one finds in stadiums in the VIP section in the States, this was a little shabby, but talent is talent, and we were watching amazing athletes run and no one was bothering us.

I loved watching the track events as Melissa explained rules and critiques to me. I loved watching people warm up running--they looked so free and fast. I loved sitting in the same section that other athletes sat to watch competitors. I loved watching the hurdlers. I loved when the women's soccer game started and Melissa explained the positions and tactics of the game.

Soccer is football. Track events are called athletics. The medal ceremony is called the prize-giving ceremony. Not many people pay much attention with the medals being given, and few people cheer. Still, we stood for the national anthems. It was the first time I heard the Pakistani and Sri Lankan national anthems.

There were so many thoughts flying through both Melissa's and my head as we watched the women's soccer game. Nepal crushed Pakistan (it was 4-0 when we left at half-time). The Pakistani players had on long-sleeve shirts and pants tucked into tall socks. The Nepali players wore shorts and short-sleeve shirts. There are so many questions about what it means to be a woman in cultures here in Asia. I have no understanding of it. And what about poverty? That affects everything, including how we play and the fact that we have the chance to play. And what about my white skin? If my skin were darker, I am pretty certain I would not have gotten into the VIP section so easily.

I am fairly certain this was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. As Melissa said to me on the way back, "I am all about taking advantage of once-in-a-lifetime opportunities."

Thanks, Melissa. I would never have had the courage to think of this on my own.

Some Adjectives

Funny: We are in a Muslim country where alcohol is frowned upon, so instead of alcohol menus in restaurants, there are cigarette menus.

No smoking in public places is an American thing.

Scary: The sidewalks are in pretty bad shape. Walking them is like walking a minefield. Last night while walking home in the dark, I was dodging sewer holes (that are actually large squares) where the covers have been removed. If you don’t look at the ground as you walk, you are liable to fall to your death; if you don’t look up, you are liable to run into men.

I’m not sure which is worse . . .

Nice: I’ve seen real coffee for sale.

Score!

Interesting: The building behind the language school is being torn down. Yesterday at lunch while Melissa and I were sitting with all our teachers at the table, we heard commotion from the house behind. Men were shouting and whooping. To my ears, it sounded angry and chaotic. However, Susan, the principal, informed Melissa and I that the men shout and become lively to gain more energy because the work is so hard.

I should try this while studying . . .

Cool: The South Asian Games are going on in Dhaka right now. Melissa figures that these games are happening because most of South Asia does not have winter Olympic sports. Yesterday, we were waiting for a friend at the Westin (a 5-star hotel) and athletes began walking in. We assume these are world-class athletes who would be in the summer Olympics.

I was close enough to touch them . . . J

Astounding: Bicycle rickshaws are the way to get around here. Yesterday I saw a bike rickshaw that looked like it had a cab. In the cab were five people. They were being toted through the congested roads by a thin, small man who looked like he was used every ounce of strength to pedal just one stroke down . . . yet he did it over and over and over and over.

And I thought biking with thirty-five pounds as a load was difficult . . .

Oh, the adventures to be had . . .

I am thankful I am traveling with someone who has traveled more than me. In certain situations--like border crossings--I wish I had more experience to lend wisdom in, but, alas, the only border crossings have been in the air, and compared to what we experienced yesterday, all my customs and immigration passings have been relatively painless up to this point.

The first thing to know is that most things about India appear on the surface to be exceedingly chaotic, but in the midst of the chaos, things get accomplished . . . somehow . . . sometimes . . . after much wandering and going from here to there with lots of activity and "Yes, okay, maam. No problem," and a bob of the head.

Melissa and I set out at 5 in the morning for the bus station. Our bus left at 6. There wasn't too much exciting about that part of the adventure. However, the excitement started at the border where everything that we are told not to do we did. For example, we had to hand over our passports that then got passed around a bit. This is very irksome. If there were signs where to go, they were hidden by all the other signs, so thankfully, we were herded to where we needed to go. So when we got to the exchange place, our passports were handed to an older man who put them in his pocket and then walked out, motioning for us to follow him. Our eyes were glued to that pocket.

