This article was written by Ludivine, a volunteer from the organization Missions Etrangères de Paris (Foreign Missions from Paris). She is living in Mymensingh and working with the Taizé Brothers for two months.
We left for three days with about twenty very poor children from the Mymensingh Rail station, our destination was a beautiful village a few kilometers away from the town of Haluaghat, north of Mymensingh. Let me tell you, this group of children was ecstatic to be going on this adventure! With no luggage to be found, not even a little sack, they arrived with big smiles on their faces. Having left behind their little houses and their burlap bags, normally used for picking up paper found on the streets in order to resell it, they were ready for a new adventure.
After an hour of driving “Bangladesh-style” (that is, ridiculously fast and laying on the horn the whole way), we arrived alive in the town of Haluaghat. From there, we continued our journey in a “tempo”, a very bumpy type of minibus, which is always overflowing with an unimaginable number of passengers. Once again it was a wild ride, and quite the adventure! Every five minutes or so around 10 children would get off the tempo to lighten the load and push the vehicle through the ruts and over the bumps of the virtually destroyed road. But even that could not dampen our spirits! A few hours later we had finally arrived in the little village where we were staying the next few days. We were hosted by a wonderful family of farmers, friends of the Taizé Brothers, and members of the Garo indigenous group.
The program continued with regular dips in the cool waters of beautiful ponds, sessions full of songs, games and drawing, strolls by the river and finally a large work site, the “tree plantation.” Thanks to a great idea by brother Guillaume, we were going to plant a hundred saplings. Now this is not an easy task, but for a group of courageous, brash, young children, with no worries in the world, it is but a challenge to be overcome. There again I underestimated their remarkable creativity and ability to do whatever it is they want. Some of these children are no more than three feet tall and yet there they were, digging, planting, and clearing the field as if they had been doing it all their lives.
Apart from their incredible ingenuity, it became obvious that these children were no angels! Like many Bangladeshis, it is unbelievable how easily they become angry and hot under the collar. At the slightest provocation between the children, without a moments delay, a fist fight would ensue, because after all that is how problems are solved, a lesson these young children have had engrained in them at a very early age. At times it was necessary for us to intervene and calm the childrens nerves; brother Guillaume noted quickly that I had picked up the most important phrases for solving little fights among the children; phrases such as “choop koro!”, which means “be quiet!”, or “eyta bhalo na!” to say “that’s not good!”.
We had a wonderful three days together. Everyone returned exhausted (both the children and the volunteers), but we were all so happy! For me, I really appreciated the opportunity to get to know the children a little bit better during our time together, and it was so fun to be able to put names to the faces of the children at the station. I have been able to better understand the children who live in such poverty by the Rail station, and I hope I can help them more in the future, and be able to understand a little bit more about their daily lives.
Ludivine.
This article was translated from its original French, any mistakes in translation are my own.
Peace.
Steve.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
The Marriage Dilemma
A friend confessed to me yesterday that he was having a rough day; he was confused and wanted some help. The story is one that I have heard too many times here, and it is one to challenge cultural practices around the world. The Marriage Dilemma.
Marriages are a strange proposition here in Bangladesh. My friend's sister got married just before Christmas 2007 to a guy she had only met once. This may seem strange to a North American or European audience, but here in Bangladesh and India this is the norm.
The process starts:
- A girl's mother and father decide their daughter is of a proper age for marriage (this age depends on many factors including education, trust, financial stability, and more).
- A boy's mother and father decide their son is of a proper age for marriage (all the same factors are involved)
- The girl's parents find a trusted friend or relative to look for a suitable partner for their daughter.
- The boy's parents find a trusted friend or relative to look for a suitable partner for their son.
- Those friends or relatives searching for a marriage partner then begin the search, they listen to gossip about those who may or may not be near ready to get married, they listen to stories from people who have been to other villages for news of someone wanting to marry.
- Finally those searching friends or relatives find each other and they start talking. Discussed are matters such as finances, gifts, ages and family expectations.
- Once everything is fixed, the wedding proceeds within a few months.
And there is the process. This cultural process is followed consistently by Muslims, Christians and Hindus. This method of choosing marriage partners is a good way to keep families happy (most of the time), and to keep the community happy. And everyone knows, happy communities make for happy families. Of course, it doesn't always work.
The idea of a "love marriage" here in Bangladesh, is one of communal shame and sadness. It is a choice a young person makes to marry because they truly love as opposed to marrying to maintain their position and their family's name. Marriage here is not based on two people's choice to spend their lives together, it is based on the community.
Back to my friend's story. His sister got married to a man she had only met once before. That was 7 months ago. Now come the problems. The gifts were not given in full, and the families begin to quarrel. Another girl (a Muslim no less) comes on the scene. And the problems begin.
Now here is the dilemma. There is a girl who this boy thinks he likes. She is nice and they get along well, but they can't really learn about each other because in this society that is taboo. Now this boy is married, but married to a girl he still doesn't know, married because his family told him so. What must be going through his head? What do you do when there is someone you were told to learn to love? What if that love never materializes? These are the questions of marriage. Why should he remain faithful to someone he never loved, and married not of his own volition? The flip-side. He is married. There is a woman who, pressured or not, he married. In this society she is very much dependent on him and what he does. What morality would he have to be unfaithful to his new wife? How much damage would he do to him and her by being unfaithful? What to do?
The other side of the dilemma. There is a girl whose reputation will be ruined if her husband leaves her or is found to be cheating. How can she be loved? How can she maintain her reputation with a man who she doesn't love and never loved her? What must be going through her head? Why does she slave for this man in the kitchen? Why should she raise his children when he just goes from woman to woman? Why should she remain with this man who she never loved, and married not of her own volition? What to do?
The community. The people who in effect caused the dilemma and will never be affected by it. The people who will gossip and spread rumours about husband and wife, often blaming the wife if something goes wrong. The wind to spread the flames of doubt and hurt, the community is a force that inhibits and makes its will known. The community is the powerful force keeping the system in place.
There is the marriage dilemma. Two young souls, joined in "love" sanctioned by the community. Two young people, with their lives ahead of them but one of life's biggest choices made for them. Two young lives, changed forever by their familes. My friend asked me what he should do, and I don't know. The dilemma is a dilemma for a reason. The answers have their benefits, they have their downfalls, and two young lives are at stake. The Marriage Dilemma.
Peace and Wisdom.
Steve.
Marriages are a strange proposition here in Bangladesh. My friend's sister got married just before Christmas 2007 to a guy she had only met once. This may seem strange to a North American or European audience, but here in Bangladesh and India this is the norm.
The process starts:
- A girl's mother and father decide their daughter is of a proper age for marriage (this age depends on many factors including education, trust, financial stability, and more).
- A boy's mother and father decide their son is of a proper age for marriage (all the same factors are involved)
- The girl's parents find a trusted friend or relative to look for a suitable partner for their daughter.
- The boy's parents find a trusted friend or relative to look for a suitable partner for their son.
- Those friends or relatives searching for a marriage partner then begin the search, they listen to gossip about those who may or may not be near ready to get married, they listen to stories from people who have been to other villages for news of someone wanting to marry.
- Finally those searching friends or relatives find each other and they start talking. Discussed are matters such as finances, gifts, ages and family expectations.
- Once everything is fixed, the wedding proceeds within a few months.
And there is the process. This cultural process is followed consistently by Muslims, Christians and Hindus. This method of choosing marriage partners is a good way to keep families happy (most of the time), and to keep the community happy. And everyone knows, happy communities make for happy families. Of course, it doesn't always work.
The idea of a "love marriage" here in Bangladesh, is one of communal shame and sadness. It is a choice a young person makes to marry because they truly love as opposed to marrying to maintain their position and their family's name. Marriage here is not based on two people's choice to spend their lives together, it is based on the community.
Back to my friend's story. His sister got married to a man she had only met once before. That was 7 months ago. Now come the problems. The gifts were not given in full, and the families begin to quarrel. Another girl (a Muslim no less) comes on the scene. And the problems begin.
Now here is the dilemma. There is a girl who this boy thinks he likes. She is nice and they get along well, but they can't really learn about each other because in this society that is taboo. Now this boy is married, but married to a girl he still doesn't know, married because his family told him so. What must be going through his head? What do you do when there is someone you were told to learn to love? What if that love never materializes? These are the questions of marriage. Why should he remain faithful to someone he never loved, and married not of his own volition? The flip-side. He is married. There is a woman who, pressured or not, he married. In this society she is very much dependent on him and what he does. What morality would he have to be unfaithful to his new wife? How much damage would he do to him and her by being unfaithful? What to do?
The other side of the dilemma. There is a girl whose reputation will be ruined if her husband leaves her or is found to be cheating. How can she be loved? How can she maintain her reputation with a man who she doesn't love and never loved her? What must be going through her head? Why does she slave for this man in the kitchen? Why should she raise his children when he just goes from woman to woman? Why should she remain with this man who she never loved, and married not of her own volition? What to do?
The community. The people who in effect caused the dilemma and will never be affected by it. The people who will gossip and spread rumours about husband and wife, often blaming the wife if something goes wrong. The wind to spread the flames of doubt and hurt, the community is a force that inhibits and makes its will known. The community is the powerful force keeping the system in place.
There is the marriage dilemma. Two young souls, joined in "love" sanctioned by the community. Two young people, with their lives ahead of them but one of life's biggest choices made for them. Two young lives, changed forever by their familes. My friend asked me what he should do, and I don't know. The dilemma is a dilemma for a reason. The answers have their benefits, they have their downfalls, and two young lives are at stake. The Marriage Dilemma.
Peace and Wisdom.
Steve.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
The Sleeping Child
Lying on the street undisturbed,
Cradled in a ripped banner,
Lifeless and alone,
The Sleeping Child.
God bless this Child,
Your son who you have not abandoned,
Protect him in his innocence,
God of Love.
There I passed him, lying on the side of the street, alone and sleeping. There he was, wrapped in a ripped piece of a banner found as trash on the street. As I walked towards him he stirred but did not wake up, men and women walked by not batting an eye. As I walked past him I looked into his face, his eyes closed in serene silence, a world away from the loud, busy street on which he was asleep. I looked into the face of an innocent child, a child left alone to fend his way on the streets of Dhaka. A boy with a story, a story I will never know, and one that would likely melt the hardest hearts. I stood there, a few steps away from this sleeping boy, and I prayed for him. My prayer did not include words, for words were unnecessary, this child didn't need my words, this child needed love.
What to do? I wanted to sit with the child, to let him know that he is loved. But sleep is precious, and I did not want to disturb him. So I waited, I prayed and without any thought of what might happen, I slipped a gift into the child's pocket. I pray that God's gift brightened this boy's day, I hope that he could eat a proper meal and gain some energy, and most of all I pray that he felt loved; loved not by me, for my love is temporary, but loved by God.
We pray tonight for the sleeping children,
We pray tonight for the lonely children,
We pray tonight for the hurting children,
We pray tonight God, for all your children.
Amen.
Peace.
Steve.
Cradled in a ripped banner,
Lifeless and alone,
The Sleeping Child.
God bless this Child,
Your son who you have not abandoned,
Protect him in his innocence,
God of Love.
There I passed him, lying on the side of the street, alone and sleeping. There he was, wrapped in a ripped piece of a banner found as trash on the street. As I walked towards him he stirred but did not wake up, men and women walked by not batting an eye. As I walked past him I looked into his face, his eyes closed in serene silence, a world away from the loud, busy street on which he was asleep. I looked into the face of an innocent child, a child left alone to fend his way on the streets of Dhaka. A boy with a story, a story I will never know, and one that would likely melt the hardest hearts. I stood there, a few steps away from this sleeping boy, and I prayed for him. My prayer did not include words, for words were unnecessary, this child didn't need my words, this child needed love.
What to do? I wanted to sit with the child, to let him know that he is loved. But sleep is precious, and I did not want to disturb him. So I waited, I prayed and without any thought of what might happen, I slipped a gift into the child's pocket. I pray that God's gift brightened this boy's day, I hope that he could eat a proper meal and gain some energy, and most of all I pray that he felt loved; loved not by me, for my love is temporary, but loved by God.
We pray tonight for the sleeping children,
We pray tonight for the lonely children,
We pray tonight for the hurting children,
We pray tonight God, for all your children.
Amen.
Peace.
Steve.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Changing Faces
* This article was written for the MCC Bangladesh Global Family Newsletter.
The girls at Baluchaura Mission quickly hid their giggles behind the nearest object, be it a book, a scarf, or their hand, as they silently disappeared into the nearest room. The boarding girls, like many girls here in Bangladesh, were very shy and embarrassed around us, the newly arrived foreigners. The girls are supported through MCC Bangladesh’s Global Family program and we were there not just to teach them English but to share in their lives and learn with them.
Baluchaura Mission is a small place, and the girls were always intrigued by our activities, swimming in the pond, singing on the roof, or joking in the dining room. But for the first few days, if it weren’t for our two English sessions a day, we would have been nearly unaware of the girls’ existence. Life for these girls includes daily chores, study times, cooking, and prayers. In comparison, our lives were devoid of work; never expected to exert ourselves, the time we tried to fill our own water buckets, Sean and I had barely begun before a line of girls appeared and the buckets were instantly full. Our initial days at the Mission we felt separated from daily life and routine, we were honored guests not close friends. We learned quickly that classes needed to be fun or the formality would stifle the joy of learning.
Our classes often revolved around songs. Singing was a gift our group shared, and we spent many hours singing. Using songs to teach English was a perfect fit. Repeating hits, especially action songs; the girls could listen and practice the words, it raised the energy level in the room, and it rejuvenated us. As the first week passed, we started to hear “Kumbaya” sung by the girls washing at the pump in the morning, “This Little Light of Mine” being rocked from the cooking fires behind the dorm, and the Moose song being stumbled through at full volume. We started to notice a change in the girls; instead of covering their faces and running away, they would offer a quiet “good morning” as we walked by.
The teaching of “Duck, Duck, Goose” was a breakthrough in building friendships with the girls. A spontaneous evening of silliness degenerated into raucous laughter and regenerated into the group favorite, “Duck, Duck, Goose”. Some evenings, after returning from an afternoon of visiting families, we would arrive at the Mission to a game of “Duck, Duck, Goose,” always made more entertaining by the antics of the crazy foreigners. The evening games and activities were always a time of joy and laughter.
With the use of our art supplies, games and of course, songs, we continued to connect on a deeper level with the girls at the Mission. They would often come tell me how much fun they were having with us. With a few days remaining at the Mission another change was noticed, the girls no longer ran away when they saw us, they came to talk, to ask us how we were, and to sing with us. No more covered faces, no more running away; we might have been guests, but we were also friends. Our time at Baluchaura Mission ended with a night of laughter, song and dance. The girls performed beautiful dances and we all sang our well rehearsed favorite songs together. Not only had we taught English and lived at Baluchaura Mission for two weeks, we had developed friendships, and had shared songs, games and memories with the girls. Leaving the girls at Baluchaura Mission was a challenging and powerful time. The power of friendship and laughter was starkly contrasted with the power of separation, and leaving our new friends. As Annika noted, “If it is hard to leave, then you must have done something right.” The tears shed upon our departure are a testament to the love and happiness that was shared in our short time together.
A quote that was shared by a number of the girls at the Mission as we were preparing to depart, is a testament to the power of friendship and happiness. Between tears the girls said, “Thank you so much! We have had so much fun with you! We can’t remember a time when we have ever had more fun! Please don’t leave; we want to keep having fun!” I pray that in their lives these girls will find many more occasions for joy and happiness, more memories to join the memories of our fun and laughter together.
Shanti.
Steve.
The girls at Baluchaura Mission quickly hid their giggles behind the nearest object, be it a book, a scarf, or their hand, as they silently disappeared into the nearest room. The boarding girls, like many girls here in Bangladesh, were very shy and embarrassed around us, the newly arrived foreigners. The girls are supported through MCC Bangladesh’s Global Family program and we were there not just to teach them English but to share in their lives and learn with them.
