A candle on Christmas Eve

My candle had melted down to a two-inch tall mess, and a lot of the mess was on my fingers.  I thought it was too pathetic to give to anyone, but a young man took it from my hands.  He then bent down and handed the candle to a two-foot tall boy.  The boy's eyes lit up like you wouldn't believe.  He stood oblivious to everything around him, his whole face smiling, looking with wonder at the little flame in his little fingers.

As I looked down, my whole face smiling, I envisioned an out-of-body experience where I saw the scene from above.  Immediately above I only see myself, singing Silent Night, and a tiny boy in awe of his candle.  A little higher up and there are a hundred people standing together, nearly all poor, nearly all Muslim, standing in the cold with their little candles and singing (or just listening...mostly listening).  Higher up and you see the whole slum, tin houses and brick houses and tarp huts, desperately poor and regular poor mixed together, with a strange constellation of lights moving together about its alleyways.  Higher still and you see a city of three million people, lights on in some districts and blacked out in others, full of old money and new money and no money, where the most powerful people in the state live in gigantic houses and fancy condo complexes side-by-side with the poorest slums I've ever seen.  Higher still and you see the largest state in the world, two hundred million people and counting, one percent of whom are celebrating like we are celebrating that night.

I couldn't get any higher than that.  But back down on the ground, I looked at a little boy with a candle lighting up his face and wondered at it all.

Scenes from a new city

While two of my friends were talking to each other, I noticed a monkey sitting in our doorway, chilling. None of us had noticed, but he really didn't look like he was up to any mischief, or anything much at all.  That's the third time a monkey has come inside in the last two weeks. Some people think they're pests, but I'd rather live in a neighborhood with monkeys than one without.

Three days ago I passed a dead man on the side of the road. That was the second dead body I've walked by this week. I'm pretty sure that this one was a homeless man who'd died after going to sleep on the road. The other one was a train accident victim. After less than half a year in this country, I've seen several times more bodies than I'd seen in my entire life to this point.  

We were only in our potential new neighborhood for about two minutes before a woman invited us inside. Her 16-year-old daughter made chai while her 17-year-old son told us he was studying design. Their hospitality was so sweet. The bottom floor of the small two-room-home was decorated like other Muslim homes...but when the son showed us his room on top, it had a giant stitching of Jesus's crucifixion on one wall and of Sai Baba on the other wall. He told us he had made them himself, and if we gave him a picture he'd make one of us too. We were profoundly confused.

As we walked through the crowded market in front of our new neighborhood today, there were people who stood out from the crowd. A man whose arm ended in stumps sat cross-legged on a rug. Two boys, each with only one leg, held a blanket between them as they called out mirroring chants. A small widow with her face entirely covered lifted up her hands without a word. A blind man made his way through the crowd as his son led him. A child called out to passersby from the ground while his brother lay unresponsive in front of him, a small circle of blood leaking through the bandages that encircled his head. I don't want them to have to live this way. The more you learn about their lives, the worse you feel. But what do you do about it???

On Thursday I took a walk alongside the river to spend some time in nature. I saw five different species of frog. I saw more human excrement than most sewer workers see in a year. I photographed a dozen species of butterfly. I watched kids who should have been in early elementary school collecting trash to recycle. I was invited to sit for cups of chai by two different groups of guys, was fed two samosas, and had more friendly chats than I can remember.

It's a beautiful place. And if it doesn't make you want to cry on a daily basis, then you know you're starting to get numb again.

A Tale of Two Cities

We board a budget flight from India to Bangkok. It strikes me that our flight is full of single men. I take the time to count passengers – out of about 105 people on the flight, 66 are Indian men traveling alone or in all-male tour groups. Another dozen or so passengers are foreigners, and the rest of the passengers are Indian families, couples, and women.  Of the men (traveling without women) that dominate the flight, I am especially struck by a group of 15 middle-aged, middle-class Indian men who appear to be going to Bangkok on a tour together.

Bangkok is a “destination city”. That means that it is a destination for human trafficking. Women are brought from all over Thailand – and indeed, all over the world, especially southeast Asia, central Asia, eastern Europe, and Africa – in order to service men in Bangkok’s sex industry. But it could also be called a “destination city” for men. Sex tourists travel from all over the world in order to take advantage of these women. Approximately 60% of men who travel alone to Thailand will end up participating in the sex industry. It accounts for an estimated 3% of Thailand's GDP (about the same as what defense spending accounts for in America). I have the feeling that these all-male tour groups might ramp up those percentages.

