tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59303029450620324142024-02-19T07:04:51.714-08:00Do right... love goodness... walk humbly with GodStill learning...mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13618768277068325069noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930302945062032414.post-86768890008951539112009-07-27T04:40:00.000-07:002011-03-31T06:30:58.858-07:00An "About Me" Essay for Georgetown<span style="font-size:10;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Here is an essay I wrote which was included in an application to Georgetown University's Liberal Studies Program. I will begin studying Islam and Muslim/Christian Relations in the fall...</span><br /></span><br />There is a self-consciousness that comes with being asked to explain my last eleven years since graduating from college.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>One likes to think it’s been a linear journey, with logical turns of events.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>But life’s more fun than that.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I graduated from college feeling as if the world was open to me, but I didn’t know where to start.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Maybe I’ve spent the years since just trying to pare it down. <span style="font-size:+0;"></span><br /><br />Soon after graduating from Xavier I moved to El Salvador as a volunteer with the Catholic Church.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Days were structured around teaching English to kindergarten through high school students and priests of the Diocese of Chalatengo. More than the classes, I simply lived with the Salvadorans recovering from the trauma of a twelve-year war in their own backyards.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>We shopped at the open market.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>We sang with children.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>We celebrated Christmas.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>We waited for the bus.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>We sat with the dying.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>We ate lots of beans.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>We waited for the bus.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>We waded streams.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>They taught me to make tortillas.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I taught them to make Thanksgiving dinner.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>We waited for the bus.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>It was a time for personal formation and an experience of the effects of war and violence.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Since leaving El Salvador I’ve found myself frustrated by light-hearted talk of war, as if it comes down to a lively game of Risk.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span><br /><br />Having grown in my worldview, I returned to the United States in early spring of 2000, intending to enroll in graduate school.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>But culture shock and a desire for more meaningful work brought me to a position with Catholic Charities in the Diocese of Wheeling-Charleston, West Virginia.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I spent two years living in a trailer, keeping a food bank, running Emergency Assistance (distributing FEMA funds) and learning the social service system of Appalachia.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I loved it.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I learned about drilling wells, septic systems, 4H, fundamentalism, truancy, unions and patriotism.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>But I was also in my mid-twenties and truly in the middle of nowhere (the town of Genoa had had one restaurant; it closed the year trains stopped running, 25 years before I moved there).<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>On a whim I applied for the Rotary Foundation Ambassadorial Scholarship.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>It speaks to the grace, blessing and beauty of my life that I was awarded the scholarship and chosen to spend a year in New Delhi, India.<br /><br />I was overwhelmed and challenged by India’s extremes.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Delhi is full of dusty crevasses holding images of truth at every angle.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I studied International Relations with an emphasis on Development at Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU).<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>JNU prides itself on its anti-Americanism.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>This kept me from being admitted as a regular student to the program in the first place.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I was a “casual student” meaning my classes were pass or fail, and I have never received transcripts from the school.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I was fine with the set up since it meant I could take time off to learn about successful NGO's in India and Pakistan.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Rotary took me to Kolkata and Peshawar and small villages in between.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span><br /><br />As a student of religion I simply assumed a year in India would strengthen my appreciation of Hinduism.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Though I learned and experienced Hindu celebrations and practices, I found myself drawn to the steady poetic rhythm of Muslims living their faith through daily life.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I found comfort in the distant call to prayer, full surrender in worship, and soft words from the Qur’an, all of which reminded me of traditional Catholicism with quiet rosaries in times of need.