Today was emotional.
The first emotion was frustration.
In the morning we were able to meet with five representatives from an
Afghanistan refugee camp. We spent a few
hours hearing their testimonies, sharing and encouraging with them, and praying
over them. Hearing their stories was
saddening but not surprising, given they come from a war-term Islamic
state. The frustration set in when it
was shared that we would not be able to visit the refugee camp with them as
originally expected. The camp consists
of several more people that just the Christians and Americans are far from
beloved by the majority of the people.
The reasoning was legitimate and we likely would have done more to
disrupt than encourage, but I was greatly looking forward to the experience,
and not getting it was disheartening.
I had visions of ten more days of sitting around tables
talking with people dance through my heads, and gave into some moments of
discouragement, especially when I learned we really didn’t have much freedom to
walk the streets in the area during the down time either, of which we had
several more hours. The air conditioning
at the hotel was nice, sure, but I have that at home, I flew twenty hours to
reach out to people.
In the late afternoon we headed out to visit a local
church. We had experienced plenty of the
traffic already, but not yet in the monsoon weather. That was radically different. It should be noted that at this point, the
things I had heard about India had not been a part of my experience. The awful smells and the filth had seemed to
be exaggerated. The litter was bad, but
usually confined to curbs and vacant lots.
Then the rain hit.
Whatever you have in your possessions that may at a certain
time to be insufficient, you find it hard to justify wanting more once you have
watched children dancing with joy because they get to play in puddles. Not just any puddles, but really puddles that
have formed into tiny rivers that flow through all the roads. Roads that are made of dirt, so if you’re
envisioning transparent water, you can stop now. The puddles are the dirtiest water I have
ever seen, garbage flows through them like fish, and if paper waste is the
worst you see, you’re lucky. All the
same the children are dancing and bathing in it, some even ducking down to lie
in it.
It’s a bittersweet moment.
There is a true joy to be found in watching children with virtually
nothing overjoyed, but there is equal sorrow to see that the joy is found in
water I was afraid to touch.
The pure joy returned when I arrived at the church. The church was a simple basement of a
building. It was crammed full with sixty
or so people, fans were running, but there was no hint of real AC. I was ushered to a seat near the pastor up
front for the entire congregation to see.
The service began with a calling of the children to come and receive a
lei from the pastor. They then proceeded
to place them around the necks of myself and the other seventeen visitors while
the whole of the auditorium applauded. I
was honored but also humbled. Receiving
that praise for simply showing up and not being local was uncomfortable.
That discomfort quickly turned into great joy. The singing started. The praises were in Hindi, I had no idea what
they were singing, but I did know that with just a single woman playing on some
drums and a tambourine, the sixty or so people sang with a passion and joy I’ve
yet to see from a congregation of thousands in the States. I clapped along and smiled an assuredly goofy
grin that was both uncharacteristic and uncontainable. Eventually they sang an old hymn I knew (I
have proceeded to forget which one before writing this), I was very happy to
join in the worship for one chorus at least.
After the sermon, something I did not expect in the slightest
happened. The entire community ran up to
us, essentially making a processional line to great us all. I know two phrases in Hindi, Namaste, and
Jimosiki (sp?), which is an alternative greeting to Namaste that is used within
the Christian community. So I spent the
next several minutes saying Jimosiki to everyone in the building while they
lined up to shake my hand. That was a
unique experience, what followed shocked me even more. A handshake was merely a warm up, next up was
selfies with the big white dude.
Granted, we’re all pretty white. I, however, am pretty white even by American
standards. With the pollution in the
area, I’m literally whiter than the clouds here, so my paleness stands out on
its own. Then there is my size. I’m not huge by American standards, but I’ve
met exactly one Indian so far that is my equal in height, and none in
weight. Six foot, one inch, and topping
two hundred pounds makes me the jolly white giant. They were excited to get pictures with all of
us, but I and one other guy in the group seemed to be special attractions. I’ve never felt like more of a celebrity in
my life, and I’m still not sure what for.
It was good fun posing for pictures for several minutes,
there is such a joy in knowing that by standing still and smiling I was
creating a valuable memory for so many.
After we left though, discouragement started to sink in.
The traffic jam to end all traffic jams started. We were in the center of an intersection with
cars seemingly trying to go eleven different ways all logjammed with buses
surrounding us. You really had to see it
to comprehend it, there are no intersections in the United States where it
would even be possible for this to occur, even our guide pulled out his phone
to snap a picture. Our traffic artist
(driver) was not as talented as the one form the day before. He was more aggressive and considerably less
cordial with foot traffic. Our guide, on
a few occasions, gave him a few words about his demeanor.
Once free though, the traffic ceased to entertain me, and I
was left with my thoughts. That is
rarely a good thing.
Anyone who knows me well knows that I’m a notorious dog
lover. The India experience has not been
kind to me in this regard. There are
dogs everywhere, and almost none of them are pets. The dogs simply wander the sides of the road,
covered in fleas, missing patches of hair, and all are malnourished. They are so used to the busyness around them,
they float through the traffic just as the people do, drivers avoid them, and
they hustle through the streets. At one
point today, I saw two of them just laying in the road in a little spot where
there was no traffic just hanging out because the road was as good a bed as
anywhere else.
Earlier in the day, I saw a dog and attempted to pet it, it
summarily was frightened and immediately scurried away from me, it made me sad,
and I started to watch the dogs on the side of road more closely. I saw this was a pattern. The dogs were more afraid of the people than
the cars, shirking away any time a person came close. The dog lover inside was sad, but later he
was heartbroken. On the way back home, I
saw a dog limping along the side of the road.
It was hobbling on three legs, the fourth one, lifted off the ground,
and clearly and visibly broken. No blood
to be found on it, and our windows were cracked, it wasn’t whimpering. The break was obviously not new, that was
just how that leg was now, it had never been addressed when it happened. I squealed with sorrow and felt my bottom lip
puff out as tears filled my eyes.
Now that my emotions were warmed up, I was ready to process
the rest of the day. Earlier in the day
I had encountered my first real begging child.
People come up to the car trying to sell you things while you are
stopped constantly, but this child wasn’t selling a thing, just begging. I watched, who I assume was his older brother,
observe his begging from a towel on the sidewalk. Neither had a shirt, across the street, a
young girl was rolling around on a board only a couple inches from the ground,
one leg seemingly paralyzed, while the other guided the wheeled platform, she
too was begging.
The heartbreak was really setting in now. But as sad as the dogs and begging children
had made me, I was starting to experience as much sadness over the church
service I had just left. What had we
really offered them? Our pastor gave a
sermon and the rest of us watched. We
were showered with gifts, applauded, and treated like movie stars for what I
can only assume was a belief that we represented help and hope for them. I don’t feel that either is accurate. I mean I dropped the ten rupees I had left
from souvenir shopping into the tithe bucket, but I’m certain that wouldn’t
even pay for the flowers around my neck.
I couldn’t help but wonder on the drive back if they would
have celebrated the albino wonder of the world the same way if they knew that I
spent enough money to likely house and feed two of them on my cell phone bill
last month. I wonder if they knew that I
spend considerably less on my phone each month than the average American if
they would feel like preparing a single flower for any of us at all. I didn’t feel like a representation of help
or hope at all, but of excess and neglect.
Actually, as of writing this, I don’t really feel much different, and
don’t know that I should. Really, I’m
hoping I still feel the same way when I get home, because I can’t do much to
act on this conviction while I’m here.
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