......

I board a bus from Chiang Mai to Pha Yao. Across the aisle from me is a teenage girl, traveling back to Pha Yao alone. I see a number of other young women interspersed among the bus seats, also traveling alone. I can’t make assumptions about their travels – some of them certainly are students, commuting back from Chiang Mai to visit their families.

But I can’t help remembering that Pha Yao is famous as a “source city”. In the major cities of Thailand it is known to both traffickers and the NGOs that combat them as a major location to get young girls. When my in-laws took a tour of Thailand, even the tour guide openly told the group of the city's reputation as the place where beautiful young women are bought in order to be taken to the sex districts of Chiang Mai, Bangkok, and other "destination cities". And as I think of that, I can't help but wonder how many of the young women traveling alone back to Pha Yao had been away from home for that very reason.

......

I believe that knowledge is a good thing, and I'm glad I have it, and think I should share it. But sometimes, as I'm traveling to and from such cities and remembering such things, knowledge brings a lot of pain. Please pray for the girls, the johns, the pimps, the madames, the traffickers, their families and neighbors, and those who are working to help them find paths to a more fulfilling life.

Learning violence

I was laying down in my room a few hours ago when I heard a kid speaking in an intimidating manner.  Aggressive speech is not unusual, so I ignored it.  Seconds later, a neighbor kid called out for me twice.  I hurried over and found an older boy holding down my neighbor (who is around 7-8 years old) and trying to cover his mouth.  My neighbor looked quite distressed.  The older boy let go when he saw me and my neighbor ran off to his place.

The kids in our neighborhood can be really violent.  Boys fight a lot, often for play.  But just as often I'll see an older child hitting, pulling, or hurting a younger child, even a baby.  I try to say something whenever I can, which appears to have a little bit of shock value that stops them for now.  It's disturbing to realize how often it goes on.

They learn this at an early age.  Striking is a common punishment that parents inflict on children here, even very young ones.  And children are taught from an early age to strike something that hurts them.  For example, when a toddler runs into a chair and hurts himself, the parents will get him to hit the chair so he'll feel better.  Unsurprisingly, you will often see such young kids repeatedly striking their parents, other adults, and siblings - and they'll get away with it until they reach the age where the adults stop thinking it's cute and hit them back.  Once the kids get a little older, they use it as a tool to control younger kids who can't hit back.

The whole trend really bothers me.  It reminds me of studies in America which show that a huge number of child abusers were also abused as children.  If the only form of problem-solving you've ever been taught is physical violence, then physical violence is what you will express.  Especially if you've been taught that physical violence is what bigger, stronger authority figures use to get their way - then you'll be anxiously waiting until you're bigger and stronger enough to get your way as well.

Of course, it's not just parents that we learn this lesson from.  On an international level, bigger, stronger nations are just as keen to use violence and the threat of violence in order to get their way.  In fact, not only do they use violence as an important means of getting their way, they also keep reminding their citizens that they must keep the nation as militarily powerful as possible so that they can continue to get their way.  At the same time, they hope to keep other nations weaker.  Is it the slightest bit surprising that some of the weaker nations look at the biggest, strongest nations, those using violence to get their way, and yearn for the day when they can have the scariest weapons so that they can get their way too?

Commotion

There's a guy in our community who suffers from mental illness.  He sits near a storefront just a few feet from my friends' room.  When he's not doing well, he yells incoherently and makes motions with his head.  It looks like he's suffering.  At times my friend will sit next to him and try to talk.  He does not communicate back, but it does seem to calm him.  We had never seen anyone else try to communicate with him.  Someone cuts his hair on occasion though, and somehow he gets food.

A couple days ago there was a major festival in our community.  I decided to wander out and get some of the unique Eid food that was being sold.  While I was out among the crowds, I noticed a commotion, and then saw our mentally ill friend get up and run.  A gang of children chased him.  My heart sank.  From what I could tell, the children had crowded around him and were purposely taunting him.  I went after them to try to keep them away and give him a little peace, but he managed to outrun them and the children seemed to disperse.  I went back and got some food.

About the time I finished my food, I head a commotion again.  The man was standing on the top of the divider in the middle of the street, screaming in agony.  Children were once again following and taunting him.  I think some were throwing rocks.  I saw that some older youth were involved, and anger got the better of me.  I ran up to them and raised my voice in Hindi/Urdu.  "What are you doing?"  "Why?"

They stopped, looked confused, and tried to explain to me that the guy was crazy.  That didn't placate me.