Baluchaura Mission is a small place, and the girls were always intrigued by our activities, swimming in the pond, singing on the roof, or joking in the dining room. But for the first few days, if it weren’t for our two English sessions a day, we would have been nearly unaware of the girls’ existence. Life for these girls includes daily chores, study times, cooking, and prayers. In comparison, our lives were devoid of work; never expected to exert ourselves, the time we tried to fill our own water buckets, Sean and I had barely begun before a line of girls appeared and the buckets were instantly full. Our initial days at the Mission we felt separated from daily life and routine, we were honored guests not close friends. We learned quickly that classes needed to be fun or the formality would stifle the joy of learning.
Our classes often revolved around songs. Singing was a gift our group shared, and we spent many hours singing. Using songs to teach English was a perfect fit. Repeating hits, especially action songs; the girls could listen and practice the words, it raised the energy level in the room, and it rejuvenated us. As the first week passed, we started to hear “Kumbaya” sung by the girls washing at the pump in the morning, “This Little Light of Mine” being rocked from the cooking fires behind the dorm, and the Moose song being stumbled through at full volume. We started to notice a change in the girls; instead of covering their faces and running away, they would offer a quiet “good morning” as we walked by.
The teaching of “Duck, Duck, Goose” was a breakthrough in building friendships with the girls. A spontaneous evening of silliness degenerated into raucous laughter and regenerated into the group favorite, “Duck, Duck, Goose”. Some evenings, after returning from an afternoon of visiting families, we would arrive at the Mission to a game of “Duck, Duck, Goose,” always made more entertaining by the antics of the crazy foreigners. The evening games and activities were always a time of joy and laughter.
With the use of our art supplies, games and of course, songs, we continued to connect on a deeper level with the girls at the Mission. They would often come tell me how much fun they were having with us. With a few days remaining at the Mission another change was noticed, the girls no longer ran away when they saw us, they came to talk, to ask us how we were, and to sing with us. No more covered faces, no more running away; we might have been guests, but we were also friends. Our time at Baluchaura Mission ended with a night of laughter, song and dance. The girls performed beautiful dances and we all sang our well rehearsed favorite songs together. Not only had we taught English and lived at Baluchaura Mission for two weeks, we had developed friendships, and had shared songs, games and memories with the girls. Leaving the girls at Baluchaura Mission was a challenging and powerful time. The power of friendship and laughter was starkly contrasted with the power of separation, and leaving our new friends. As Annika noted, “If it is hard to leave, then you must have done something right.” The tears shed upon our departure are a testament to the love and happiness that was shared in our short time together.
A quote that was shared by a number of the girls at the Mission as we were preparing to depart, is a testament to the power of friendship and happiness. Between tears the girls said, “Thank you so much! We have had so much fun with you! We can’t remember a time when we have ever had more fun! Please don’t leave; we want to keep having fun!” I pray that in their lives these girls will find many more occasions for joy and happiness, more memories to join the memories of our fun and laughter together.
Shanti.
Steve.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Hai Hai!
"Oh Annika! Katal kabey?" The familiar sing-song voice of Sister Nisha drifts across the table. Annika, will you eat some jackfruit? The Salesian Sisters at Baluchaura Mission were full of joy and life. Often Sisters or Nuns are stereotyped as boring, old and out of touch, the Sisters at Baluchaura were nothing of the sort; the Baluchaura Sisters were too cool.
There was Sister Nisha, gang leader and jokester extraordinaire. Sister Nisha is one of the first Bangladeshis I have met who understand sarcasm! She is also a host with the most, "Eat more, you've only had 3 plates of rice!" Sister Nisha hosted us in true Bengali fashion, three feasts and two meals per day (also known as three meals and two tea breaks) were enough to keep the most active person strong and happy. It was also enough to make the most ravenous stomach entirely satisfied at all hours of the day. And Sister Nisha was not without her beautiful quirks. "Oh Annika" was the call to summon the group together, the use of no other name was necessary, we all understood. Sister Nisha cared for us like a big sister (which is sort of what she is). She always made sure our water buckets were filled and we were well rested (although we tended to go play soccer when we were supposed to be "taking rest"). Under the care and supervision of Sister Nisha we were not in need (or want) of anything.
There was Sister Rina, punster and fanner extraordinaire. Sister Rina was a blast. She would twist words in funny little ways and always pull off a chuckle. Rina could make you smile just by walking in the room. And there was her fanning abilities. I have never seen anyone fan like Rina fans! The little plastic fan spinning faster and faster, blowing a steady breeze in all directions, drying the sweat on the brows of the ever hot and sweaty foreigners. To our regret, Sister Rina left after only a week with us to go to Mymensingh for a course, her smile, laughter and mad fanning skills were missed.
There was Sister Shantona, quickly learning the ropes of witty sisterhood. She quietly honed her skills as the days went on, topping up our plates with food and zipping in a joke about Annika and her kolas. She's got the making of a Sister extraordinaire, all she needs is a little more practice. Sister Shantona was also dearly missed for the last few days at the Mission when she also went to Mymensingh for classes and almost disappeared without a song (but not quite!), I will never forget her frienly laugh.
And finally, there was Sister Benuka. Resident nurse and expert on all things dirty. She could keep you clean and proper in a mud slide! Sister Benuka was a nurse with an edge. Not a meal went by without a few friendly jokes in Bengali about my accent, my sentence structure, how little I was eating or about my lunghi. She was a nurse Sister, with the wit and prowess of a tiger. Sister Benuka was kind and had a wonderful laugh to accompany her wit. She was a darling to Sean when he fell ill and was always available to tell you what animal was making dirty in the field! Sister Benuka, always up for a fun time.
The Baluchaura Sisters were a well matched team of supersisters. Always ready to help out and always ready to explain Bangladesh to us, the willing students. The Sisters at Baluchaura were a large part of what made our time at the Mission so rewarding, and I thank them for that. I will close with one of our favourite quotes from the Sisters. This game is played in Bengali and English here and is something like "Darling, if you love me". In a sing-song voice it went something like this:
Sister 1: Hai Hai! Oh my God!
Sister 2: What happened?!
Sister 1: I have fallen in love!
Sister 2: With who?!
Sister 1: With... Sean! (or Annika, or Bacca, or Eva, or Stiphen)
Hai Hai!
Steve.
There was Sister Nisha, gang leader and jokester extraordinaire. Sister Nisha is one of the first Bangladeshis I have met who understand sarcasm! She is also a host with the most, "Eat more, you've only had 3 plates of rice!" Sister Nisha hosted us in true Bengali fashion, three feasts and two meals per day (also known as three meals and two tea breaks) were enough to keep the most active person strong and happy. It was also enough to make the most ravenous stomach entirely satisfied at all hours of the day. And Sister Nisha was not without her beautiful quirks. "Oh Annika" was the call to summon the group together, the use of no other name was necessary, we all understood. Sister Nisha cared for us like a big sister (which is sort of what she is). She always made sure our water buckets were filled and we were well rested (although we tended to go play soccer when we were supposed to be "taking rest"). Under the care and supervision of Sister Nisha we were not in need (or want) of anything.
There was Sister Rina, punster and fanner extraordinaire. Sister Rina was a blast. She would twist words in funny little ways and always pull off a chuckle. Rina could make you smile just by walking in the room. And there was her fanning abilities. I have never seen anyone fan like Rina fans! The little plastic fan spinning faster and faster, blowing a steady breeze in all directions, drying the sweat on the brows of the ever hot and sweaty foreigners. To our regret, Sister Rina left after only a week with us to go to Mymensingh for a course, her smile, laughter and mad fanning skills were missed.
There was Sister Shantona, quickly learning the ropes of witty sisterhood. She quietly honed her skills as the days went on, topping up our plates with food and zipping in a joke about Annika and her kolas. She's got the making of a Sister extraordinaire, all she needs is a little more practice. Sister Shantona was also dearly missed for the last few days at the Mission when she also went to Mymensingh for classes and almost disappeared without a song (but not quite!), I will never forget her frienly laugh.
And finally, there was Sister Benuka. Resident nurse and expert on all things dirty. She could keep you clean and proper in a mud slide! Sister Benuka was a nurse with an edge. Not a meal went by without a few friendly jokes in Bengali about my accent, my sentence structure, how little I was eating or about my lunghi. She was a nurse Sister, with the wit and prowess of a tiger. Sister Benuka was kind and had a wonderful laugh to accompany her wit. She was a darling to Sean when he fell ill and was always available to tell you what animal was making dirty in the field! Sister Benuka, always up for a fun time.
The Baluchaura Sisters were a well matched team of supersisters. Always ready to help out and always ready to explain Bangladesh to us, the willing students. The Sisters at Baluchaura were a large part of what made our time at the Mission so rewarding, and I thank them for that. I will close with one of our favourite quotes from the Sisters. This game is played in Bengali and English here and is something like "Darling, if you love me". In a sing-song voice it went something like this:
Sister 1: Hai Hai! Oh my God!
Sister 2: What happened?!
Sister 1: I have fallen in love!
Sister 2: With who?!
Sister 1: With... Sean! (or Annika, or Bacca, or Eva, or Stiphen)
Hai Hai!
Steve.
Friday, June 20, 2008
A New Song
The power of music never ceases to amaze me. Music has the power to unite, the power to lift spirits, the power of peace, and the power of joy. A song transcends words, it speaks directly to each person in its own way. Music is a gift granted and received, and it moves through time and change, but always remains. Music was, for our group at Baluchaura Mission, the main point of connection with the people we met. How blessed I was to be surrounded at Baluchaura with people who love to sing; people who enjoy making music for the sake of making music. And it was there that I was reminded of the power of music. I will share with you a few examples of the power music played in our two weeks at the mission.
Music provides a bridge. We found ourselves in a village in Northern Bangladesh on the way to the Mission with a flat tire. Not an entirely atypical situation, but one which required some attention, so there we were standing by the rickshaws when, and slowly emerging from their dwellings were the local children, mothers and unemployed men. Cautiously they approached us to watch us, and feeling friendly and cheerful we struck up a conversation. Within a few minutes the crowd had grown from a handful of children and women to a group of over fifty people. The normal greetings were exchanged, the necessary questions were answered, and we found ourselves facing a large crowd not having any idea what to do. When suddenly a young girl was pushed in front of us and told to sing a song. She sang a beautiful song in Bangla and to thank her we decided to sing a song. And so we sang, the children's fascination grew as big as their eyes, and when we finished they quickly asked for another song. Now the crowd was quickly growing as word spread of the bideshis singing in the village, and a minute or two later, after another song, we were ushered onto a concrete platform, provided with a bench to sit on and stared at. It was the closest you could come to a village stage, the crowd grew to over a hundred people, and we sat there on the stage and sang until our rickshaw was prepared. The fascination and joy on the faces of the children and women said it all. Songs are a powerful tool to bring people together. The sharing of songs could brake the awkward barrier between us that no words ever could.
Songs provide a connection. Music also played a large role in our english classes at the Mission. Songs were in many ways the bridges or connectors to the girls at Baluchaura. Songs brought us together, songs made language irrelevant, songs provided entertainment and friendship without need for words. We taught upbeat versions of "This Little Light of Mine" and "Kumbaya" to the girls, as well as "Head and Shoulders, Knees and Toes", and the songs were a hit. With most of the girls still hiding and giggling behind their ornas when we walked by, we would often hear them quietly singing the songs we had done in class while they washed their clothes or before brushing their teeth. The songs were not boring class, songs are fun, enjoyable, and not like work. But songs did more than teach English, songs started the connection, the bond that formed between us all. When the end of our class time together came, the girls would all ask for one more song (which often turned into more than that!). The songs we would sing brought us together and were the launch pad for some wonderful friendships.
Songs console. One day we went to visit a woman gravely ill with cancer. The was on her deathbed and we came to pray for her. I was asked to pray in Bangla which did not work as well as I would have liked, due to my lack of preparation. And after the prayer we asked if we could sing for them. We sang the song "Lord, Listen to your Children Praying". The words were not understood by the family, caring for their ailing mother, but the meaning was. The music was an inspiration to the family, a consolation in a time of sadness, and after praying once more in english for the woman, with tears of thanksgiving in their eyes, the children of this dying woman thanked us for coming to pray for them, and the happiness in their faces spoke louder than a thousand words. Prayer is a powerful tool, and music is a gateway.
Song bring us together. They brought our group together at Baluchaura, they brought us together with the Bangladeshis we visited and met, and they linked our communities at home, with the community here in Bangladesh. Music is a gateway to our common humanity, a torch in the darkness, and tie that binds. As we go forward in life may we all sing a new song of joy, happiness, peace and communion.
Peace.
Steve.
Music provides a bridge. We found ourselves in a village in Northern Bangladesh on the way to the Mission with a flat tire. Not an entirely atypical situation, but one which required some attention, so there we were standing by the rickshaws when, and slowly emerging from their dwellings were the local children, mothers and unemployed men. Cautiously they approached us to watch us, and feeling friendly and cheerful we struck up a conversation. Within a few minutes the crowd had grown from a handful of children and women to a group of over fifty people. The normal greetings were exchanged, the necessary questions were answered, and we found ourselves facing a large crowd not having any idea what to do. When suddenly a young girl was pushed in front of us and told to sing a song. She sang a beautiful song in Bangla and to thank her we decided to sing a song. And so we sang, the children's fascination grew as big as their eyes, and when we finished they quickly asked for another song. Now the crowd was quickly growing as word spread of the bideshis singing in the village, and a minute or two later, after another song, we were ushered onto a concrete platform, provided with a bench to sit on and stared at. It was the closest you could come to a village stage, the crowd grew to over a hundred people, and we sat there on the stage and sang until our rickshaw was prepared. The fascination and joy on the faces of the children and women said it all. Songs are a powerful tool to bring people together. The sharing of songs could brake the awkward barrier between us that no words ever could.
Songs provide a connection. Music also played a large role in our english classes at the Mission. Songs were in many ways the bridges or connectors to the girls at Baluchaura. Songs brought us together, songs made language irrelevant, songs provided entertainment and friendship without need for words. We taught upbeat versions of "This Little Light of Mine" and "Kumbaya" to the girls, as well as "Head and Shoulders, Knees and Toes", and the songs were a hit. With most of the girls still hiding and giggling behind their ornas when we walked by, we would often hear them quietly singing the songs we had done in class while they washed their clothes or before brushing their teeth. The songs were not boring class, songs are fun, enjoyable, and not like work. But songs did more than teach English, songs started the connection, the bond that formed between us all. When the end of our class time together came, the girls would all ask for one more song (which often turned into more than that!). The songs we would sing brought us together and were the launch pad for some wonderful friendships.
Songs console. One day we went to visit a woman gravely ill with cancer. The was on her deathbed and we came to pray for her. I was asked to pray in Bangla which did not work as well as I would have liked, due to my lack of preparation. And after the prayer we asked if we could sing for them. We sang the song "Lord, Listen to your Children Praying". The words were not understood by the family, caring for their ailing mother, but the meaning was. The music was an inspiration to the family, a consolation in a time of sadness, and after praying once more in english for the woman, with tears of thanksgiving in their eyes, the children of this dying woman thanked us for coming to pray for them, and the happiness in their faces spoke louder than a thousand words. Prayer is a powerful tool, and music is a gateway.
Song bring us together. They brought our group together at Baluchaura, they brought us together with the Bangladeshis we visited and met, and they linked our communities at home, with the community here in Bangladesh. Music is a gateway to our common humanity, a torch in the darkness, and tie that binds. As we go forward in life may we all sing a new song of joy, happiness, peace and communion.
Peace.
Steve.
UWB - Unidentified Walking Bideshi
What would it be like to see the first foreigner of your life? How many of those firsts have we been the privileged recipients of?
