I want to see

For our time of staff prayer on Friday morning, we read Psalm 37: 1-24. It’s a beautiful Psalm of reassurance that God will act on behalf of his people, of those who are oppressed and downtrodden, and that God will not allow the wicked to prosper. Some translations tell the hearer, “Do not worry,” and other translations say, “Do not fret.” The Lord will act.

It’s beautiful . . . but it’s a bit hard to believe when every day the wicked are actually prospering and those who are oppressed are flung back into the dirt and trash heaps all around this world. Faith doesn’t come easily when there seems to be such a huge dichotomy between the promise of what is supposed to be and what is. Trust is sometimes hanging on by a thread.

God, I know it’s true because I know that the words you say are not false. There is nothing false or deceptive about you. I do believe you and I am trying to trust you. Give me eyes to see.

Today after church I was piddling around our kitchen, cleaning dishes, chopping vegetables, and making Ramen noodle soup (with an egg in it for protein). All the while, I was listening to a sermon by Pastor DeNeff, my pastor from my college years. The church in Marion is going through a series called Soul Shift. The overall theme is the need for us to relearn and rethink all that we have taken for granted in our Christian life. Today was about shifting our gaze from that which is seen to that which is unseen.

Most people who’ve sat in church long enough have heard a sermon about this topic, but there was a twist. When we talk about the unseen world and getting new eyes to see, maybe we have always assumed we understood and we were actually seeing unseen things. We’re at least aware there’s an unseen world and we believe in it. Isn’t that half of seeing? But what if what we thought as seeing the unseen was only like a blind man envisioning what a sighted man was describing but never really seeing for himself? Maybe that’s the best vision we have, and maybe we think that is exactly what God meant by seeing (because we’ve never seen any better).

But what if there’s more?

What if seeing the unseen is like looking at our skin with our naked eye and then putting our skin under the most high-powered microscope available? We thought we knew what our skin looked like, and we’ve even had people tell us bacteria lives on our skin. We know there are pores. We can envision all this in our mind: the bacteria, the pores, the hair follicles, the layers of skin, etc. But envisioning it in the mind is nothing compared to actually seeing it through a microscope. There’s a whole different world there we never knew existed . . . even though we were told about it and had a mental picture!

So what if that is how I am seeing this scripture passage? What if that’s how I am seeing the kingdom of God? I have an idea and a picture of what God’s kingdom and justice and peace look like. I can envision it, but what I envision from what I have grown up understanding about these concepts is nothing like what I see in the world around me. And this is what is causing the dissonance in my heart. None of what this passage of scripture is saying is coming true. Maybe tiny glimpses of these promises flit before my eyes for a second, but it doesn’t last. Then my hope and faith struggle to hold on.

What if what Pastor DeNeff shared today was true? What if what I think of as seeing the unseen in the world around me everyday is only word pictures in my mind rather than the real thing? That would explain a lot of discrepancies.

“For now we see in part. Then we will see fully.” Can I believe this? Lord, will you open my eyes now so that I can actually see what is unseen—not just word pictures?

Blind Bartimaeus, when asked by Jesus what he wanted, asked for way more than he was conditioned to ask for. As Pastor DeNeff pointed out, his entire life Bartimaeus asked for what he thought he could get from people: food, money. But when Jesus asked him, apparently Blind Bartimaeus knew that Jesus could give him a lot more than just food or money. He asked for the impossible; he asked to see.

Am I so conditioned to this world that I don’t even consider asking Jesus for what he really can give me—what he really wants to give me?

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner: I want to see.

The Tyranny of Chaos

The tyranny of chaos. I was talking with a friend last night, and he used that phrase. It stuck in my mind because so often in this city, all I can say over and over in my mind is, “Chaos. This is complete chaos.” How true this phrase is: chaos is a tyrant that leaves little room for humanity.

Part of my job now is to accompany ladies to the hospital. For the last almost three weeks, I have been going with one of our ladies to have an abscess treated. Last week we had it drained, but we’re still going back and forth to get the dressings changed. Today as I waited in the craziness of the crowds outside where the doctor was sitting, I just kept thinking how hellish the system is. Somehow, people are treated and most often come away better than they were before they walked into the hospital, but there’s absolutely no peace. There is so much fighting and yelling and shoving.

At one point, I honestly thought there was going to be a riot because people were cutting in line and it was just a big mob scene. I stood squashed against the wall dumbfounded. I kept thinking how this chaos is not better than the relatively small amount of trouble it would take for those in charge to try to organize people and systems. Because this is all people have ever known, this is all that will every happen until someone has the foresight to make it better. Does anyone know it can be better? Right now, chaos reigns. And he is a hellish tyrant. No one walking out of that room (which was almost as crowded as the metro during rush hour) could feel good about himself. Not that people go to hospitals to feel good about themselves, but at least if there’s organization, you don’t have to fight in the midst of your pain and sickness.

What happened inside me in response to this chaos did not catch me by surprise; it happens here all the time, but this time I recognized where the evil effects came from. The chaos surrounding me clawed its way into my heart. I began to resent the people around me, looking down at them for their reactions and their fight. I began to want to fight only for my friend rather than give back as much dignity as possible to the people around me. I felt the hate in my heart. The chaos around me sucked me in and I became part of it. This is the tyranny of chaos: that I can see it for what it is yet still succumb to it. But it’s not the people that I really hate. How can I blame them for simply trying to survive? That, however, is a whole other issue.

Oh, but my friend is a trouper. She and I got through the mad chaos and then had tea. On our way to the metro, she bought a vegetable that resembled a cucumber, had it cut with spices put on it. As we were walking to SB through the Gach, she and I ate our snack. Inwardly, I wasn’t too thrilled about eating the vegetable because it wasn’t washed and who knows how many hands it went through, but I couldn’t say no when she had bought it to share with me. Lord, bless those bugs.

We walked, laughed and ate our snack through another of Kolkata’s mad, chaotic places, but this time, as I walked with my friend, I felt like a human. I felt normal. There may be chaos all around me, but I must continue trying not to let that chaos infiltrate my heart and soul. If I can keep my eyes on Christ and see our ladies and the beauty of them, I can detect rays of hope. It’s their friendship and love that make this world and work bearable.

I pray that my love and friendship can quell a bit of the chaos of their lives . . . let a little peace flood in. That tyrant can’t rule forever.

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 . . .