"I know!"  "So?'  "Would God be happy with what you're doing right now?"  I continued expressing my upsetness at them, sometimes switching into English when my limited Hindi/Urdu vocabulary failed me.  The youth started to explain that they didn't speak English, to which I responded (in Hindi) that I knew they understood me anyway.  Still, they went off a little ways and brought back a guy I'd never seen before who spoke a little English.  He listened to them explain what they wanted to get across to me.

Then he turned to me, said, "They are illiterate fools," and walked away.

I don't know what to do for our mentally ill friend.  The resources to help him don't appear to exist here (heck, the resources to help people like him in America barely even exist).  The children who are taunting him truly don't know any better.  I should try to spend more time with him, but I'm not sure if that will do much, especially as limited as my language is.  I feel for him, a lot.  And I know that there are many others like him, with far more people around willing to taunt what they don't understand rather than there are people willing to stand by someone they love.

Changing the blog name

I haven't posted on this blog in a long time.  That's unfortunate, because I've had much to share and few people to talk to about it.  One step I'm going to take in a better direction is to change the name of the blog (something I've wanted to do for at least a year) and to redirect the purpose a little.

I'm changing the name of the blog to "Servant, Learner, Storyteller."  Too often people who are entering a new culture with the idea of "helping" the people try to come in as the leader, the teacher, and the judge.  That can lead to a negative reception among the people they're trying to help.  And even those who are receptive can then fall into a position of dependency, of continued reliance on the foreigner to lead them, teach them, and tell them what they're doing wrong.  We want our friends here to get the respect they deserve, we want to see something more sustainable happen among them, and so we want to try a different model.  Hence the name of the blog.

From now on the blog is going to focus on stories of our experiences (and eventually our service) here, with occasional lessons that I'm learning.  I am going to move most of my theological reflections and other thoughts to another blog.  I'll post the name and URL when I create it.

I should also note that I have no connection to the organization called "World Servants".  I found out that they use the same motto, but though I'm sure we got the idea from the same source, I hadn't even heard of them until I googled the motto just now.

And they passed by on the other side...

The three of us walked along the street on a hot afternoon.  We were avoiding the 70 rupees it would cost us to take two bicycle rickshaws over that stretch.  Temperatures were over 100 degrees with high humidity, but it wasn't all that far to walk and we were traveling between two well-fanned homes.  Still, a couple in a car pulled over next to us.  "Where are you going?  Would you like a lift?"  We considered it, but declined.

As the couple pulled away, I looked at the other two people who had been walking right next to us.  A man and woman approximately the same age as us, but clearly poorer by their clothes.  Each held a baby in their arms.  They were trying to use small pieces of cloth to shelter the babies from the sun.  They were not offered a lift.

I know that this is not the only place in the world where wealthy-looking people are offered favors at the same time that more needy but poor-looking people are ignored.  Who do we offer rides to when we are driving down the street?  Who do we not even notice is there?

Transportation in the City: Photo edition

About a month ago I did a post on the different types of transportation we see here. I decided to collect a little photo evidence, so here goes. Nearly all of these photos were taken on the same short stretch of the same road, during a low-traffic time. If you read the last post, you know I could have included even more.



Horse-drawn cart

Motorcycle

Tricycle Cart

Bicycle

Auto-rickshaw

Personal SUV

Gigantic three-wheeler

Mini-bus

Bicycle Rickshaw

Bus

Garmin Sewa (the type we fit 20 people in)

Pedestrian

Pony

Water-buffalo drawn cart

Push-cart

A nice picture with a little variety

Ox-drawn carts and SUVs get stuck in traffic just the same

Sabbath day

Once a week we are required to take a day off.  It is a good idea.  How we spend the day is up to us.  This was my latest Sabbath day:

8:30am: We sleep in and have a late breakfast.  My plan is to spend the day doing online Bible studies, emailing friends, and checking sports scores.  Before I start, wet laundry is hung over the computer, disabling it for the day.  Time for a new plan.

10:30am: I take off on a walk.  Several miles away is a park that I’m told is quiet.  On the way I see guys lying on the sidewalk, some of whom are not in a good state.  The thought comes to mind that these are the kind of guys the Missionaries of Charity look to care for.  They stay on my mind and I feel for them.  But I walk past and head towards the park.

I realize I have taken the wrong bridge across the river, and end up in a trashed area where a few Indians are bathing.  I make friends with a water buffalo and watch birds.