We then went to immigration to get a stamp. It was an open room with three random chairs. "Sit down," we were told, and off our passports went to the men on the other side of the room behind the counter. The question on our minds was, where are our bags? We had been taken off the bus and told not to worry about our bags but not worrying about our bags is very difficult to do. Then we walked from one building to another amidst a very busy street. How on earth would our luggage make it to us? Oh, but somehow amidst the language barrier, we got our stamp and found our luggage outside this room, surrounded by men who wanted to carry our bags for us (because a tip is expected). At the customs counter, a gentleman asked where were from in the States. We proceeded to tell him, but when I said Ohio, he said very matter-of-factly, "In my country we call it Okio."

Huh? Just go with it.

Then we walked across the border, through the fence (we had our passports at this point). Confusion persisted with the tipping problem and not having small bills. Then off we were hustled through customs, where the man just waved us through. He didn't care about our bags or even our passports. Down the busy road filling with men and trucks and bicycles we walked and into a small room we led where someone again took our passports and filled out our immigration papers for us (he even put in an address to where we will be staying . . . I didn't even know this information). Then off we went, he with our passports and our bags once again left deserted in this small, crowded room. In immigration, we stood close to the wall that read, "Waiting corner." Before too long, we were motioned out of the room back to the small crowded room from whence we were then herded onto a van. Eventually, we saw our bags make it onto a cart, but when the van went down the road, our bags remained motionless on the cart.

All this to say, we and our bags made it onto the bus. Maybe an hour and a half total elapsed and then we were off--but only for a little bit. Too soon our bus came to a halt. We thought maybe it was just a jam. And it was, but it was a traffic jam to get onto the ferry, and this traffic jam lasted 7 hours. We were expected to make it to Dhaka by 7 in the evening. We arrived at 2 in the morning.

Through it all, though, we were taken care of. Melissa was able to call ahead and let our friend know we would be very late. For that reason, our drop-off point changed, but once arriving in Dhaka, it changed again because the bus driver intelligently ran over a cement median that scraped the bottom of the bus bringing it to a very quick halt. I saw a median. Melissa saw a median. What did he see?

At two in the morning when Melissa and I were sitting atop our luggage on a bicycle rickshaw, I had to smile at this bit of the adventure. I can't say I want to relive any of it, but we made it.

All this to say, I am very thankful for Melissa.

On the move.

This past weekend in Chennai, the k-town staff was with the Nepali, Thai and Chennai staff. We had many meals and meetings together, gathering updates and prayers from one another. In the current of these events, there were many languages being spoken and translated. It was so beautiful. One of the Nepali staff commented after he had translated for one of the Bengali staff, "A Bengali speaking in Hindi while a Nepali translates into English." It was great.

We were by the beach in Chennai, soaking in the sun and warm weather. Kolkata has been in the 60's mostly. Not bad, but chilly in the evenings. We arrived back late, late Sunday night (Monday morning). In the morning we saw off the Nepali staff.

These past two days have been preparing and gathering what I need for Bangladesh. Today is India's Republic Day, a holiday. I woke up to very loud music blaring that has not stopped all day. Where I am staying, the flat is on the 5th floor, but the height of a building does not diminish noise. Last night as I was going to sleep, I had the feeling of trying to fall asleep at a tractor pull . . . and that's only a slight exaggeration.

I think I am over jet lag by now. I am feeling good during the day and at night I sleep well. Walking the streets hasn't felt nearly as foreign as it did two years ago, but it still takes so much getting used to--all the stares, all the crowds, all the pushing. I find myself getting defensive too easily when someone tries to push past me in line, and then I remind myself to let the fight go; it's not worth getting upset over. Right now I am able to keep a balanced perspective because I have not been here long. I think my fight lies deeper within. What I know happens, though, is the longer I am here, the more quickly the fight comes out. I just keep praying for a soft heart always. And then I pray that I keep praying that . . .

Tomorrow, bright and early, my teammate, Melissa, and I head for the border. We travel by bus to Bangladesh where we will be spending the next four months. New adventures are coming our way. School begins Sunday.