In Canada we come from a multicultural society. A society where people from around the world live in relative harmony. Our frame of reference is not limited to those identical to us. But how would we react if suddenly Tintin the lime green, pink haired alien showed up speaking some wild language? Sometimes here I feel like Tintin. Here I am an Unidentified Walking Bideshi- a white skinned, blond haired stranger who happens to speak a little Bangla.
Where are you from? The most common question received by guests to Bangladesh is where they come from. To the highly educated in the country Canada is a country in Europe, or Africa, or America. To the less educated in the country, Canada might as well be Venus, outside of their immediate reality is in many ways nothing more than a dream. Sometimes, as a joke, when people ask me where I am from, I will first tell people I am from another district of Bangladesh, and the number of people who believed me is astounding. Where I am from is really not what's important other than the fact that I am different. I am novel and I am different.
I don't think we, from Canada, could understand the concept of standing for 15 minutes staring at someone without moving. The idea of having someone from another place walk by you and being entirely awestruck by them. In the villages I am (and we were) the attraction. We provided the entertainment for everyone we passed, people gather from the surrounding villages just to stare at us.
I am the unidentified Walking Bideshi.
Shanti.
Steve.
In Canada we come from a multicultural society. A society where people from around the world live in relative harmony. Our frame of reference is not limited to those identical to us. But how would we react if suddenly Tintin the lime green, pink haired alien showed up speaking some wild language? Sometimes here I feel like Tintin. Here I am an Unidentified Walking Bideshi- a white skinned, blond haired stranger who happens to speak a little Bangla.
Where are you from? The most common question received by guests to Bangladesh is where they come from. To the highly educated in the country Canada is a country in Europe, or Africa, or America. To the less educated in the country, Canada might as well be Venus, outside of their immediate reality is in many ways nothing more than a dream. Sometimes, as a joke, when people ask me where I am from, I will first tell people I am from another district of Bangladesh, and the number of people who believed me is astounding. Where I am from is really not what's important other than the fact that I am different. I am novel and I am different.
I don't think we, from Canada, could understand the concept of standing for 15 minutes staring at someone without moving. The idea of having someone from another place walk by you and being entirely awestruck by them. In the villages I am (and we were) the attraction. We provided the entertainment for everyone we passed, people gather from the surrounding villages just to stare at us.
I am the unidentified Walking Bideshi.
Shanti.
Steve.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Looking Past the Little Things
Colourful vegetables in the market...
A small crowd gathering to watch us buy coconuts...
The rainbow variety of cloth to choose from...
The varied and occasionally semi-musical honking...
The slightly yellowed tinge of curried fingers...
Children playing cricket in the field...
The every day...
This is Bangladesh. A country of colour, noise, smells, an assault on your senses. Watching people as they arrive and process the sights, sounds and smells of this new country is provides a chance to reflect and once again notice the little things I miss everyday. The things that have, despite the seemingly constant newness and incredibly unbelievable experiences, become routine and so often go unnoticed. The quickly approaching vehicle, the crowds that gather when foreigners have congregated around a store, these are routine and often go unnoticed or undernoticed in my everyday life. It is a privilege to have the opportunity not only to share my knowledge and experiences with this Shikka team, but also to see things more from the perspective provided by fresh eyes. To note once again the beauty in the mundane, the excitement in the routine, the beauty that is Bangladesh. The beauty that is sometimes hidden behind blinders but does exist outside of my occasionally jaded vision. This week I have had the opportunity to see the little things instead of looking past them.
Shanti.
Steve.
A small crowd gathering to watch us buy coconuts...
The rainbow variety of cloth to choose from...
The varied and occasionally semi-musical honking...
The slightly yellowed tinge of curried fingers...
Children playing cricket in the field...
The every day...
This is Bangladesh. A country of colour, noise, smells, an assault on your senses. Watching people as they arrive and process the sights, sounds and smells of this new country is provides a chance to reflect and once again notice the little things I miss everyday. The things that have, despite the seemingly constant newness and incredibly unbelievable experiences, become routine and so often go unnoticed. The quickly approaching vehicle, the crowds that gather when foreigners have congregated around a store, these are routine and often go unnoticed or undernoticed in my everyday life. It is a privilege to have the opportunity not only to share my knowledge and experiences with this Shikka team, but also to see things more from the perspective provided by fresh eyes. To note once again the beauty in the mundane, the excitement in the routine, the beauty that is Bangladesh. The beauty that is sometimes hidden behind blinders but does exist outside of my occasionally jaded vision. This week I have had the opportunity to see the little things instead of looking past them.
Shanti.
Steve.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Shikka Arrives
The Shikka Learning Tour from Ontario (and Oregon) has arrived in Bangladesh. The group has a blog www.mccbangladesh.blogspot.com, that you can visit to learn more about them. Early morning pick up at the airport and a wonderful bangla breakfast we went shopping for appropriate clothing for the ladies.
Walking out of the CR Flat it started to rain a little bit, not hard, but enough to make us a little damp, and for me to realize that I had forgotten my umbrella. We went to a shopping complex and haggled a little bit for some slightly cheaper clothing, before eating a wonderfully flavourful indian lunch. As we left the shopping complex the sky was in constant motion, changing from light gray, to black, slipping and sliding. The rain was coming, made all the more obvious as thunder cracked and lightning split the ever darkening sky. Rickshaws were quickly found and the return journey to Mohammadpur was underway. Then, half way home, it hit, slowly, huge drops of water landed on the road, exploding into thousands of tiny fragments, faster and faster they fell until it was a torrential downpour. Paper bags were disintegrating in our hands, gamchas raised overhead to block the rain were quickly soaked through, as were our clothes, to the point where we might as well have been swimming.
In the downpour, people got confused, the normally beacon-like whiteness of us foreigners was hidden under the rickshaw covers protecting people from the rain. The rain-water dripping into my eyes and the chaos of the quickly flooding roads prevented me from focusing my attention on the other rickshaws around me. And within seconds the other rickshaws are out of sight, I assumed they all had rushed on ahead, heading to Iqbal Road, our destination. Our rickshaw, with three passengers, was the heaviest, so I assumed we were last, but it was not so. We arrived at Joyce's apartment only to realize that no one else had arrived yet. How had we passed all the other rickshaws? Then Matt with the other girls arrived, but the boys weren't with them. I was frustrated at this point because the rickshaws were supposed to be staying together, but we always say that and they never do. The problem was, the boys didn't know where we were going. So, off I went, wading through water, walking down the flooded streets, looking for the lost boys. At the end of the street, who should I meet, but the rickshaw wallah who had been driving them, with another passenger in the rickshaw. I called him over and he told me which direction to go, but before he left, I nicely gave him some choice words about not taking advantage of people and stealing from them. I went in the direction the rickshaw wallah pointed me, and there walking down the street towards me were two large white half-drowned-rat men, somewhat scared and confused, and me happy to see them, also a half-drowned-rat man, still frustrated at the rickshaw wallah for taking advantage of them and me, and happy that all worked out well.
We finished the day with some more shopping, a little time on the internet to greet those loved ones people were missing, and finished off with some more shopping. As the day progressed, eyes were slowly drooping and attention jumping from subject to subject, giggles abounded as did full-on hearty laughter, and finally, following bhat and dhal, sleep; long restful sleep. It brings back memories of nine months ago, when I arrived in Bangladesh, when everything was wild and crazy, I didn't know where to go, and I couldn't keep my eyes open. I am excited to see what this month has to offer, what new things we will see and do, and how it changes each of us.
Peace.
Steve.
Walking out of the CR Flat it started to rain a little bit, not hard, but enough to make us a little damp, and for me to realize that I had forgotten my umbrella. We went to a shopping complex and haggled a little bit for some slightly cheaper clothing, before eating a wonderfully flavourful indian lunch. As we left the shopping complex the sky was in constant motion, changing from light gray, to black, slipping and sliding. The rain was coming, made all the more obvious as thunder cracked and lightning split the ever darkening sky. Rickshaws were quickly found and the return journey to Mohammadpur was underway. Then, half way home, it hit, slowly, huge drops of water landed on the road, exploding into thousands of tiny fragments, faster and faster they fell until it was a torrential downpour. Paper bags were disintegrating in our hands, gamchas raised overhead to block the rain were quickly soaked through, as were our clothes, to the point where we might as well have been swimming.
In the downpour, people got confused, the normally beacon-like whiteness of us foreigners was hidden under the rickshaw covers protecting people from the rain. The rain-water dripping into my eyes and the chaos of the quickly flooding roads prevented me from focusing my attention on the other rickshaws around me. And within seconds the other rickshaws are out of sight, I assumed they all had rushed on ahead, heading to Iqbal Road, our destination. Our rickshaw, with three passengers, was the heaviest, so I assumed we were last, but it was not so. We arrived at Joyce's apartment only to realize that no one else had arrived yet. How had we passed all the other rickshaws? Then Matt with the other girls arrived, but the boys weren't with them. I was frustrated at this point because the rickshaws were supposed to be staying together, but we always say that and they never do. The problem was, the boys didn't know where we were going. So, off I went, wading through water, walking down the flooded streets, looking for the lost boys. At the end of the street, who should I meet, but the rickshaw wallah who had been driving them, with another passenger in the rickshaw. I called him over and he told me which direction to go, but before he left, I nicely gave him some choice words about not taking advantage of people and stealing from them. I went in the direction the rickshaw wallah pointed me, and there walking down the street towards me were two large white half-drowned-rat men, somewhat scared and confused, and me happy to see them, also a half-drowned-rat man, still frustrated at the rickshaw wallah for taking advantage of them and me, and happy that all worked out well.
We finished the day with some more shopping, a little time on the internet to greet those loved ones people were missing, and finished off with some more shopping. As the day progressed, eyes were slowly drooping and attention jumping from subject to subject, giggles abounded as did full-on hearty laughter, and finally, following bhat and dhal, sleep; long restful sleep. It brings back memories of nine months ago, when I arrived in Bangladesh, when everything was wild and crazy, I didn't know where to go, and I couldn't keep my eyes open. I am excited to see what this month has to offer, what new things we will see and do, and how it changes each of us.
Peace.
Steve.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
The Vicious Judge
Who is the most vicious judge I know? Me. As Gandhi very candidly pointed out in his campaign for a free India, there were three entities he was trying to change. The easiest was the British, harder yet was the Indian people, and by far the most challenging to overcome was the devil in himself. We all have our devils, our challenges to overcome, and those things we need to change in our lives, and as Gandhi will remind us, the changes in ourselves are the most important. I have always had a tendency to judge, I judge others positively or negatively. Sometimes I would pride myself (judge me positively) on judging others positively. Sometimes I would pride myself the I was in some way not as bad as that person (judge me positively and them negatively). To judge is a human trait that we all share in some form. I want to share some thoughts on that judging attitude.
Normally, I think I know myself pretty well, sometimes I think I don't, but for the most part, I figure I know more or less who I am. I judge certain things about me to be good and certain things to be bad. Those are judgments, they are not necessarily truths, some of them are and some of them aren't, and I may never know which are which. I judge myself based on what I THINK other people think about me. And I try to improve those places that I think other people judge negatively. This is self-improvement, and a good thing (so I judge). Then there are the the things in my life that I THINK God judges as negative in me, those things are a lot harder to know, because God is more complex than people are. But I search for those and try to make changes there too. In that way, for myself, for changing myself, the judgment of others can be a positive tool. It can also hurt and destroy, for judgment is rarely neutral. But as Gandhi pointed out, changing me is much harder than trying to change other people. Changing me requires changes that go beyond the concrete and the visible to the thoughts and reasons behind the visible. Changing me is something that cannot be done alone, but must be started at home in my own thoughts and actions. Judging me can be both positive and negative, helpful and destructive, it is a force that is always pulling one way or the other.
Judging me is one thing. I have the ability to change ME, I have the ability (with some divine assistance) to know ME. But I rarely if ever have the chance to know someone else at a level so deep as to really know, or ever change someone. For me to judge someone, positively or negatively, with any accuracy, is outside my ability. Only God has that ability, because there aren't any other humans with an all encompassing knowledge of everyone they judge. If I am to accurately judge people, I would have to sit down for days and learn every detail about their life, their family history, the good, the bad and the ugly. Then, and only then, could I make a more-or-less accurate judgment. And that is obviously physically impossible for each of us to meet with every other person and learn their life history (it's hard enough to do with a small group of friends). When I judge someone, without knowing about the person, it is like judging who is at fault in a car crash based on the colours of the cars. He is at fault because the car is blue, and blue cars are all the same, they have bad drivers. I should not be judging others if I don't have all the facts, and since I don't have all the facts, why am I judge? Why do I play god? Deciding who is good and who is bad, who is right and who is wrong. I can help people to grow, to improve, but not by judging them. The line that is all too often dismissed in Christianity is telling here. "Why do [I] search for the speck in [my] neighbour's eye while there is a log lodged in [my] own eye?" How can I ever judge someone else properly if I can't even see properly because of my own logs?
This brings me to the dilemma. The vicious judge. Me. Why do I play god time and time again? "Why are all Bangladeshis this way?" When the reality is they are not, and I know it. "Why does that person have no respect?" When what I really mean is, "why did that person do that?" I have gone through very judgmental phases here in Bangladesh, and to be honest, it sometimes feels good. It falsely explains away frustrations and my own failings by projecting them on someone else. I stop asking the question, "why did that make me angry?" And start asking the question, "why is that person so this, or so that, so rude, or so inconsiderate?" These questions are judgmental, and negatively so, they do not lead me to a love or compassionate stance in regards to that person, they place that person somehow below me, when in reality they are not. I have been rude and inconsiderate many times in my life, why do I not judge myself so harshly in these instances? I often feel that the actions of others are an affront against me, but what they really are is one action, one of the thousands of actions that person will make that day. To judge someone based on one of their thousands of actions is like basing the grade of an essay on the single misspelled word rather than on the content of the essay. To judge based on one action and ignore the content, the humanity of the person, to judge in this way is false, accusatory and not helpful to anyone. Here, I often make judgments about why people do what they do. "They did that just so that they could speak to a foreigner." It may be true, it may be false, who knows, and who cares. To judge others serves to compartmentalize them, to stereotype them, those Bangladeshis, those Canadians, those Christians, those Muslims, those Rich, those Poor, those Conservatives, those Liberals, those Addicts, those Men, those Women. Judging prevents me from knowing the real person, and prevents me from loving that person fully for who they are.
As I try to change from judgment to support, to love, and to openness, I face many obstacles, and the biggest one is myself. Even if, with some divine intervention, I manage to take the logs out of my eye, I will still have to take care to heal the holes, to prevent big black spaces from continuing to cloud my judgment, and from the risk of allowing those logs to return. And in all honesty, as admirable a goal as that may be, it is mostly dreaming. I will not manage to remove my own logs, and I will have to struggle with them for the rest of my life. But until those logs are dealt with (probably never), I should not be judging others. And if I think those logs are dealt with, I have probably put one back. I am a vicious judge, not fit to be holding the gavel. Yet I grip it with impunity and I fight to maintain my ability to judge harshly and unfairly. I am the vicious judge.
My prayer is that I can start to turn from this judgment to an all encompassing love and compassion.
Peace.
Steve.
*Much of my thinking on the subject has been inspired by the book Repenting of Religion: Turning from Judgment to the Love of God by Gregory Boyd.