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>From mothers in burkas in Peshawar to the longing sound of azaan across the slum on the banks of the Yamuna River, the pull of one faith practiced by many reverberated truth to me. My very real and alive Christian faith could only feel enhanced by the witness of another experience and expression.<br /><br />After six years of learning about the world I felt a heavy responsibility to begin sharing.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I had been approached to consider teaching religion or youth/campus ministry a few times along the way.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>So I took the leap into mainstream (or at least the Midwest) USA.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I moved back to Ohio and took a job as a campus minister at a high school run by the Sisters of Notre Dame.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span><br /><br />For five years now I’ve been working with upper-middle class young people.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>What a position to be in: to expose children of privilege to a new understanding of what “opportunity” really is.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>And who can’t love the Millennials – these kids who don’t shut down in the face of ambiguity?<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>They challenge the rest of us to sit quietly listening to large-scale societal problems when we want resolution to conflict and suffering in succinct overly simplified answers.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I love that when working with these young people I can question how the virtues of humility and compassion can permeate not just the individual but society, and young people today are creating a language that can do just that.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>They are aching for more; and we, their educators, can’t keep up.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span><br /><br />In the summer of 2005, I took advantage of the Teachers’ Institute at Dar al Islam in Abiquiu, New Mexico.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>It was 10 days of learning about Islam and the ways non-Muslims can teach about it.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Georgetown was referenced a number of times but I wasn’t ready to leave a job I so appreciate.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>However, the recent Israeli offensive in Gaza initiates conversations in classroom, church and social settings.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>Maybe it’s just my social circle, but we don’t know enough.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>And what we do know, unfortunately, seems to give rise to antisemitism or islamophobia (or both).<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>As a person of faith, and having seen the effects of war on children, I fear that shrugging my shoulders and telling high school students “It’s complicated” probably, in fact, perpetuates the problem.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>So, I take this turn in history as a moment to consider being a student again.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span>I hope it will make me a better educator.mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13618768277068325069noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930302945062032414.post-92055316889352687942008-08-15T15:39:00.000-07:002009-06-27T17:13:23.265-07:00Reflections from Retreat - Summer 2008In early August I went on a seven-day solitary retreat while housesitting on a remote mountaintop in WV. Between an ecology center and a hermitage, on the land trust I was staying, there were plenty of retreat resources including a good bit of 1970s post-Vatican II pop-writing, meditation resources and eco-feminism spirituality. But I felt myself lead along the more traditional path using a short book, Six Ways to Pray by Six Great Saints by Gloria Hutchinson, as my primary structure. Each day I read (tried to practice) a prayer approach of a saint (John of the Cross, Teresa of Avila, Clare, Ignatius…) and kept the Book of Psalms at my side. The retreat was topped off with 3 meetings with 84-year-old longtime friend, Lois Perry, as my spiritual advisor for the week. <br /><br />Lois was outstanding. She has no experience with spiritual advising – there was nobody around who did – but I’ve always been impressed by the open vulnerable spirituality Lois shares. I told Lois I was approaching the retreat as discernment for what I’m to do next in my life. I told her of a few options I was considering (grad school, foster parenting, international aid with CRS) as I listen for that soft tickle of joy in my heart that has shown me so many times in the past that I am on the path I’m called to. But lately, frustratingly, I haven’t felt that pull which has come so naturally before. And, I told Lois, at the same time, without clear goals and vision I don’t feel assured that I’m serving God fully in the place I am.<br /><br />Lois calmly pointed out that I am listening with the same ears I have always listened with. She suggested it might be safe to assume that I’m in a place of waiting on God. Waiting?!? I don’t wait. That’s for people who don’t get things done. <br /><br />… ah yes, I had to let it settle in. In the hermitage, I found a poor quality audiocassette of Henri Nouwen entitled “The Spirituality of Waiting”. I had to sit still quietly to hear his voice through the fuzz of the old tape. Nouwen reminds the listener: is not waiting central in scripture - for the Messiah - and then for His return? He quotes Simone Weil, “Waiting patiently in expectation is the foundation of the spiritual life.”