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.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
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.
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