Normally, I think I know myself pretty well, sometimes I think I don't, but for the most part, I figure I know more or less who I am. I judge certain things about me to be good and certain things to be bad. Those are judgments, they are not necessarily truths, some of them are and some of them aren't, and I may never know which are which. I judge myself based on what I THINK other people think about me. And I try to improve those places that I think other people judge negatively. This is self-improvement, and a good thing (so I judge). Then there are the the things in my life that I THINK God judges as negative in me, those things are a lot harder to know, because God is more complex than people are. But I search for those and try to make changes there too. In that way, for myself, for changing myself, the judgment of others can be a positive tool. It can also hurt and destroy, for judgment is rarely neutral. But as Gandhi pointed out, changing me is much harder than trying to change other people. Changing me requires changes that go beyond the concrete and the visible to the thoughts and reasons behind the visible. Changing me is something that cannot be done alone, but must be started at home in my own thoughts and actions. Judging me can be both positive and negative, helpful and destructive, it is a force that is always pulling one way or the other.
Judging me is one thing. I have the ability to change ME, I have the ability (with some divine assistance) to know ME. But I rarely if ever have the chance to know someone else at a level so deep as to really know, or ever change someone. For me to judge someone, positively or negatively, with any accuracy, is outside my ability. Only God has that ability, because there aren't any other humans with an all encompassing knowledge of everyone they judge. If I am to accurately judge people, I would have to sit down for days and learn every detail about their life, their family history, the good, the bad and the ugly. Then, and only then, could I make a more-or-less accurate judgment. And that is obviously physically impossible for each of us to meet with every other person and learn their life history (it's hard enough to do with a small group of friends). When I judge someone, without knowing about the person, it is like judging who is at fault in a car crash based on the colours of the cars. He is at fault because the car is blue, and blue cars are all the same, they have bad drivers. I should not be judging others if I don't have all the facts, and since I don't have all the facts, why am I judge? Why do I play god? Deciding who is good and who is bad, who is right and who is wrong. I can help people to grow, to improve, but not by judging them. The line that is all too often dismissed in Christianity is telling here. "Why do [I] search for the speck in [my] neighbour's eye while there is a log lodged in [my] own eye?" How can I ever judge someone else properly if I can't even see properly because of my own logs?
This brings me to the dilemma. The vicious judge. Me. Why do I play god time and time again? "Why are all Bangladeshis this way?" When the reality is they are not, and I know it. "Why does that person have no respect?" When what I really mean is, "why did that person do that?" I have gone through very judgmental phases here in Bangladesh, and to be honest, it sometimes feels good. It falsely explains away frustrations and my own failings by projecting them on someone else. I stop asking the question, "why did that make me angry?" And start asking the question, "why is that person so this, or so that, so rude, or so inconsiderate?" These questions are judgmental, and negatively so, they do not lead me to a love or compassionate stance in regards to that person, they place that person somehow below me, when in reality they are not. I have been rude and inconsiderate many times in my life, why do I not judge myself so harshly in these instances? I often feel that the actions of others are an affront against me, but what they really are is one action, one of the thousands of actions that person will make that day. To judge someone based on one of their thousands of actions is like basing the grade of an essay on the single misspelled word rather than on the content of the essay. To judge based on one action and ignore the content, the humanity of the person, to judge in this way is false, accusatory and not helpful to anyone. Here, I often make judgments about why people do what they do. "They did that just so that they could speak to a foreigner." It may be true, it may be false, who knows, and who cares. To judge others serves to compartmentalize them, to stereotype them, those Bangladeshis, those Canadians, those Christians, those Muslims, those Rich, those Poor, those Conservatives, those Liberals, those Addicts, those Men, those Women. Judging prevents me from knowing the real person, and prevents me from loving that person fully for who they are.
As I try to change from judgment to support, to love, and to openness, I face many obstacles, and the biggest one is myself. Even if, with some divine intervention, I manage to take the logs out of my eye, I will still have to take care to heal the holes, to prevent big black spaces from continuing to cloud my judgment, and from the risk of allowing those logs to return. And in all honesty, as admirable a goal as that may be, it is mostly dreaming. I will not manage to remove my own logs, and I will have to struggle with them for the rest of my life. But until those logs are dealt with (probably never), I should not be judging others. And if I think those logs are dealt with, I have probably put one back. I am a vicious judge, not fit to be holding the gavel. Yet I grip it with impunity and I fight to maintain my ability to judge harshly and unfairly. I am the vicious judge.
My prayer is that I can start to turn from this judgment to an all encompassing love and compassion.
Peace.
Steve.
*Much of my thinking on the subject has been inspired by the book Repenting of Religion: Turning from Judgment to the Love of God by Gregory Boyd.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
The Flowing River
There in the water I stand,
The current flowing swiftly by,
Not knowing which way to go,
I go with the flow.
There the current surrounds me,
Gently pulling me in its ebb and flow,
I am oblivious to the movement,
Lost in the current.
Time passes by and I float,
The water rises and falls as I float by,
The current takes me through time,
And I am blind to it all.
There life goes floating by,
Nutrients and junk gliding side by side,
Moving down the river of complacency,
Trying my best to tread lightly.
When am I going to stand?
To dig my feet into that life-giving sand?
To brace myself against the current,
To stand up and live.
I wrote this poem after swimming in the Bhramaputra River in Mymensingh with other expats, and then following a powerful prayer at Taize that previous evening. Change is a scary thing, but so is complacency. Ignorance, living without thinking, living without understanding what we are doing or why. Habits are scary, and we rarely think about them long enough to understand our habits. But habits can lose their meaning. The power of prayer can become habit, as I feel it has for me at times this year. The tough and grind of daily routine can become habit. To think about where we are, what we are doing, and why; to ground ourselves and stand up against the current of complacency and self-righteousness. To think of others, and their role in this creation, that is pro-life and pro-love. To stand up against the current of judgment and disapproval, and to see life as a river to be enjoyed; not to be lulled to sleep by the current. I hope to fight the current of complacency and ignorance, and to embrace the current of love and life. I hope to stand up and live.
Peace.
Steve.
The current flowing swiftly by,
Not knowing which way to go,
I go with the flow.
There the current surrounds me,
Gently pulling me in its ebb and flow,
I am oblivious to the movement,
Lost in the current.
Time passes by and I float,
The water rises and falls as I float by,
The current takes me through time,
And I am blind to it all.
There life goes floating by,
Nutrients and junk gliding side by side,
Moving down the river of complacency,
Trying my best to tread lightly.
When am I going to stand?
To dig my feet into that life-giving sand?
To brace myself against the current,
To stand up and live.
I wrote this poem after swimming in the Bhramaputra River in Mymensingh with other expats, and then following a powerful prayer at Taize that previous evening. Change is a scary thing, but so is complacency. Ignorance, living without thinking, living without understanding what we are doing or why. Habits are scary, and we rarely think about them long enough to understand our habits. But habits can lose their meaning. The power of prayer can become habit, as I feel it has for me at times this year. The tough and grind of daily routine can become habit. To think about where we are, what we are doing, and why; to ground ourselves and stand up against the current of complacency and self-righteousness. To think of others, and their role in this creation, that is pro-life and pro-love. To stand up against the current of judgment and disapproval, and to see life as a river to be enjoyed; not to be lulled to sleep by the current. I hope to fight the current of complacency and ignorance, and to embrace the current of love and life. I hope to stand up and live.
Peace.
Steve.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Creating Creative Spaces
We enter the room. "Good morning teacher" sings a chorus of young voices as their small undernourished frames rise from the desks in respect. "Good morning" we reply, and off on a fun filled journey of education. The presence of two foreigners in class is a chance to learn about geography. I am from Canada, Gayle from the US (America as it is known here), most Bangladeshis think Canada is in Europe (this includes college students and many well educated people). So we tell the students about Canada and America. Questions fill the room. What are your names? Where are you from? How many brothers and sisters do you have? The students all smiling and laughing at our many Bengali slip-ups. Smiles graced the faces of those children, and as they buckled down to study, English, Bengali and Math, we walked around the room helping the children (2 times 2 is 4, can you say 4 in English?). After a few minutes, it is time to move on, to meet more students and greet more smiling, inquisitive faces.
This was my visit with Gayle to Bolajpur School. I have mentioned Bolajpur before, I visit monthly with our peace team for programming, but it is not often that I get out there for a class visit. Our visit was an empowering visit. Something positive is happening at Bolajpur school, and it has the ability to flower into something even more amazing. Watching the teachers at work is a blessing at Bolajpur. The morning classes are mostly Kingergarten, Class 1 and Class 2, and at that young age it is so important for the children to gain an appreciation for learning. To learn because reading stories can be fun, because singing English songs can be a new pastime, because there is benefit in learning to read, write and do math.
Walking into a Kindergarten classroom at Bolajpur is nothing spectacular on the surface, children sitting in circles working, the setting looks like school anywhere. But in Bangladesh this is a radical teaching style. Children, from the moment they enter a public school, are sat down in lecture rows, facing the teacher, and are told to repeat after the teacher. That is learning. At Bolajpur, groups of children work independently or with the teacher. Each day there is a focus, a group of students the teacher focuses their time on. That day it was Bengali, teaching spelling and alphabet to the students, the other children copied English words or learned to add. The children are not lined up in lecture-style like a regiment of soldiers, they are allowed to help each other, to learn independently, in a more comfortable environment. The rooms at Bolajpur are hot, and classes are larger than ideal, but these children have a smile on their faces, and a joy of life that gives a classroom life. Children, sitting and standing, repeating the teacher's every word like little trained robots is an all too common sight in Bangladeshi schools, at Bolajpur they are trying to change this.
What makes Bolajpur different from government schools? First of all the schools were started and are monitored by the Taize Brothers and by Ronni and Jyotti. But the exciting part is that the teachers are excited to teach. Now using college students to teach primary school was a novel and experimental idea. Virtually all of the teachers at the Taize started schools are merely students themselves, most not striving to teach for a living and not in teacher's college. The teachers work either the morning shift or the afternoon shift, and attend school when they are not teaching. But these teachers make up for any lack of training on how to teach, with the desire to teach these children to the best of their ability. They are not paid extremely well, but the teachers are more than satisfied with their jobs. To my surprise and delight, while drinking tea after the morning shift had finished we were asked, "How could we teach better?" followed by "What could we improve?" Taken off-guard, I was not prepared to critique their teaching, but I was quick to note the benefits of the style they were trying, and looked for little ways for them to make classes more interactive and creative. The teachers at Bolajpur are giving this project their all, and it shows.
There are many good things going at Bolajpur, and all of the schools run by Taize, but they also have their limitations. The school buildings are deteriorating, two of the three primary schools flood during the rainy season and classes must be cancelled, and the lighting is often poor. When funds are short, upgrading buildings is a rather difficult prospect, but at brother house in Mymensingh they have decided that the time is right. The goal is to creative not just an effective school, but a creative learning environment, one of those places education specialists talk about where children are free to learn and grow and teachers are aids in the process of learning. Searching for grants, the Brothers are looking for funding to start this process of creating creative spaces.
The vision of a creative space is a place where children can learn through all their senses. Where children have desks and chairs that are appropriate for children and are not designed for lecturing. Chairs and desks that can be moved easily to change class formations and allow for creative teaching styles and group creation. There is the building itself, clean walls, raised ground to avoid flooding and spaces for teaching as well as community gatherings. It should be a place where children are excited to come to school because it is a welcoming building, a welcoming classroom and a welcoming environment. Then there are teaching aids, props if you will, maps, posters, blocks, and so on, tools for children to explore topics such as Math, English and Bengali on their own. These are all part of a creative space, a space designed more for exploration and creativity than rote memorization, a space for growth and problem-solving. And a creative space will provide more than creativity for the students, it will provide a creative teaching environment as well. Teachers with props and pictures to use, will figure out new and creative ways to use them. Children being able to use blocks for Math, and children sitting in small groups will encourage the teachers to think of new ways to teach Math and new formations in which to teach a class. This is the goal of creative spaces.
"When a teacher walks into a room that looks the same as their primary classroom, they are going to teach like they were taught." This is what we are trying to avoid. Brother Erik's comment points to a reality of the system here, if the environment is not conducive to creativity, the students and teachers won't be either.
Therefore, the goal is to create creative spaces in our schools.
Peace.
Steve.
This was my visit with Gayle to Bolajpur School. I have mentioned Bolajpur before, I visit monthly with our peace team for programming, but it is not often that I get out there for a class visit. Our visit was an empowering visit. Something positive is happening at Bolajpur school, and it has the ability to flower into something even more amazing. Watching the teachers at work is a blessing at Bolajpur. The morning classes are mostly Kingergarten, Class 1 and Class 2, and at that young age it is so important for the children to gain an appreciation for learning. To learn because reading stories can be fun, because singing English songs can be a new pastime, because there is benefit in learning to read, write and do math.
Walking into a Kindergarten classroom at Bolajpur is nothing spectacular on the surface, children sitting in circles working, the setting looks like school anywhere. But in Bangladesh this is a radical teaching style. Children, from the moment they enter a public school, are sat down in lecture rows, facing the teacher, and are told to repeat after the teacher. That is learning. At Bolajpur, groups of children work independently or with the teacher. Each day there is a focus, a group of students the teacher focuses their time on. That day it was Bengali, teaching spelling and alphabet to the students, the other children copied English words or learned to add. The children are not lined up in lecture-style like a regiment of soldiers, they are allowed to help each other, to learn independently, in a more comfortable environment. The rooms at Bolajpur are hot, and classes are larger than ideal, but these children have a smile on their faces, and a joy of life that gives a classroom life. Children, sitting and standing, repeating the teacher's every word like little trained robots is an all too common sight in Bangladeshi schools, at Bolajpur they are trying to change this.
What makes Bolajpur different from government schools? First of all the schools were started and are monitored by the Taize Brothers and by Ronni and Jyotti. But the exciting part is that the teachers are excited to teach. Now using college students to teach primary school was a novel and experimental idea. Virtually all of the teachers at the Taize started schools are merely students themselves, most not striving to teach for a living and not in teacher's college. The teachers work either the morning shift or the afternoon shift, and attend school when they are not teaching. But these teachers make up for any lack of training on how to teach, with the desire to teach these children to the best of their ability. They are not paid extremely well, but the teachers are more than satisfied with their jobs. To my surprise and delight, while drinking tea after the morning shift had finished we were asked, "How could we teach better?" followed by "What could we improve?" Taken off-guard, I was not prepared to critique their teaching, but I was quick to note the benefits of the style they were trying, and looked for little ways for them to make classes more interactive and creative. The teachers at Bolajpur are giving this project their all, and it shows.
There are many good things going at Bolajpur, and all of the schools run by Taize, but they also have their limitations. The school buildings are deteriorating, two of the three primary schools flood during the rainy season and classes must be cancelled, and the lighting is often poor. When funds are short, upgrading buildings is a rather difficult prospect, but at brother house in Mymensingh they have decided that the time is right. The goal is to creative not just an effective school, but a creative learning environment, one of those places education specialists talk about where children are free to learn and grow and teachers are aids in the process of learning. Searching for grants, the Brothers are looking for funding to start this process of creating creative spaces.
The vision of a creative space is a place where children can learn through all their senses. Where children have desks and chairs that are appropriate for children and are not designed for lecturing. Chairs and desks that can be moved easily to change class formations and allow for creative teaching styles and group creation. There is the building itself, clean walls, raised ground to avoid flooding and spaces for teaching as well as community gatherings. It should be a place where children are excited to come to school because it is a welcoming building, a welcoming classroom and a welcoming environment. Then there are teaching aids, props if you will, maps, posters, blocks, and so on, tools for children to explore topics such as Math, English and Bengali on their own. These are all part of a creative space, a space designed more for exploration and creativity than rote memorization, a space for growth and problem-solving. And a creative space will provide more than creativity for the students, it will provide a creative teaching environment as well. Teachers with props and pictures to use, will figure out new and creative ways to use them. Children being able to use blocks for Math, and children sitting in small groups will encourage the teachers to think of new ways to teach Math and new formations in which to teach a class. This is the goal of creative spaces.
"When a teacher walks into a room that looks the same as their primary classroom, they are going to teach like they were taught." This is what we are trying to avoid. Brother Erik's comment points to a reality of the system here, if the environment is not conducive to creativity, the students and teachers won't be either.