<br /><br />It has taken a shift of focus. To explore waiting. I took a virtue a day reflecting on patience, surrender, humility… It’s a slowing to be here now not focused on the goal. So often waiting is associated with illness. Have I had enough compassion for the sick? Have I acknowledged my health with gratitude? How much of my drive is pride? And how often am I involved in big projects to change the world J yet don’t stop my busyness to be present with the one in need before me?<br /><br />I still wait. Hoping to be present in the moment. I hadn’t left the mountain for 6 hours before I received a call about a friend in dire need. I’ve been able to give her days of attention. I am so glad my heart was clear to be present for her. I pray I receive more definitive direction. But I have a long way to go with patience. In the meantime, my heart feels the gentle joy that the spiritual practice of waiting for God is what I am called to do today.mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13618768277068325069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930302945062032414.post-45106794642573650532006-08-15T19:13:00.000-07:002011-01-26T16:02:55.954-08:00The Uganda Letters - July 2006<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ2GAHfMTFPjV-EPpa7K8JpM8ymgCPG1c7dRbGUHw2_nifM_xlj5NTtlmMPsZAdYo2i5Nw0qrZKf8gz2730JzeHRNQaKu_qF_nieXKZevEQI9vuEyVQMJWabzO6U7tIU5UrUU0-tR6cQ/s1600-h/girl+carrying+sticks.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 242px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ2GAHfMTFPjV-EPpa7K8JpM8ymgCPG1c7dRbGUHw2_nifM_xlj5NTtlmMPsZAdYo2i5Nw0qrZKf8gz2730JzeHRNQaKu_qF_nieXKZevEQI9vuEyVQMJWabzO6U7tIU5UrUU0-tR6cQ/s320/girl+carrying+sticks.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352169923443907474" border="0" /></a><br />You can find my writing from the first Uganda Trip in 2006 at <a href="http://www.booksofhope.org/Uganda.php">http://www.booksofhope.org/Uganda.php</a>mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13618768277068325069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930302945062032414.post-49729638665469256072006-07-28T06:53:00.000-07:002010-03-24T06:54:51.203-07:00Dear FriendsHello all!<br />The Ugandan curriculum for the sophomore year of high school (which very few northern Ugandans can afford to attend), includes a course called "Studies in Development". A large component of this course requires learning the layout and grid of New York City. I could have used the information these hut-dwelling war-weary students have learned upon my return trip to the US. With Joshua and Anisa's help I found my way between Newark and La Guardia Airports. Hey, I just came from Uganda, but it's hot in NYC!<br /><br />I returned last night. If you're interested, below is a message that didn't get out before this. <br /><br />Thank you for your interest.<br /><br />love, molly<br /> <br />28 July, 2006<br /> <br />Dear Friends<br /> <br />I’ve nearly completed the month I’ll spend here in northern Uganda. When I arrived the rains had held off. The rain was poor last year, perhaps it will skip this year all together, they said. Pessimism was in the air. Even if rain came, do they have seeds and can it possibly be safe enough to head to the fields? A month ago the peace talks between the Lord’s Resistance Army and the Ugandan Government had just begun in Juba, Sudan. The war weary inhabitants of northern Uganda did not see much hope in the government’s gestures toward peace with Kony and the LRA * (see below). <br /> <br />However, in the month I have been here optimism has grown. My visits to different small towns (trading centers turned IDP - Internally Displaced Persons -camps) seem to coincide with the coming of rain. So much so, I have earned the Acholi name “La Kot” which means “rain”. It doesn’t sound that great to me, but I’m told it is an honor to have such a name.<br /> <br />Acholi are rural people. They would like to be living in their villages. From their villages they could travel by foot to trading centers – small towns where crops can be traded or sold for Ugandan Shillings. The trading centers are found every 10 kilometers or so along the dusty main roads of this area. A trading center has a primary school and a Catholic Church (or, once in a while, the Church of Uganda). Most trading centers and villages are abandoned today. Traveling the rural roads of the north we pass empty churches riddled with mortar holes and damaged overgrown schools housing drunken Ugandan soldiers. Fr. Marvin tells me to look for mango trees. Where there is a mango tree there used to be a home. In some places, there are hundreds of mango trees. Every one of them shaded a family with a story.<br /> <br />The trading centers and villages were abandoned in early 2004 when the LRA attacks escalated beyond the threshold of human capacity to live. The Ugandan government assigned certain trading centers as safe IDP Camp where the people will be guarded by the national army. The national army isn’t much to speak of. Still, they are armed; the LRA is armed (by Sudan, they say); but the villagers aren’t. <br /> <br />I have been visiting the mission of Fr. Marvin Fuentes Murillo, a Camboni Missionary from Costa Rica who has been in Uganda for 10 years. When Marvin begins to talk of what he has seen and experienced in the past 5 years his words are like water from a well that has ached to be released. Once he begins details come forth in a disorganized flow of memory and horror. He'll describe the candy filled pockets of the 75 year old Italian priest who was gunned down in his car then set on fire. He’ll tell of guns in his own face, the shoes he was wearing and children shot dead. We stop on the road as he remembers the trading center here three years ago… the bodies, the injured, his prayers. He’ll describe what goes through your mind (and what doesn’t) the moment a wall is all that is between yourself and those who wish to kill you. In his own sitting room he shows me where he threw the lock, which is still on the door, when the boys with machine guns demanded entrance. He shows holes in the walls from gunfire and points out