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.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
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.
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