Therefore, the goal is to create creative spaces in our schools.
Peace.
Steve.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Praying in Jail
On Wednesday, I had the opportunity to visit Mymensingh Jail. Each week brother Guillaume visits about 10 prisoners in the jail. He has been making these visits for the last 15 years. Now you may ask why he is involved with such criminals, and the answer is, because they are only partially guilty.
Many years ago, in the Modhupur Forest area, a group of indigenous, tribal Mandi people lived and had their land. Today, some still live there, but their land is constantly being taken away despite promises that they have special rights within Bangladesh. These men are in jail because once again, the system was failing them. Their native lands, their traditional land of history and lore, was being stolen. It is said that a group of Bengali farmers came one day to plow Mandi land. By plowing that land communally they were stealing the land, for whoever plows land, has the rights to that land. The problem was that this had happened before to the Mandis, and the government had awarded the stolen land to the Bengalis. The group of Mandi men decided that they could not trust the government to protect their land or their rights, and if their people were to survive, they had to stop these Bengalis. In the ensuing melee two Bengalis were wounded and eventually died. Nobody knows who actually killed them, and if it was the Mandis then they deserve punishment for their crime, noone denies this. But here in Bangladesh life is not that simple. The Mandi men were arrested and their appointed lawyer, whose job it was to defend them, was given thousands of Taka by the group of Bengalis, he instead condemned them and provided them no defence whatsoever. In this situation, like in many others, money equalled justice. They were condemned and sent to jail indefinitely. A few years ago a group managed to convince a higher court to reopen the case and provide a proper trial. Thousands of Taka were collected by the Mandi community to pay for legal council, and they were represented well. There were two judges on the bench, a young aspiring judge and an elderly devout Muslim. The devout Muslim part plays a key role in the story because this group of Mandis are Christian, and the two people who died were Muslim. The younger judge, according to court records, apparently favoured the release of the Mandi as they were able to cast enough doubt on the convictions that they did not deserve to remain imprisoned. But sometimes religious and ethnic realities overshadow facts, and the young judge, with a career to fulfill, decided that the smartest career choice was to agree with the elder judge as he probably would have lost that battle in the end anyway. And so they remain. A group of Mandi men, in Mymensingh Jail indefinitely. With very few visitors except brother Guillaume.
The second group of tribals we talked with in Mymensingh Jail are a few men who are there for adding too much sugar to honey. What a charge! According to brother Guillaume, they are in a tough position because the police approached them one day and asked for "ghush" or a bribe. The men refused to pay the police officer, and a few days later this charge appeared against them. Obviously a very serious crime, I wouldn't want too much sweet honey!
So there I found myself, standing in front of large bars, peering through at about 12 men some in prison issued pants and shirts, others in their own clothes(those not yet convicted). And they asked me the normal questions, where I was from, what I was doing in Bangladesh, what I thought of Bangladesh, how long I was staying. Then, as time was limited, they began their list. Soap (10), white lunghi (1), gamchas (2), oral saline, 6 liters of clean water, lemons, toothbrushes (3), toothpaste (6), medicine with names all somehow ending in -ine. For in jail, they are not issued with the daily necessities, those must come from friends and family on the outside. So every week brother Guillaume goes and makes a list of what the men need, and the next week they have their requests, unless of course their requests are deemed excessive in which case, they are out of luck.
Following the listing of purchases, was a moment I will not likely forget for a very long time. There, with a caucophony of sounds running around the simple concrete room, 12 men on one side of the bars, 3 on the other, we sang. We sang a Mandi song of praise. And as our voices joined together, erasing the barriers physical and cultural, our voices raised to heaven, there was peace. Men, imprisoned for years, and us, free to walk the streets, yet at that moment, we were one in faith, love and humanity. As the last echo of the last note rang off the concrete wall, and a serenity had filled the room, Asheesh read a passage from Hebrews and we prayed. In Bangla and Mandi, we prayed for peace, for justice and for hope. There, in that place of sadness and incarceration, was hope, happiness and thanksgiving. The feelings raging inside me were overcome with a sense of tranquility, and of knowledge that there is a force more powerful than all of us, and that is where we can find rest and peace.
Jishuna Rasong.
Peace.
Steve.
Many years ago, in the Modhupur Forest area, a group of indigenous, tribal Mandi people lived and had their land. Today, some still live there, but their land is constantly being taken away despite promises that they have special rights within Bangladesh. These men are in jail because once again, the system was failing them. Their native lands, their traditional land of history and lore, was being stolen. It is said that a group of Bengali farmers came one day to plow Mandi land. By plowing that land communally they were stealing the land, for whoever plows land, has the rights to that land. The problem was that this had happened before to the Mandis, and the government had awarded the stolen land to the Bengalis. The group of Mandi men decided that they could not trust the government to protect their land or their rights, and if their people were to survive, they had to stop these Bengalis. In the ensuing melee two Bengalis were wounded and eventually died. Nobody knows who actually killed them, and if it was the Mandis then they deserve punishment for their crime, noone denies this. But here in Bangladesh life is not that simple. The Mandi men were arrested and their appointed lawyer, whose job it was to defend them, was given thousands of Taka by the group of Bengalis, he instead condemned them and provided them no defence whatsoever. In this situation, like in many others, money equalled justice. They were condemned and sent to jail indefinitely. A few years ago a group managed to convince a higher court to reopen the case and provide a proper trial. Thousands of Taka were collected by the Mandi community to pay for legal council, and they were represented well. There were two judges on the bench, a young aspiring judge and an elderly devout Muslim. The devout Muslim part plays a key role in the story because this group of Mandis are Christian, and the two people who died were Muslim. The younger judge, according to court records, apparently favoured the release of the Mandi as they were able to cast enough doubt on the convictions that they did not deserve to remain imprisoned. But sometimes religious and ethnic realities overshadow facts, and the young judge, with a career to fulfill, decided that the smartest career choice was to agree with the elder judge as he probably would have lost that battle in the end anyway. And so they remain. A group of Mandi men, in Mymensingh Jail indefinitely. With very few visitors except brother Guillaume.
The second group of tribals we talked with in Mymensingh Jail are a few men who are there for adding too much sugar to honey. What a charge! According to brother Guillaume, they are in a tough position because the police approached them one day and asked for "ghush" or a bribe. The men refused to pay the police officer, and a few days later this charge appeared against them. Obviously a very serious crime, I wouldn't want too much sweet honey!
So there I found myself, standing in front of large bars, peering through at about 12 men some in prison issued pants and shirts, others in their own clothes(those not yet convicted). And they asked me the normal questions, where I was from, what I was doing in Bangladesh, what I thought of Bangladesh, how long I was staying. Then, as time was limited, they began their list. Soap (10), white lunghi (1), gamchas (2), oral saline, 6 liters of clean water, lemons, toothbrushes (3), toothpaste (6), medicine with names all somehow ending in -ine. For in jail, they are not issued with the daily necessities, those must come from friends and family on the outside. So every week brother Guillaume goes and makes a list of what the men need, and the next week they have their requests, unless of course their requests are deemed excessive in which case, they are out of luck.
Following the listing of purchases, was a moment I will not likely forget for a very long time. There, with a caucophony of sounds running around the simple concrete room, 12 men on one side of the bars, 3 on the other, we sang. We sang a Mandi song of praise. And as our voices joined together, erasing the barriers physical and cultural, our voices raised to heaven, there was peace. Men, imprisoned for years, and us, free to walk the streets, yet at that moment, we were one in faith, love and humanity. As the last echo of the last note rang off the concrete wall, and a serenity had filled the room, Asheesh read a passage from Hebrews and we prayed. In Bangla and Mandi, we prayed for peace, for justice and for hope. There, in that place of sadness and incarceration, was hope, happiness and thanksgiving. The feelings raging inside me were overcome with a sense of tranquility, and of knowledge that there is a force more powerful than all of us, and that is where we can find rest and peace.
Jishuna Rasong.
Peace.
Steve.
Working Youngsters
A few days ago, a couple boys ate lunch this us at Taize. Brother Frank was asking them about their lives at home and what they did during the day. They told us that they were just wandering around during the day and then they go to work at night. "Where do you work?" they were asked. "Boro bazaar, at the hotel" they responded. "We make rooti!" These two young boys maybe 9 or 10 years old, work the night shift at a small restaurant in the city making flatbread. They work from 11pm until dawn making bread and what is their wage you might ask?
"50 Taka per night"... 50 Taka!
An entire nights work, and these boys receive less than a dollar. Something here needs to change. Children who should be going to school should not be working like slaves for 50 Taka, nor should they be forced to work the night shift, but they do, and they have little choice.
I wish I had the life story of each of those boys. I don't know if both their parents are alive, working or sick. I don't know how big their families are, or where they live. But I do know that they are desperately poor and like many young boys here in Bangladesh, they look for work not because it's fun, but because it puts rice in their stomachs. I do not blame these boys for working, but the system needs to change. The problem is that it is illegal. It is illegal, and not monitored. Hungry children, starving because their parents cannot find work, can be hired for virtually nothing, because virtually nothing is still something; and something is better than nothing. These children often eat only one meal a day at home, and a hungry person is a desperate person. Being a slave and being alive is better than the alternative; starvation. Now this analysis of the problem is stark, and possibly slightly exaggerated, but the problem is real. And it gets no easier when those people hiring the children have no ethical qualms about child labour, or more to the point, they know that there are so many others doing it, that they do not fear breaking the law.
The solution to the problem is complex. Many of these children would not be going to school if they weren't working, they would be out doing something else to make money. Many boys collect recycled paper and waste to sell as recycling in the markets. But while many boys go off to work, their fathers sit at home, lazing around and gossiping, not by choice, but because they cannot find work. Who would hire an adult and have to pay them more, when you could hire an obedient child?
Child labour is not a problem that will disappear quickly in Bangladesh. Not that North Americans and Europeans were always stellar at not hiring children either, it will take time, and it will need some outside help. But it is a problem, and a problem that needs to be addressed.
To finish off our conversation. Brother Frank asked the boys if foreigners were allowed to make rooti. The answer was unequivocally "no". Nor were indigenous people, elderly or overweight people eligible for the job. Apparently, here in Mymensingh, only boys are allowed to make rooti.
Peace.
Steve.
"50 Taka per night"... 50 Taka!
An entire nights work, and these boys receive less than a dollar. Something here needs to change. Children who should be going to school should not be working like slaves for 50 Taka, nor should they be forced to work the night shift, but they do, and they have little choice.
I wish I had the life story of each of those boys. I don't know if both their parents are alive, working or sick. I don't know how big their families are, or where they live. But I do know that they are desperately poor and like many young boys here in Bangladesh, they look for work not because it's fun, but because it puts rice in their stomachs. I do not blame these boys for working, but the system needs to change. The problem is that it is illegal. It is illegal, and not monitored. Hungry children, starving because their parents cannot find work, can be hired for virtually nothing, because virtually nothing is still something; and something is better than nothing. These children often eat only one meal a day at home, and a hungry person is a desperate person. Being a slave and being alive is better than the alternative; starvation. Now this analysis of the problem is stark, and possibly slightly exaggerated, but the problem is real. And it gets no easier when those people hiring the children have no ethical qualms about child labour, or more to the point, they know that there are so many others doing it, that they do not fear breaking the law.
The solution to the problem is complex. Many of these children would not be going to school if they weren't working, they would be out doing something else to make money. Many boys collect recycled paper and waste to sell as recycling in the markets. But while many boys go off to work, their fathers sit at home, lazing around and gossiping, not by choice, but because they cannot find work. Who would hire an adult and have to pay them more, when you could hire an obedient child?
Child labour is not a problem that will disappear quickly in Bangladesh. Not that North Americans and Europeans were always stellar at not hiring children either, it will take time, and it will need some outside help. But it is a problem, and a problem that needs to be addressed.
To finish off our conversation. Brother Frank asked the boys if foreigners were allowed to make rooti. The answer was unequivocally "no". Nor were indigenous people, elderly or overweight people eligible for the job. Apparently, here in Mymensingh, only boys are allowed to make rooti.
Peace.
Steve.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Hospitality and Friendship
Jishuna Rashong - God Bless You!
I have a special place in my heart for the family of my friend Asheesh. Philip (my brother) and I spent Christmas with them and Philip was sick. Asheesh's family did everything they could to make Phil comfortable, they bought him medicine and cookies and clean water, they helped him as much as they possibly could with their limited resources, and they did so in the most gracious way.
Last week I went to visit Asheesh's family again to say goodbye. I had told them I was coming around noon and when I showed up early, at 9am, everyone quickly came over to greet me. I sat down in the courtyard as tea was prepared chatting with whomever passed by. I was given slightly green lychees, a wonderful flavour of fruit (just think sour patch kids without the grating sugar). And as I sat there watching the family work, all ages mingling together, so happy to have me there to enjoy their company; I realized the meaning of friendship and hospitality. Asheesh's family is not well-off by any standard, but they always treat me as an honoured guest, giving and never asking anything in return.
The feeling of being accepted and welcomed in this country is such a humbling and powerful experience. Experiences like this have the opportunity to be transformative. To open eyes and let true hospitality and a servant heart serve those of us who think we can do it on our own. To be served and welcomed by those who we think should be sad and lost in self-pity, is humbling and simultaneously overwhelming. I hope that someday my actions can give that joy and happiness to someone else, that joy that comes from being served and welcomed not out of necessity but out of happiness and love.
There I sat in the courtyard drinking tea and playing cricket with Asheesh's little brother and I felt an overwhelming sense of peace in the world. Nothing needed to be done at that moment, I could just sit and be. I could play, I could talk, I could just sit. Noone needed to entertain, they were busy, but every so often they would come over and ask me to help with something, or ask if I wanted more tea; I was more than a guest, I was a friend, I was almost part of the family.
Asheesh's cousin came along after a while and we visited his mom at her work at the silk weaving centre and visited the fathers at the Mission before returning for a wonderful lunch of chicken curry and dhal. Chicken curry is a very special dish in Bangladesh, especially for a poor family. To be served chicken is an honour and it was another demonstration of their love and how gracious hosts they were.
Just before I left to return to Mymensingh for a meeting, I took this picture of their family so I will always be able to remember them. I will give Asheesh a copy of the picture and I also gave them a picture frame and a picture so they can remember our time together. Life can sometimes be a challenge, but in those little times of friendship and hospitality I really sense a deep connection with people here.
Peace.
Steve.
I have a special place in my heart for the family of my friend Asheesh. Philip (my brother) and I spent Christmas with them and Philip was sick. Asheesh's family did everything they could to make Phil comfortable, they bought him medicine and cookies and clean water, they helped him as much as they possibly could with their limited resources, and they did so in the most gracious way.
Last week I went to visit Asheesh's family again to say goodbye. I had told them I was coming around noon and when I showed up early, at 9am, everyone quickly came over to greet me. I sat down in the courtyard as tea was prepared chatting with whomever passed by. I was given slightly green lychees, a wonderful flavour of fruit (just think sour patch kids without the grating sugar). And as I sat there watching the family work, all ages mingling together, so happy to have me there to enjoy their company; I realized the meaning of friendship and hospitality. Asheesh's family is not well-off by any standard, but they always treat me as an honoured guest, giving and never asking anything in return.
The feeling of being accepted and welcomed in this country is such a humbling and powerful experience. Experiences like this have the opportunity to be transformative. To open eyes and let true hospitality and a servant heart serve those of us who think we can do it on our own. To be served and welcomed by those who we think should be sad and lost in self-pity, is humbling and simultaneously overwhelming. I hope that someday my actions can give that joy and happiness to someone else, that joy that comes from being served and welcomed not out of necessity but out of happiness and love.