paths impassable due to landmines. He doesn’t tell of being beaten with the blunt side of an axe; others, who have also suffered, share that detail. He knows he is still in shock. <br /> <br />My visits have been to camps in Kitgum, Padipe, Mari-Opei, Agoro and Namokora. At the IDP camps, villagers live in huts of mud and grass which are too close together and prone to bad fires. There is limited food or room for roaming animals and children. If you ask an IDP where they are from they will tell you their home is a village there… gesturing with their hand and making an “e-e” sound. The higher the pitch of the “e-e” the further away they feel from their village home. The village is home, where the water source is a river, the mud is in abundance to make the huts, and there is land for crops of staples (peanuts and sesame). There is plenty of room for cows, goats, chickens and children to safely roam. Their village is where they were born, therefore the place they believe they must be buried – like their ancestors - in order that their spirits not haunt the world scared and homeless. The village is the beginning and the end of the journey.<br /> <br />The last attack was in October. Could it be over? Perhaps the LRA is finished. In the two years of living in camps the food has dwindled. The trading centers carry only leafy green okra and tomatoes the size of a baby’s fist. No peanuts or sesame to grind into wholesome paste to serve with wet millet bread. (This is like going to the supermarket for your hungry family and only finding spices). Now, with the light of possible peace and the incoming rain villagers begin to venture to the vast abandoned land. They are tentative as they till the soil, now holding out for seeds. In the past two years they have had no crop so no seeds to carry each person into the next year. Their hope is the UN and non-governmental organizations** to supply seeds to get them started. If there is peace, and rain continues, perhaps seeds will come…<br /> <br />Peace and love,<br />molly<br /> <br />*Fr. Carlos Rodriguez, one of the regular commentators in The Weekly Observer, a Ugandan newspaper, summarized the frustration with peace talks well when he wrote:<br /> <br />Anybody who has been involved in any past attempts to bring an end to LRA’s terrorism through dialogue is aware of the complications and dilemmas involved in it: Ceasefires can reduce violence and save lives, but can also give rebels opportunities to rearm and reorganize. Talks can be an opportunity for bringing peace at hand, but could also give unfair legitimacy to armed groups who have committed unspeakable crimes against humanity. There is also, of course, the question of sacrificing justice in the interest of peace or putting justice first, as the ICC (International Criminal Court) is keen to do, while at the same time leaving a crucial question unanswered: who shall enforce justice by, for instance, carrying out arrests? (The Weekly Observer, July 13-19, 2006, p.9)<br /> <br />**The most active international organizations I’ve seen here – this is only by my limited experience, there are probably others – are: UNICEF, AVSI (Association of Volunteers in International Service), Doctors without Boarders and, of course, the Camboni Missionaries.mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13618768277068325069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930302945062032414.post-28207647824735332752006-07-24T06:51:00.000-07:002010-03-24T06:52:17.365-07:00None is like this24 July, 2006<br /> <br />Dear Friends,<br /> <br />More than of anyplace else I’ve ever been I don’t know how to tell of northern Uganda. To put down facts of suffering does nothing to relay the experience of this place. I only know how much I want to share what has too many facets to be described. <br /> <br />The earth is dry sand packed solid then baked by the brightest sun you’ve ever seen. Most Acholi adults are taller than me. Given the powerful sun, I have to cast my eyes toward the dull brown ground instead of lifting my eyes to the friendly faces of adults who wish to try out a conversation with me (with my very limited knowledge of the Acholi language my conversations would be very short anyway). The children, on the other hand, are right in my line of vision. <br /> <br />We are in Mari-Opei, only 16 uninhabited kilometers from the Sudanese border. We are at the foothills of a mountain range which embraces this northern region of Uganda. Here the landscape is flat, dry and bare as the children’s feet which are calloused and thick. There is a determined gritty sound that tough bare feet make against the dry packed earth. It’s a sound that runs up my spine when I’m not thinking of it, like nails on a chalkboard - only heartbreaking. Not that the shoeless children feel themselves at all unfortunate. At the moment they are gathered around the place where I’ve stopped, next to their open recess field. Most have never been so close to a person as light-skinned as me. My color can make babies cry and small children scream in fearful delight. They gather wide-eyed and curious, ready to bolt at any sudden move I might make.