If I pop into your mind, send a quick prayer up for me in learning this language. I need to be confident and outgoing, both of which are difficult for someone who hates to make a fool of herself. Silly me.

Always with hope . . .

I'm back to Kolkata.

On arrival, I waited until the conveyor belt stopped, telling me that although there were no hitches to my arriving safely to K-town, the same was not true for my luggage. Alas, for the first time while traveling overseas, my luggage did not make it. Poo.

However, waiting for me outside the airport were the WMF staffers, and a whole lot of welcome. The feel in the air was not what I remembered because I have never been here while it is "cold" (50's-60's); most everything else feels slightly familiar. It doesn't seem like a lot has changed with the exceptions of new stops on the metro (extending farther than Tollygunge, for my old Servant Team who might care), new buses around the city (that might even have a/c, I'm told), and green rickshaws (rather than black & yellow--those are now outlawed). The streets are still very crowded, the horns are still blaring constantly, and the food is just as spicy.

Today we called the airport and found out my bags had arrived--I just had to go clear them through customs. We went to the airport and other than running around a little to find the Air India offices, we had no difficulty. My bags were intact. Thank God for my luggage! I felt like I was receiving a gift today . . . it was very fun to unpack.

Tomorrow bright and early we leave for South India. From now until Melissa and I leave for Bangladesh, we will be traveling a lot. It feels more like vacation right now than it does a big life move. All the transition is going well. I am feeling pretty okay.

Thank you for all your thoughts and prayers!

Until next time, always with hope.

Hello, Reality.

It's around change and death when we really take stock of what we have. I have the change part bearing down on me strongly--the reality of my coming move is setting in. This holiday season (from Thanksgiving to Christmas) has been completely amazing. I have been able to be around friends and family I haven't seen in years, and I have been able to spend solid quality time with those closest to me. Taking stock of what I am about to leave, even though it's only for three years (to begin with), has played with my emotions: I am excited. I am nervous. I am scared. I am ready. I will be brave. I will adjust. I will thrive.

But the home I know may not be here for me when I come back to the States. Interstate 77 will have a new on-ramp by Buehler's. Some of my closest friends will change their last names. Some will begin dating; some will have babies; some will move; some will graduate. People will endure things and change in the process (for better or worse) so that when I come home I will have to become reacquainted with old friends. None of this is huge in and of itself, but it adds up. Life as I knew it is over . . . as dramatic as that sounds.

I've been told it's okay to grieve what I am leaving behind.

Most days I can hold myself together pretty well, but today, grieving is easy and holding back the tears is too hard. My family was given another dose of reality: my uncle Ed, my mom's brother from North Carolina, died just after the new year began. The heart seems to get the Byler family: he passed away from a heart attack.

What was so beautiful about this Christmas was that Ed came up to Ohio to spend ten days with the family here. It had been three years since we had seen Ed--time somehow gets away from everyone--but he was able to take the time this year to be here. God's sovereignty is beautiful especially with the events of this morning. We cherish the moments we had with him. And, oh, how lovely it is to know Ed is with Jesus, basking in peace.

My uncle Ed began supporting me in my journey to India this year. When he first told me of his intentions, I felt humbled: I knew he didn't have much money, but he was giving out of what he had. At the time I felt hugely encouraged by that. Now, I feel doubly blessed to know that he believed in me and supported me. Not that I am going to be on his mind when he sees Jesus and when he sees Grandma, Grandpa and Uncle Simon, but hopefully over the course of them catching up, he'll tell them what I am about to embark on. I like to think they already know.

Tell Grandma, Grandpa and Simon I miss them here.

It's now that I realize what I always take for granted . . . I'll see you next time. Three years really isn't that long and I'll be home in between, but much can happen, especially as my family gets older. When my mom called to tell me the news this morning, my mind jumped a million different places before she told me what had actually happened. I didn't realize I could be so negative! It made me see all the people in my life who are so dear to me. Lord, help me cherish these moments.

So, hello, Reality. The romance is gone. My decisions are made, my course is set.

Lord, give me strength to walk this out.