There I sat in the courtyard drinking tea and playing cricket with Asheesh's little brother and I felt an overwhelming sense of peace in the world. Nothing needed to be done at that moment, I could just sit and be. I could play, I could talk, I could just sit. Noone needed to entertain, they were busy, but every so often they would come over and ask me to help with something, or ask if I wanted more tea; I was more than a guest, I was a friend, I was almost part of the family.
Asheesh's cousin came along after a while and we visited his mom at her work at the silk weaving centre and visited the fathers at the Mission before returning for a wonderful lunch of chicken curry and dhal. Chicken curry is a very special dish in Bangladesh, especially for a poor family. To be served chicken is an honour and it was another demonstration of their love and how gracious hosts they were.
Just before I left to return to Mymensingh for a meeting, I took this picture of their family so I will always be able to remember them. I will give Asheesh a copy of the picture and I also gave them a picture frame and a picture so they can remember our time together. Life can sometimes be a challenge, but in those little times of friendship and hospitality I really sense a deep connection with people here.
Peace.
Steve.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Burma: A Story of Fear and Power
I want to address the situation in Myanmar/Burma as I see it from the outside. Having witnessed Sidr and the damage it wrought on Bangladesh, and noting the obvious differences between what is reported and the actual effects of the disaster. The story itself is surprisingly clear. A cyclone made land-fall on the Iawaddy coast and destroyed huge swaths of land and killed thousands in a country whose poverty level is high, and whose political freedom and transperancy is possibly the tightest in the world. I will try and explain some of the complexities surrounding this issue. None of these are hidden, but some are often forgotten about.
Problem: Burmese citizens are in desperate need of clean water, food and shelter.
Solution: Somewhere between unilaterally entering the country to help and not doing anything because the government is not welcoming.
Firstly, I have a sinking feeling in my stomach just thinking about the victims of this disaster. Not only were they the victims of a terrible storm, but they are the victims of the Junta, of unpreparedness and poverty. This story is made ever more poignant by the fact that the world stands by and watches while people die, and a leadership based on fear and power maintenance does not have the capacity to make any headway. I pain most not for the thousands of dead, that deed was done, but for the families of the survivors. I pray for the sick, the injured and the orphan. But the question remains what is our response?
Material aid is needed. Food aid is desperately needed and housing will be a huge priority as the monsoon season is just a few weeks away. But most important is clean drinking water. Months after Sidr, clean drinking water was still being distributed in the worst hit areas where wells and ponds had yet to be cleaned and serviced. But immediate material aid is only a start. A start that has yet to materialize. The long term needs of these victims need to be thought about now. What will happen after the Junta removes aid workers? How will people be able to cope with their loss in the country when the world has once again forgotten about them? These are some of the challenges faced outside of the need to actually get people into the country.
That brings me to the sad tale of a government whose fear of the world, has made them capable of allowing thousands of people to die, and all this out of fear. The Junta understand that they are not popular, not among their own people nor in the world at large. They have retained power by imposing a restrictive censored state. Information does not get in, and information does not get out. Tourists are not welcome outside the Juntas hand-picked cities and "tourist sites". The country is covered in a blanket of silence, but a massive storm with the power to kill such as this, cannot go unnoticed. Interestingly enough, the Junta's hold on power is seemingly more important to them, not only than the lives of those in the country, but also more important than the money they could make off of aid organizations. Governments are not stupid, and governments like to skim off the top. A figure of 10% has popped up in conversation recently as the percentage of aid that actually gets to the victims. And that was in the context of Bangladesh, I would not doubt that Burma could be even lower. The Junta could, and possibly will, use the money that does come in to fill the coffers and maintain a stronger iron grip on the country. But seemingly more important than that, is that Burmese people would not have access to international aid organizations. This fear of foreigners messing in internal affairs could, and hopefully will be a tipping point for the Burmese people. The role of the international community in this scenario is to support the people in their struggle for survival and for a government based on care and support of the people. To not forget about Burma is the most important thing we can do.
There is no easy solution to what is happening now in Myanmar/Burma. Aid is needed and people are dying. The government is oppressive and fearful of international pressure, and the victims are stuck in the middle of this political landscape. People need help, and the wrong people are going to benefit, the sad reality of poverty and power. How to address those poverty structures is an area of study and thought for years to come.
Peace and prayers to the victims of this horrible atrocity.
Steve.
Problem: Burmese citizens are in desperate need of clean water, food and shelter.
Solution: Somewhere between unilaterally entering the country to help and not doing anything because the government is not welcoming.
Firstly, I have a sinking feeling in my stomach just thinking about the victims of this disaster. Not only were they the victims of a terrible storm, but they are the victims of the Junta, of unpreparedness and poverty. This story is made ever more poignant by the fact that the world stands by and watches while people die, and a leadership based on fear and power maintenance does not have the capacity to make any headway. I pain most not for the thousands of dead, that deed was done, but for the families of the survivors. I pray for the sick, the injured and the orphan. But the question remains what is our response?
Material aid is needed. Food aid is desperately needed and housing will be a huge priority as the monsoon season is just a few weeks away. But most important is clean drinking water. Months after Sidr, clean drinking water was still being distributed in the worst hit areas where wells and ponds had yet to be cleaned and serviced. But immediate material aid is only a start. A start that has yet to materialize. The long term needs of these victims need to be thought about now. What will happen after the Junta removes aid workers? How will people be able to cope with their loss in the country when the world has once again forgotten about them? These are some of the challenges faced outside of the need to actually get people into the country.
That brings me to the sad tale of a government whose fear of the world, has made them capable of allowing thousands of people to die, and all this out of fear. The Junta understand that they are not popular, not among their own people nor in the world at large. They have retained power by imposing a restrictive censored state. Information does not get in, and information does not get out. Tourists are not welcome outside the Juntas hand-picked cities and "tourist sites". The country is covered in a blanket of silence, but a massive storm with the power to kill such as this, cannot go unnoticed. Interestingly enough, the Junta's hold on power is seemingly more important to them, not only than the lives of those in the country, but also more important than the money they could make off of aid organizations. Governments are not stupid, and governments like to skim off the top. A figure of 10% has popped up in conversation recently as the percentage of aid that actually gets to the victims. And that was in the context of Bangladesh, I would not doubt that Burma could be even lower. The Junta could, and possibly will, use the money that does come in to fill the coffers and maintain a stronger iron grip on the country. But seemingly more important than that, is that Burmese people would not have access to international aid organizations. This fear of foreigners messing in internal affairs could, and hopefully will be a tipping point for the Burmese people. The role of the international community in this scenario is to support the people in their struggle for survival and for a government based on care and support of the people. To not forget about Burma is the most important thing we can do.
There is no easy solution to what is happening now in Myanmar/Burma. Aid is needed and people are dying. The government is oppressive and fearful of international pressure, and the victims are stuck in the middle of this political landscape. People need help, and the wrong people are going to benefit, the sad reality of poverty and power. How to address those poverty structures is an area of study and thought for years to come.
Peace and prayers to the victims of this horrible atrocity.
Steve.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Kolkata in Pictures
Here are a few pictures I took around Kolkata. I am now forced to be a little more creative with my composition as my zoom and manual features on my camera are broken.
The buses in Kolkata are all blue and the routes are clearly marked, a very wise system.
The bright yellow taxis look like they are from another era. Thank you Tata!
The Victoria Memorial, a reminder of colonial India and a beautiful edifice.
Shanti.
Steve.
The buses in Kolkata are all blue and the routes are clearly marked, a very wise system.
The bright yellow taxis look like they are from another era. Thank you Tata!
The Victoria Memorial, a reminder of colonial India and a beautiful edifice.
Shanti.
Steve.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Living Together
I am here in the stereotypical "hell hole" of cities. When people talk of Kolkata (Culcutta), minds run wild with images of poverty, hunger and desolation. And objectively I can understand these thoughts. For someone who has not spent the last nine months living in the Indian sub-continent, the city of Kolkata would be limited to sights of poverty and sadness. But that is not the Kolkata I see.
Kolkata is a menagerie of diverse people, situations, buildings, smells and realities. This city has history and it has modernity, it has class and it has craziness, Kolkata has life. Located in West Bengal, whose counterpart is East Bengal (Bangladesh), the way of life in Kolkata is very similar to that of Bangladesh, but Kolkata has more class, more pizzazz. The city streets bring you back to the good old days (eg. before my time), the taxis and buses are Indian through and through. The streetcars were made in some bygone era but seem to run with efficient creaking and groaning. But the buildings and construction of Kolkata have been the real draw for me.
Kolkata is an old capital. A remnant of British ruled India, with a modern face. Deteriorating buildings, architecturally stunning, intricate arches and pillars splashed across buildings in need of a fresh coat of paint. Reminders of the rich history Kolkata has to offer. And there, under this historical facade is the face of the new India. A country freshly industrializing, and importing brands I have not seen in months. Passing the Levi's store, the Nike store and a fancy restaurant, I look in and see the rich modernity running its tentacles through the history of this city.
There on the streets lie the most obvious of Kolkata's poor. Those people you step around, beggars asking for some money. Frail men and woman sitting by walls, unsure of their future. This is a sad reality, that should never be overlooked, but is a reality of life in Bengal. This sight, is not foreign to me, and it can turn from sadness to joy in a matter of seconds. The cities poor, showering in the street as the pipe sprays water, sitting down and drinking tea with a friend, the realities of life often bring a lighter face to a city's poverty.
Life in Kolkata is a fascinating experience for the senses, a city with lots to offer and never a boring moment. This place is a place where the old lives with the new, the rich with the poor, the fresh with the rundown, where nothing is as it seems, but you can see everything.
Peace.
Steve.
Kolkata is a menagerie of diverse people, situations, buildings, smells and realities. This city has history and it has modernity, it has class and it has craziness, Kolkata has life. Located in West Bengal, whose counterpart is East Bengal (Bangladesh), the way of life in Kolkata is very similar to that of Bangladesh, but Kolkata has more class, more pizzazz. The city streets bring you back to the good old days (eg. before my time), the taxis and buses are Indian through and through. The streetcars were made in some bygone era but seem to run with efficient creaking and groaning. But the buildings and construction of Kolkata have been the real draw for me.
Kolkata is an old capital. A remnant of British ruled India, with a modern face. Deteriorating buildings, architecturally stunning, intricate arches and pillars splashed across buildings in need of a fresh coat of paint. Reminders of the rich history Kolkata has to offer. And there, under this historical facade is the face of the new India. A country freshly industrializing, and importing brands I have not seen in months. Passing the Levi's store, the Nike store and a fancy restaurant, I look in and see the rich modernity running its tentacles through the history of this city.
There on the streets lie the most obvious of Kolkata's poor. Those people you step around, beggars asking for some money. Frail men and woman sitting by walls, unsure of their future. This is a sad reality, that should never be overlooked, but is a reality of life in Bengal. This sight, is not foreign to me, and it can turn from sadness to joy in a matter of seconds. The cities poor, showering in the street as the pipe sprays water, sitting down and drinking tea with a friend, the realities of life often bring a lighter face to a city's poverty.
Life in Kolkata is a fascinating experience for the senses, a city with lots to offer and never a boring moment. This place is a place where the old lives with the new, the rich with the poor, the fresh with the rundown, where nothing is as it seems, but you can see everything.
Peace.
Steve.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Bangladesh: A Tourist Destination?
"I met a couple the other day who said they were tourists. I think they were the last of the hippies. They wanted to find some Italian fathers, so I directed them to the Mission. I think that's the third time I've met someone here, in the last 18 years, who referred to themselves as tourists."
I am in the process of trying to figure out how Jess could obtain a Bangladeshi visa to visit Bangladesh. I have asked everyone I know who has been here for any length of time; everyone has a different story, and none of them are particularly encouraging. It is virtually impossible to obtain a visa on arrival it appears, at least people highly advise against it. So Jess might have to go to Bangkok to get a visa, a long journey to one of the few places in the world with a Bangladeshi Embassy.
Bangladesh does not understand tourism. The one time I thought I had met a tourist in Mymensingh, he turned out to be the writer of a guide book. Bangladesh is not a tourist destination, and I can understand why. I think I have visited 75% of the tourist attractions in this country and I have not always had the most wonderful of experiences. Never mind not having the best experiences, I couldn't imagine trying to get to any of those places without knowing Bengali AND having a guide. They have not made tourism in Bangladesh easy, and it shows, there aren't any tourists.
I have visited a few other countries this year, namely Laos and Nepal and soon to be India. Laos and Nepal understand tourism, granted they are some of the largest tourist destinations in Asia, but there is a reason for that. Firstly, they understand what tourists want, secondly they have the natural beauty to add to a cultural and historical heritage that lends itself to good tourism. But most importantly they try to make the tourist happy. Because happy tourists bring more happy tourists, and happy tourists bring money. Bangladesh could develop tourism. It has areas of natural beauty that would, if preserved and made accessible, be tourist attractions. But first, people here need to realize that tourists are not going to flock to a country that doesn't seem to care if they come or not. And tourists are definitely not going to come to a country that makes it difficult for them to come. Tourism is not the solution to the struggles of Bangladesh. But attracting tourists could provide an income to the country, outside of cheap labour and foreign aid.
As it stands, Bangladesh is not a tourist destination, and until they start having a reliable system and method for tourists to visit, and places for them to see, tourists won't come.
Peace.
Steve.
I am in the process of trying to figure out how Jess could obtain a Bangladeshi visa to visit Bangladesh. I have asked everyone I know who has been here for any length of time; everyone has a different story, and none of them are particularly encouraging. It is virtually impossible to obtain a visa on arrival it appears, at least people highly advise against it. So Jess might have to go to Bangkok to get a visa, a long journey to one of the few places in the world with a Bangladeshi Embassy.
Bangladesh does not understand tourism. The one time I thought I had met a tourist in Mymensingh, he turned out to be the writer of a guide book. Bangladesh is not a tourist destination, and I can understand why. I think I have visited 75% of the tourist attractions in this country and I have not always had the most wonderful of experiences. Never mind not having the best experiences, I couldn't imagine trying to get to any of those places without knowing Bengali AND having a guide. They have not made tourism in Bangladesh easy, and it shows, there aren't any tourists.
I have visited a few other countries this year, namely Laos and Nepal and soon to be India. Laos and Nepal understand tourism, granted they are some of the largest tourist destinations in Asia, but there is a reason for that. Firstly, they understand what tourists want, secondly they have the natural beauty to add to a cultural and historical heritage that lends itself to good tourism. But most importantly they try to make the tourist happy. Because happy tourists bring more happy tourists, and happy tourists bring money. Bangladesh could develop tourism. It has areas of natural beauty that would, if preserved and made accessible, be tourist attractions. But first, people here need to realize that tourists are not going to flock to a country that doesn't seem to care if they come or not. And tourists are definitely not going to come to a country that makes it difficult for them to come. Tourism is not the solution to the struggles of Bangladesh. But attracting tourists could provide an income to the country, outside of cheap labour and foreign aid.
As it stands, Bangladesh is not a tourist destination, and until they start having a reliable system and method for tourists to visit, and places for them to see, tourists won't come.
Peace.
Steve.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Teaching Peace
Teaching Peace. Some people might say that's what I came here to do. First off, my bengali is not good enough to teach anything other than English, so my teaching of peace is limited to times when I have a translator. But something is happening that is even better than learning peace. Children are learning peace through having fun.
I have watched as our peace programs at the school have developed. We started tentatively. Puppet shows about important themes, great stories to back it up, but sometimes unsure of the purpose. What are we doing here? The children were always excited to see what was in store for them, and seeing puppet shows is always interesting. And as we continued our confidence level grew, the children grasped the concepts and the discussions were enlightening. But every month still looked the same.
Now we have expanded. We are using new techniques and skills to not just teach peace, but to let the children discover peace on their own. This month was skit month. I am part of the Bolajpur School group, and we had 4 groups of students, each being helped by a teacher from the school. The students’ task was to develop a role-play and to come up with a solution to the conflict we presented. Then they had to present that skit to the class.