Noon: I decide that the park is to the south.  On the way I enter a concrete structure and notice middle-class Indians on a bench.  I almost walk past them before they call me over and point out that I am walking through a ghat (Hindu crematorium).  In front of us are bodies in various stages of burning, and I had walked past three who had been burned earlier in the day.  I am embarrassed, but they don’t seem to mind.  The men ask me to sit down with them.  First they ask me questions, then share about themselves and about the work colleague who had died.  O.P. gives me a reference to a friend of his who teaches Hindi to foreigners, and we exchange numbers.  I say goodbye and turn back the way I came.

12:30pm: As I walk back, I pass an older man picking through trash.  He pleads for me to give him something.  I tell him that I can’t and walk by.  Thoughts race through my mind, trying to figure out why I just did that.  I can’t come up with a justifiable reason, so I turn and walk back, handing him 50 rupees.  That’s not enough for an American or wealthy Indian to even buy a coffee – this guy will stretch it over 4-6 meals if he’s careful.  Internally, I pray for him.

I make my way around the ghat, but first must pass through an open area where guys are hanging out in the afternoon shade.   A monkey walks along the wall.  Several men on a mat call me over, and I sit down.  One speaks English.  They ask me about my time in Delhi.  They tell me that this is a government homeless camp.  Dhinender shows me their home – a temporary tin building.  Inside is a television, water, and sleeping mats for 40-50 guys.  The paid employee manning the door looks at me oddly, but doesn’t say anything.  Dhinender was eager to show me the setup, but finds little to say about it and we go back.  There are several of these temporary buildings in a row.

Back with the guys, they offer me water and cigarettes.  They tell me that they start playing games around 4pm – cricket, volleyball, chess.  I say I’ll play some other day, but today my wife expects me home.  They try to convince me, and then to schedule an exact day when I’ll come back.  My schedule is packed, and I can’t give them a time.  I say my goodbyes and continue wandering.

1:30pm: After a long walk past the ghat, a historical site, a small bustee, and a stretch of scrub, I reach the park.  It is almost empty on this hot day – perhaps 50 Indians spread over its narrow mile, and no farengii besides myself.  Some men and women are laboring in a canal.  A group of boys and young men are playing in the lake.  The park is quiet compared to my bustee, but so was the riverside, the ghat, the homeless camp, and the scrub.  Halfway down, a man on the other side of the lake calls out to me and insists that I come over.  I try to mime that the lake is in the way, but he insists and shows me across.  We sit down and talk about our lives in Hindi.  He delivers clothing with his small vehicle.  He does not have positive things to say about the bustee where I live.  We talk about planes and fishing.  After a time together sitting in the shade, I bid my farewell.

2:30pm: On the way back I take the correct bridge.  Unfortunately, large sections of the footpath lie on the bottom of the river.  It feels like a very long crossing as I pick my way past the bad parts and wonder whether I’m the largest guy who has ever walked on the “good” parts.  I snap a few photos.  

Late afternoon: I arrive home earlier than I expected, having experienced more than I expected.  I spend the next few hours taking a bucket bath, washing clothes, tending to the drying computer, tidying up, studying Hindi.  The day’s encounters play through my mind.  What have I learned today?  Why did I meet the guys that I did?  With all the pain that I saw, why did a day like today give me so much energy to keep on striving here?

I am weak

But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

When I first visited India in 2004, I got sick three times in 2.5 weeks.  Everywhere we went I made a mental note of every toilet I saw, knowing I might soon have to use it.  During one bad episode I wasn't able to lock the door in time and was walked in on in a humiliating moment.  Late in the trip I just stopped eating for over two days, feeling that it was easier to cope that way.

And through all that, there was a distinct point two weeks in when I realized, "Even if it was like this all the time, it'd still be worth it to be here."

In six weeks in India last year I didn't get sick once, and in an entire year in Thailand I only had one short illness.  Fool's gold.

One week into life here in the slum, I started getting sick.  It lasted a week, followed by a week of semi-recovery, and then I was blasted again last night by another malady.  I am weak.

That's not the only way I feel my weakness here.  We are babies in the language, and I am significantly worse at it than the rest of my team.  We make cultural errors.  We don't know how to get around.  We clean wrong, bathe wrong, dress wrong.  We have to rely on others to teach us everything.  We have to learn to be okay with being humble, often.

And in our weakness, we are strong.

We didn't come as teachers, as leaders, as judges.  We come to learn and to serve, and to share a story.  Those of roles of humility.  The weaker I realize I am, the better I will fit into them.