The conflict was this, there were two families in a village. One family owned a cow, one family owned a vegetable garden. There was also a neighbour family, but they were not involved in the conflict. The cow was, time and again, breaking away from its line and wandering into the vegetable garden and eating the vegetables. The first few times the vegetabel owner would return the cow to its owner and ask him to keep the cow tied up, the cow's owner would respond "Oh yes, he won't end up in your vegetables anymore." But invariably, the next day, there was the cow in the vegetables. The vegetable owner got so frustrated that one day, instead of returning the cow to the owner, he brought the cow to the Kuwar, the cow jail. Now the Kuwar is a spot in the bazaar where stray cows are brought if they are found wandering around. The owner, must then go to the bazaar and pay a fine to have his cow back. Therefore, having your cow brought to the Kuwar is expensive, and it is also embarassing. To have to pick up your cow from the Kuwar is shameful to a cow owner. Needless to say, the cow's owner took the actions of the vegetable owner as an attack against him. He was angry and bitter towards the vegetable owner. So in spite, the cow owner blocked off a path through his land which was often used by the vegetable owner. The conflict grew and this was where we turned it over to the children.
And the students didn't disappoint. They came up with funny, creative and all slightly different solutions to the conflict. In the end, each group decided to use the neighbouring family to help resolve the dispute, either through compensation of money, compromise, new tether to keep the cow from the vegetables, many different solutions to the same conflict. Success! The point was made. No two conflicts are ever alike, and no conflict has only one right solution, there are many ways of responding to each conflict, and some may be better than others, but there is always a choice of solutions.
The use of this activity was very exciting for me. To see the teachers and our team members work alongside the students, to help the students come up with their own skits and their own solutions to the problem. We didn't need to teach peace, we could assist the children in learning something they all knew at some level. This is part of the fun of peace. We often know what it is and how it works, we just don't spend the time to really think about it and use those skills when they would be most useful. I sincerely hope that this upward momentum in the learning and teaching styles in these schools can continue and thrive over the coming years. Not only in the teaching of peace, but in the life of the schools in general. It's not about teaching peace, it's about helping others to learn peace.
Shanti.
Steve.
I have watched as our peace programs at the school have developed. We started tentatively. Puppet shows about important themes, great stories to back it up, but sometimes unsure of the purpose. What are we doing here? The children were always excited to see what was in store for them, and seeing puppet shows is always interesting. And as we continued our confidence level grew, the children grasped the concepts and the discussions were enlightening. But every month still looked the same.
Now we have expanded. We are using new techniques and skills to not just teach peace, but to let the children discover peace on their own. This month was skit month. I am part of the Bolajpur School group, and we had 4 groups of students, each being helped by a teacher from the school. The students’ task was to develop a role-play and to come up with a solution to the conflict we presented. Then they had to present that skit to the class.The conflict was this, there were two families in a village. One family owned a cow, one family owned a vegetable garden. There was also a neighbour family, but they were not involved in the conflict. The cow was, time and again, breaking away from its line and wandering into the vegetable garden and eating the vegetables. The first few times the vegetabel owner would return the cow to its owner and ask him to keep the cow tied up, the cow's owner would respond "Oh yes, he won't end up in your vegetables anymore." But invariably, the next day, there was the cow in the vegetables. The vegetable owner got so frustrated that one day, instead of returning the cow to the owner, he brought the cow to the Kuwar, the cow jail. Now the Kuwar is a spot in the bazaar where stray cows are brought if they are found wandering around. The owner, must then go to the bazaar and pay a fine to have his cow back. Therefore, having your cow brought to the Kuwar is expensive, and it is also embarassing. To have to pick up your cow from the Kuwar is shameful to a cow owner. Needless to say, the cow's owner took the actions of the vegetable owner as an attack against him. He was angry and bitter towards the vegetable owner. So in spite, the cow owner blocked off a path through his land which was often used by the vegetable owner. The conflict grew and this was where we turned it over to the children.
And the students didn't disappoint. They came up with funny, creative and all slightly different solutions to the conflict. In the end, each group decided to use the neighbouring family to help resolve the dispute, either through compensation of money, compromise, new tether to keep the cow from the vegetables, many different solutions to the same conflict. Success! The point was made. No two conflicts are ever alike, and no conflict has only one right solution, there are many ways of responding to each conflict, and some may be better than others, but there is always a choice of solutions.The use of this activity was very exciting for me. To see the teachers and our team members work alongside the students, to help the students come up with their own skits and their own solutions to the problem. We didn't need to teach peace, we could assist the children in learning something they all knew at some level. This is part of the fun of peace. We often know what it is and how it works, we just don't spend the time to really think about it and use those skills when they would be most useful. I sincerely hope that this upward momentum in the learning and teaching styles in these schools can continue and thrive over the coming years. Not only in the teaching of peace, but in the life of the schools in general. It's not about teaching peace, it's about helping others to learn peace.
Shanti.
Steve.
Monday, April 21, 2008
A Wedding, Hindu Style
"Shubho Bibaho" - Merry Wedding
First, I would like to wish all the best to my friend Jyotti who's wedding I attended last night. I wish her and her husband the best and hope that they learn to love each other in their lives together.
This post will in part describe the Hindu wedding but is also an exploration into the tradition of marriage in Bangladesh. Hindu weddings as I was told by my friend Ronnie, are night-time affairs, unlike Muslim weddings which take place most often during the day. We arrived at 9 o'clock at the wedding house, a decorated area near Jyotti's house, hemmed in by small tin houses. Neither family is particularly rich, therefore the renting of a hall for the wedding was not a possibility. I am in fact amazed that the family had the money to have the decorations they had, after the payment of dowry. We entered Jyotti's house and there she was in her pre-wedding shari, looking very beautiful yet not joyful, not happy, not excited for this new chapter in her life.
Bangladeshi marriages are a family affair. Not just that the family is involved in the marriage ceremony, the family is involved in every part of the marriage preparation. In fact, the bride and groom have essentially no voice in the arranging of the marriage whatsoever. The bride's family and the groom's family are involved in arranging the marriage. And once the arrangement is set, it is a matter of weeks before the wedding. Once the marriage has been decided upon, then comes the families discussion of dowry. Dowry is paid by the bride to the groom's family upon arrival at their home as the new addition to their family. Dowry is an important part of a marriage here in Bangladesh, but it is also the cause of much strife. I have only second hand information about the actual dowry given in this instance, but I was told that the sum of cash was 50,000 Taka ($750) and on top of that 6 gold nuggets were to be given, each worth over a thousand Taka. That puts the dowry of this low-income family at over $1000. To put this in perspective, a salary of 5000 Taka per month here is a decent salary. This is why I am amazed they had any money left over for food and decoration, and that brings me back to the wedding day.
After we arrived was the ceremony, symbolizing the leaving of the bride from her family. There sat my friend, crying as her father, brothers, and uncles fed her sweets and gave her money as a blessing. As I watched this I felt sorry for this normally happy, bubbly and cheerful friend of mine, sitting there scared and alone, unsure of the future, not knowing the man she is going to spend the rest of her life with.
After the ceremony we helped serve dinner for the guests. Hindu weddings here are small affairs, with this wedding having no more than 50 guests, mostly family, with a few friends. We served and ate dinner between 11 and midnight, then we sat and talked as the bride and groom were prepared for the wedding ceremony. Shortly after 1 o'clock in the morning we visited Jyotti in her room, in a beautiful shari, and ornate bangles, her hands covered in gold henna. We took pictures and joked with the women who were part of the ceremony. Then, at 2am the wedding started.
The wedding took place in a small pagoda-style enclosure decorated with finely cut paper and faux flowers. The dirt floor had been painted in typical Bengali fashion and the many accessories to the wedding were strewn around. The proceedings were interrupted at one point, also in Bengali fashion, when they could not decide whether the bride should walk around the groom to her left or to his left. After they figured that out, the proceedings went smoothly and despite the constant interruptions and the awkward video photographer from somewhere, it was an enjoyable night.
As I think about the marriage customs and rituals of this culture, I see history and and tradition woven into a web, intertwining people and joining them in marriage. I sincerely pray for the future of Jyotti and her husband as they take this new step in their lives.
Peace.
Steve.
First, I would like to wish all the best to my friend Jyotti who's wedding I attended last night. I wish her and her husband the best and hope that they learn to love each other in their lives together.
This post will in part describe the Hindu wedding but is also an exploration into the tradition of marriage in Bangladesh. Hindu weddings as I was told by my friend Ronnie, are night-time affairs, unlike Muslim weddings which take place most often during the day. We arrived at 9 o'clock at the wedding house, a decorated area near Jyotti's house, hemmed in by small tin houses. Neither family is particularly rich, therefore the renting of a hall for the wedding was not a possibility. I am in fact amazed that the family had the money to have the decorations they had, after the payment of dowry. We entered Jyotti's house and there she was in her pre-wedding shari, looking very beautiful yet not joyful, not happy, not excited for this new chapter in her life.
Bangladeshi marriages are a family affair. Not just that the family is involved in the marriage ceremony, the family is involved in every part of the marriage preparation. In fact, the bride and groom have essentially no voice in the arranging of the marriage whatsoever. The bride's family and the groom's family are involved in arranging the marriage. And once the arrangement is set, it is a matter of weeks before the wedding. Once the marriage has been decided upon, then comes the families discussion of dowry. Dowry is paid by the bride to the groom's family upon arrival at their home as the new addition to their family. Dowry is an important part of a marriage here in Bangladesh, but it is also the cause of much strife. I have only second hand information about the actual dowry given in this instance, but I was told that the sum of cash was 50,000 Taka ($750) and on top of that 6 gold nuggets were to be given, each worth over a thousand Taka. That puts the dowry of this low-income family at over $1000. To put this in perspective, a salary of 5000 Taka per month here is a decent salary. This is why I am amazed they had any money left over for food and decoration, and that brings me back to the wedding day.
After we arrived was the ceremony, symbolizing the leaving of the bride from her family. There sat my friend, crying as her father, brothers, and uncles fed her sweets and gave her money as a blessing. As I watched this I felt sorry for this normally happy, bubbly and cheerful friend of mine, sitting there scared and alone, unsure of the future, not knowing the man she is going to spend the rest of her life with.After the ceremony we helped serve dinner for the guests. Hindu weddings here are small affairs, with this wedding having no more than 50 guests, mostly family, with a few friends. We served and ate dinner between 11 and midnight, then we sat and talked as the bride and groom were prepared for the wedding ceremony. Shortly after 1 o'clock in the morning we visited Jyotti in her room, in a beautiful shari, and ornate bangles, her hands covered in gold henna. We took pictures and joked with the women who were part of the ceremony. Then, at 2am the wedding started.
The wedding took place in a small pagoda-style enclosure decorated with finely cut paper and faux flowers. The dirt floor had been painted in typical Bengali fashion and the many accessories to the wedding were strewn around. The proceedings were interrupted at one point, also in Bengali fashion, when they could not decide whether the bride should walk around the groom to her left or to his left. After they figured that out, the proceedings went smoothly and despite the constant interruptions and the awkward video photographer from somewhere, it was an enjoyable night.As I think about the marriage customs and rituals of this culture, I see history and and tradition woven into a web, intertwining people and joining them in marriage. I sincerely pray for the future of Jyotti and her husband as they take this new step in their lives.
Peace.
Steve.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Peace Through Stories
Last weekend, April 9-12 was our Taize Peace Committee Retreat. We went to a retreat center at Jolchatro Mission for a time of bonding and relaxing. The focus of the retreat was on internal peace.
Think of 10 things in your life that made you really happy. This was one of the tasks Father Gilbert, the retreat leader, asked our group to write down. Times in our lives when we have been really happy. This task should not be as difficult as it was. Why do we remember the negative events in our lives so much more easily than we remember the joyful moments? Hearing participants responses to what made them really happy, was a moment of cultural enlightenment for me. Here I had written down times that I am happy, for example, when I listen to music, or when I exercise, and so on. When we returned together to share the things that make us happy, I quickly found out that my list was not the Bangladeshi way of saying what makes us happy. I had written down ideas, things that make me happy when I do them or when I receive them from others, everyone else, had written down stories. "There was this one time when..." or "When I was 5 years old my father...", all stories, stories of times when they had been happy. People here think in stories, they do not think in point form, they do not think in abstractions, they think in concrete stories. Here, in this country, peace must be built through stories, stories of when peace prevailed, stories of the damages of conflict, only through stories will people stay engaged.
Then, the last day before we left we introduced the idea of a sharing circle. A piece of bamboo was taken from outside and as we passed the stick around the circle, we listened to what had impacted people during our retreat. And here, once again, I was struck by the stories. A good North-American would name a list of things that had impacted them, they would not tell it as a story. I for one, would not have thought of telling what had impacted me in the form of a story, but each person, time after time, told a story, or two, or three. Stories are how they process their worlds. Stories are the vehicle for peace in this country.
As I think about the value of stories, I wonder whether using stories more in our North American lives would not be beneficial? Stories connect you and your place to others around you. Stories connect the ideas being discussed to a concrete reality and personal or communal history, and stories provide an fun method for transmitting important information. In our search for peace, stories must play an important role.
Shanti.
Steve.
Think of 10 things in your life that made you really happy. This was one of the tasks Father Gilbert, the retreat leader, asked our group to write down. Times in our lives when we have been really happy. This task should not be as difficult as it was. Why do we remember the negative events in our lives so much more easily than we remember the joyful moments? Hearing participants responses to what made them really happy, was a moment of cultural enlightenment for me. Here I had written down times that I am happy, for example, when I listen to music, or when I exercise, and so on. When we returned together to share the things that make us happy, I quickly found out that my list was not the Bangladeshi way of saying what makes us happy. I had written down ideas, things that make me happy when I do them or when I receive them from others, everyone else, had written down stories. "There was this one time when..." or "When I was 5 years old my father...", all stories, stories of times when they had been happy. People here think in stories, they do not think in point form, they do not think in abstractions, they think in concrete stories. Here, in this country, peace must be built through stories, stories of when peace prevailed, stories of the damages of conflict, only through stories will people stay engaged.
Then, the last day before we left we introduced the idea of a sharing circle. A piece of bamboo was taken from outside and as we passed the stick around the circle, we listened to what had impacted people during our retreat. And here, once again, I was struck by the stories. A good North-American would name a list of things that had impacted them, they would not tell it as a story. I for one, would not have thought of telling what had impacted me in the form of a story, but each person, time after time, told a story, or two, or three. Stories are how they process their worlds. Stories are the vehicle for peace in this country.As I think about the value of stories, I wonder whether using stories more in our North American lives would not be beneficial? Stories connect you and your place to others around you. Stories connect the ideas being discussed to a concrete reality and personal or communal history, and stories provide an fun method for transmitting important information. In our search for peace, stories must play an important role.
Shanti.
Steve.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Starving People... Who Cares?
I was reading comments people were making on the BBC regarding the world's food price increases. Many people make very valid comments about overpopulation and the movement towards crops for bio-fuel, but there was one comment in particular that shocked me and I wanted to share it here.
Bangladesh is one of the countries where people are starving. It's a fact, a slightly hidden fact, but a fact nonetheless. I have spoken to poor families who at the moment eat only 1 meal of rice per day. I met a friend today, he was pulling hundreds of pounds of sand down the street as a coolie, last I knew him he was unemployed. Luckily now he has a job to feed his family, but to what effect? The strain I could see in his body was unbelievable, this older man struggling to pull hundreds and hundreds of pounds of sand through the streets of Mymensingh. And with all this work, he eats maybe two meals of rice a day, with no protein and a few vegetables. These are the effects of rising food prices on the population of Bangladesh. People lining up all day to receive rice at a reduced price, rationing hand fulls of rice every meal. People are starving, and Bangladesh is not alone.
Now back to the comment that provoked me enough to write this post. Someone wrote, "Who cares, I have a cupboard full of glorious food and a freezer full of meat let them eat cake!" This comment was so provocative, I am almost inclined to say it was posted to make a point or as a wake-up call, I can hardly believe someone would be so callous or insensitive, but it is possible. This comment may be over the top, we all may say, "I would never say that!" or "That's terrible!" or some other comment to retain our image as a caring and sensitive human being. But how many of us, by our actions, are in fact making the same comment as this person? I have a cupboard full of glorious food and a freezer full of meat, they can deal with their own problems, I'm just fine. I encourage everyone today to stop and think, food prices are rising, economic systems are struggling, what can we do? How can we remember to include the people who will be most affected by our economic decisions and hoarding of food? How can we keep from starving the poorest in society? These questions have no easy answer, but I claim with no reservations that "Who cares... let them eat cake!" is not the answer. Because they will not eat cake, the reality of the matter is that they very well may die of starvation or a related disease. Who cares? I care, and I hope you do too.
Peace and Justice.
Steve.
PS The quote was taken from the article, http://newsforums.bbc.co.uk/nol/thread.jspa?forumID=4606&edition=2&ttl=20080414120447 from BBC World Website.
Bangladesh is one of the countries where people are starving. It's a fact, a slightly hidden fact, but a fact nonetheless. I have spoken to poor families who at the moment eat only 1 meal of rice per day. I met a friend today, he was pulling hundreds of pounds of sand down the street as a coolie, last I knew him he was unemployed. Luckily now he has a job to feed his family, but to what effect? The strain I could see in his body was unbelievable, this older man struggling to pull hundreds and hundreds of pounds of sand through the streets of Mymensingh. And with all this work, he eats maybe two meals of rice a day, with no protein and a few vegetables. These are the effects of rising food prices on the population of Bangladesh. People lining up all day to receive rice at a reduced price, rationing hand fulls of rice every meal. People are starving, and Bangladesh is not alone.
Now back to the comment that provoked me enough to write this post. Someone wrote, "Who cares, I have a cupboard full of glorious food and a freezer full of meat let them eat cake!" This comment was so provocative, I am almost inclined to say it was posted to make a point or as a wake-up call, I can hardly believe someone would be so callous or insensitive, but it is possible. This comment may be over the top, we all may say, "I would never say that!" or "That's terrible!" or some other comment to retain our image as a caring and sensitive human being. But how many of us, by our actions, are in fact making the same comment as this person? I have a cupboard full of glorious food and a freezer full of meat, they can deal with their own problems, I'm just fine. I encourage everyone today to stop and think, food prices are rising, economic systems are struggling, what can we do? How can we remember to include the people who will be most affected by our economic decisions and hoarding of food? How can we keep from starving the poorest in society? These questions have no easy answer, but I claim with no reservations that "Who cares... let them eat cake!" is not the answer. Because they will not eat cake, the reality of the matter is that they very well may die of starvation or a related disease. Who cares? I care, and I hope you do too.
Peace and Justice.
Steve.
PS The quote was taken from the article, http://newsforums.bbc.co.uk/nol/thread.jspa?forumID=4606&edition=2&ttl=20080414120447 from BBC World Website.
Pain Amongst Joy
Today was a wonderful chance to enjoy Bengali New Year. To enjoy a large festival and smile with friends, but there is always something in this country that makes me think, and think deeply, about what it means to be rich.
As thousands of middle-income and upper-income Bangladeshis wandered the streets outside of Taize, in our little oasis we were enjoying a typical meal of rice, shobji and dhal. Brother Guillaume, face painted and all, had enjoyed a morning out with some of the local children he spends much of his time with. We were all sitting around eating and talking, when someone beside me asked one of the boys from the street where his shirt was, he answered very matter of factly, "I only have one". That comment found its way down into my heart in a way that few others have recently. How many children do I see running around shirtless, and I naively thought it was because they were hot, but how many of those children only have one shirt, and they can't afford to wear it everyday or they won't have any shirts. As I walked around the mela outside, looking at the fancy sharis and hand-painted shirts, the fine embroidery and expensive fabrics, my mind wandered back, again and again to the little boy, shirtless, eating his rice. In the midst of the joy, it is important to keep grounded in the reality, and today I had that ability.
Peace.
Steve.
As thousands of middle-income and upper-income Bangladeshis wandered the streets outside of Taize, in our little oasis we were enjoying a typical meal of rice, shobji and dhal. Brother Guillaume, face painted and all, had enjoyed a morning out with some of the local children he spends much of his time with. We were all sitting around eating and talking, when someone beside me asked one of the boys from the street where his shirt was, he answered very matter of factly, "I only have one". That comment found its way down into my heart in a way that few others have recently. How many children do I see running around shirtless, and I naively thought it was because they were hot, but how many of those children only have one shirt, and they can't afford to wear it everyday or they won't have any shirts. As I walked around the mela outside, looking at the fancy sharis and hand-painted shirts, the fine embroidery and expensive fabrics, my mind wandered back, again and again to the little boy, shirtless, eating his rice. In the midst of the joy, it is important to keep grounded in the reality, and today I had that ability.
Peace.
Steve.
Shubho Noboborsho
Happy Bengali New Year to all! Today is the first day of the year 1415 in the Bengali calendar and today, April 14 is Bengali New Year's day. A wonderful excuse for a mela. After lunch my friends Kokhun, Dulal and I went and visited the celebrations in the park along the Bramaputra River. Tens of thousands of people lined the streets along the river, stalls were set up selling hand-made goods and cheap toys for children. 
Stalls selling tasty street food, tea and ice cream littered the park. There were even petite amusement park style rides available. Not that I would trust my life to a few pieces of wood swinging around like a merry-go-round. We visited the Zainul Abedin art gallery to see an exhibition where Abir, an MCC Bangladesh designer has works displayed, and met up with a few other friends for some tea and gossip, a Bangladeshi specialty.Today's New Year's celebrations were a wonderful opportunity to relax and spend some time with friends, to see the colourful dress and intricately hand-painted shirts and sharis, and to be a part of the Bengali New Year.
Shubho Noboborsho.
Shanti.
Steve.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Expecting the Unexpected
So strange things happen, it's a rule of life right? If you expect something to happen, chances are it won't. I have noticed this to quite the extreme in the last couple of days.
Take two days ago for example. I went to get a haircut, at least that's what I asked for. And a haircut is what I got... as well as an hour long facial, complete with facial massage, peel-off face mask, exfoliating lotion and yes, skin whitening treatment. Makes your skin whiter in only 15 minutes! And after an hour of trying to convince the hairdresser that I really did not need the pampering or the added cost, I gave up and completed my treatment. Needless to say, I may be going to the 10 cent a pop hair-dresser around the corner from now on.
So the facial was unexpected, slightly amusing, slightly pricey and definitely unexpected. But today's surprise might just take the prize. I woke up this morning to a knocking at my door. There stood a young man who asked me if my name was Steven. When I replied in the affirmative, he proceeded to tell me that he was moving in. No mistake, he was in fact living in my room. Brother Frank apparently sent him to live with me, and I am now with an unexpected roommate. Not an iota of warning whatsoever. I am slowly starting to realize that was has become expected after 8 months should not be, and the unexpected should always be expected to occur. I just hope that the unexpected doesn't get much more intense than it already is!
ecaeP. (Did you expect that!)
Steve.
Take two days ago for example. I went to get a haircut, at least that's what I asked for. And a haircut is what I got... as well as an hour long facial, complete with facial massage, peel-off face mask, exfoliating lotion and yes, skin whitening treatment. Makes your skin whiter in only 15 minutes! And after an hour of trying to convince the hairdresser that I really did not need the pampering or the added cost, I gave up and completed my treatment. Needless to say, I may be going to the 10 cent a pop hair-dresser around the corner from now on.
So the facial was unexpected, slightly amusing, slightly pricey and definitely unexpected. But today's surprise might just take the prize. I woke up this morning to a knocking at my door. There stood a young man who asked me if my name was Steven. When I replied in the affirmative, he proceeded to tell me that he was moving in. No mistake, he was in fact living in my room. Brother Frank apparently sent him to live with me, and I am now with an unexpected roommate. Not an iota of warning whatsoever. I am slowly starting to realize that was has become expected after 8 months should not be, and the unexpected should always be expected to occur. I just hope that the unexpected doesn't get much more intense than it already is!
ecaeP. (Did you expect that!)
Steve.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Learning to Think
I am someone who believes in the power of education. As a product of the public education system in Ontario, I believe that public education can be successful and can provide results regardless of the situation from which a child comes. But more important than any system or method of education, I believe in learning how to think. Empowered with the ability to think and reflect, people have the ability to improve not only their lives but the people around them.
It seems in Bangladesh that learning to think is not high on the priority list. Rote memorization, an important stepping-stone in education, is the goal to which all students aspire. Students here understand that with enough memorization and money for a tutor to explain what to give, exams can be passed quite easily. Standardized exams provide a benchmark, but a benchmark for what? I do not believe that the benchmark set by standardized exams is the ability to think critically or truly understand the material.
The ability to ask questions and discover new answers, exploration and discovery, these skills are virtually ignored in the education system here. Creativity and innovation are brushed aside for the all important memorization of when to use "thee" instead of "thou" (a rule which is all but antiquated). And this in a country rife with inventors and creative minds. In a country where they can make anything with wheels into a method of transportation, where they can use a single square of fabric in a hundred different ways; in a country where creativity as a product of daily life is so important; the education system seems designed to destroy that creativity and create a society of like-minded followers.
When I look around me at the many challenges facing Bangladesh, and I talk to Bangladeshis with experience beyond Bangladesh, they are often very skeptical of this society and the ability of Bangladeshis to improve their own lives. "They will do as they have always done, that's how they were taught," is a line that sums up the predictions of some. They claim that Bangladesh needs international aid, that Bangladeshis could not improve their own lives, that Bangladesh needs handouts, but I do not believe this needs to be the case. What Bangladesh and Bangladeshis need is to be taught how to think; to be taught how to address their own needs as they see them, and if they do not wish to change them, who are we to tell them otherwise?
Bangladeshis may not be ready to address their own challenges today, and they won't be tomorrow, but unless the system is developed to teach them how to think, they will never have the opportunity to reach their full potential.
In Peace.
Steve.
It seems in Bangladesh that learning to think is not high on the priority list. Rote memorization, an important stepping-stone in education, is the goal to which all students aspire. Students here understand that with enough memorization and money for a tutor to explain what to give, exams can be passed quite easily. Standardized exams provide a benchmark, but a benchmark for what? I do not believe that the benchmark set by standardized exams is the ability to think critically or truly understand the material.
The ability to ask questions and discover new answers, exploration and discovery, these skills are virtually ignored in the education system here. Creativity and innovation are brushed aside for the all important memorization of when to use "thee" instead of "thou" (a rule which is all but antiquated). And this in a country rife with inventors and creative minds. In a country where they can make anything with wheels into a method of transportation, where they can use a single square of fabric in a hundred different ways; in a country where creativity as a product of daily life is so important; the education system seems designed to destroy that creativity and create a society of like-minded followers.
When I look around me at the many challenges facing Bangladesh, and I talk to Bangladeshis with experience beyond Bangladesh, they are often very skeptical of this society and the ability of Bangladeshis to improve their own lives. "They will do as they have always done, that's how they were taught," is a line that sums up the predictions of some. They claim that Bangladesh needs international aid, that Bangladeshis could not improve their own lives, that Bangladesh needs handouts, but I do not believe this needs to be the case. What Bangladesh and Bangladeshis need is to be taught how to think; to be taught how to address their own needs as they see them, and if they do not wish to change them, who are we to tell them otherwise?
Bangladeshis may not be ready to address their own challenges today, and they won't be tomorrow, but unless the system is developed to teach them how to think, they will never have the opportunity to reach their full potential.
In Peace.
Steve.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Praying Together
Inter religious prayer... is it really possible? Is it possible for people of different faiths come together and worship? At first glance the answer should be "no", people with seemingly opposing world views who are trying to change each other should not be able to pray together. But I do not believe the answer is as simple as that, the answer is that it is possible for people of different faiths to pray together but their faith cannot end there.
We, the Taize Peace Committee, are in a unique position to think about and create a framework for inter-religious prayer. Our group includes Christians, Muslims and Hindus, all of whom are dedicated to peace and harmony in our societies and in our world. We also are connected to three homes for handicapped children, where the volunteers and children are Muslims, Christians and Hindus. Because this group is a part of the international l'Arche community, spirituality is an important part of everyday life, so how do these children and volunteers from three different religions all join together in prayer? This is the role of the Taize Peace Committee.
We are searching for a style of prayer that is not just accepting of everyone but fulfilling for everyone. I do not know if this is possible, but that is not for me to decide. The goal is to open a space for prayers to be raised from different people in their own faith while being in harmony and solidarity with the people around them. We are searching for songs, psalms and readings affirming our call to love one another and lift others up. We are not saying that these religious traditions are the same, nor are we trying to minimize their importance in people's lives. Instead we aim to bring people together in faith, and affirm a common spirituality in each other.
So we aim to bring spirituality, love and peace together in a supportive environment of prayer to God. To leave it there, thinking that everyone could be happy and fulfilled would be naive. I do not pretend to think that through inter-religious prayer people can grow in their faith. I believe that everyone could be spiritually renewed, but they could not grow and affirm each other in their common beliefs. This inter-religious prayer is an opportunity to be inclusive yet affirming, not to detract from anyone's faith. But prayer in one's own religious group, gathering together to worship with sisters and brothers is of vital importance. As a Christian I could not grow in my understanding of God and Christ without the support of Christian role-models in my life. And so I believe that inter-religious prayer can only be a part of a person's walk of faith.
Inter-religious prayer is about praying, doing something all our religious traditions do, and in doing so demonstrating God's love for all people. In this form, I believe inter-religious prayer has a place in these handicapped homes and is an idea of importance in our violently polarized religious landscape.
Shanti.
Steve.
We, the Taize Peace Committee, are in a unique position to think about and create a framework for inter-religious prayer. Our group includes Christians, Muslims and Hindus, all of whom are dedicated to peace and harmony in our societies and in our world. We also are connected to three homes for handicapped children, where the volunteers and children are Muslims, Christians and Hindus. Because this group is a part of the international l'Arche community, spirituality is an important part of everyday life, so how do these children and volunteers from three different religions all join together in prayer? This is the role of the Taize Peace Committee.
We are searching for a style of prayer that is not just accepting of everyone but fulfilling for everyone. I do not know if this is possible, but that is not for me to decide. The goal is to open a space for prayers to be raised from different people in their own faith while being in harmony and solidarity with the people around them. We are searching for songs, psalms and readings affirming our call to love one another and lift others up. We are not saying that these religious traditions are the same, nor are we trying to minimize their importance in people's lives. Instead we aim to bring people together in faith, and affirm a common spirituality in each other.
So we aim to bring spirituality, love and peace together in a supportive environment of prayer to God. To leave it there, thinking that everyone could be happy and fulfilled would be naive. I do not pretend to think that through inter-religious prayer people can grow in their faith. I believe that everyone could be spiritually renewed, but they could not grow and affirm each other in their common beliefs. This inter-religious prayer is an opportunity to be inclusive yet affirming, not to detract from anyone's faith. But prayer in one's own religious group, gathering together to worship with sisters and brothers is of vital importance. As a Christian I could not grow in my understanding of God and Christ without the support of Christian role-models in my life. And so I believe that inter-religious prayer can only be a part of a person's walk of faith.
Inter-religious prayer is about praying, doing something all our religious traditions do, and in doing so demonstrating God's love for all people. In this form, I believe inter-religious prayer has a place in these handicapped homes and is an idea of importance in our violently polarized religious landscape.
Shanti.
Steve.
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