<br /> <br />This is the birthplace of Fr. Robert Obol, the priest studying in Ohio who invited me to visit his country. Next to the school is a tree planted years ago (the large trees were planted by the British, I am told). To my non-horticulturist eye, trees here seem to be all root and branches. There is no trunk, only long thin growths stretching to the ground and branches running horizontal before reaching for the bright sun above. Under the shade of a tree is a wooden table with six chairs. The school uses this shady spot as its office. A big branch of the tree stretches forth and has a radio hanging from it. It is tuned to BBC News. From this flat land, embraced by distant mountains, in the span of less than ten minutes, I heard reports of an attack on a market in Iraq, of people suffering following a bombing in Mumbai and evacuations of Lebanon. <br /> <br />While I sat, wanting to soak up the reality of the world news, more children gathered around in clothes mostly donated from distant lands. This was one of my first days in Mari-Opei. I had yet to realize that the clothes they wore that day would be the only clothes I would see them in; one outfit was all they had so all they wore day in and day out. When the buttons fall off their thin shirts they sew the shirts shut rather than spend precious resources on buttons. To spite the lack of quality in their clothes, I am struck by the quality of their eyes. To think of it now brings tears to my own. They have very little hair, their skin is fresh and dark, their eyes bright and white. First they fear my look; their eyes dart away if they happen to meet mine. Then, somehow, in only moments, courage is found. One meets my eyes, then another and soon I have twenty or more sets of bright truthful vulnerable eyes meeting mine. We have no language in common, until they start to teach me to count. In unison they begin to shout: Acel… Aryo… Adek…<br /> <br />I have been blessed to have visited many places. None is like this.<br /> <br />Love, mollymollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13618768277068325069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930302945062032414.post-64438697097483075782006-07-14T06:48:00.000-07:002010-03-24T06:50:22.417-07:00Dear Patient FriendsJuly 14, 2006<br /><br />Dear Patient Friends,<br /><br />According to the CIA fact book, the median age of a<br />person in Uganda is 15. <br /><br />UNICEF is the division of the United Nations that<br />deals with children and children’s needs. You can<br />spot the word UNICEF at all angles in Kitgum. Usually<br />it’s black writing against a white background. <br />Sometimes it’s blue on white. The word UNICEF is<br />emblazed on jeeps that take the unkempt roads with<br />ease. The word is clear in the daylight on the huge<br />empty tents waiting to be filled by the night<br />commuting children at sundown. UNICEF is on the<br />packets of the iodine tablets to clear the water<br />against the cholera outbreak. It’s on scraps of tarp<br />that cover the burnt remains of the roofs of huts in<br />the camps built too close to each other to prevent<br />fire.<br /><br />The Lords Resistance Army (LRA) targets children. But<br />then, children are most of Uganda. The LRA is a<br />rag-tag rebel group known internationally for<br />kidnapping children between the ages of 8 and 12. They<br />murder and force the children to watch or even<br />participate in the murder. Once they beat humanity<br />from their victims they recruit the young people to join<br />their ranks. They take girls. This is what is most<br />horrific in the eyes of the local people. The people shake <br />their heads hoping not to imagine the fate of the<br />girls. Sometimes, after months or years, the girls<br />escape - a baby or two on their backs. <br /> <br />Kitgum Town, with its one bank, a hospital (with one<br />microscope) and bicycle taxis, is the biggest city<br />many here have ever seen. Most people who are now<br />living in Kitgum are not from Kitgum. They will tell<br />anyone who asks that they are from a now abandoned<br />village, not too far, mostly within the 65 kilometers<br />between Kitgum and the Sudanese border. But with the<br />last 10 years of terror from the LRA, no small village<br />has been safe. The government set up camps. People left<br />their home villages, they left their community, their<br />rural school, their crops and their dead buried near<br />their family hut which they also abandoned. The LRA<br />raided the abandoned villages. They stole the crops and<br />burned all that could be burnt. In most cases, there<br />is no village left. <br /><br />The camps are sprawling huts, small, built too close<br />together and full of children. Near each camp is an<br />army base protecting its residence from the next LRA<br />attack. Yet, few feel their children are safe. They<br />send them into town at night. A child packs a mat, a<br />blanket and heads to the UNICEF tents in well lit<br />areas of Kitgum. They find their way, younger<br />siblings in toe, to the hospital ground, school yards<br />and the football (soccer) fields. They lay on the<br />ground, the dust powdering their skin. They pull the<br />blanket – often shared – close to their chin or<br />over their heads and sleep as children sleep, angelic<br />and hopeful.<br /><br />It cannot be said that anyone appears unhappy in<br />Kitgum. Perhaps because there has been peace for<br />three months. Actually, the raids stopped about six<br />months ago, but it took three months for the awful<br />frozen shock of terror to melt before people could<br />realize nothing has happened of late. There has been<br />no truce, no amnesty (to spite international media,<br />northern Ugandans are sure Kony will never fall for an<br />amnesty agreement – Museveni’s word is worthless). <br />The raids simply stopped. But so has the food.<br /><br />The LRA, who hides in southern Sudan, grows in number<br />(by kidnapping children and forcing them to become rebel<br />soldiers) and in size (most in the LRA are not full<br />grown adults) from the village raids. But now, with<br />villagers in the camps, there are no crops for the LRA<br />to raid. The hope is to starve off the rebels. But<br />in the process the villagers in the camp go without<br />food too. The World Food Program provides basics,<br />corn and oil and rice. A staple of this region is<br />millet, but the WFP doesn’t supply millet. <br /><br />Right now, as I sit with my journal writing this<br />letter home, a young man greets me. He has a beaming<br />smile and wears brown clothes. His name is Simon and<br />his right arm is missing just above the elbow. He<br />looks about 16 and had heard I am from the North<br />America - a rarity in these parts. He wants to know<br />if I know Dr. John Wood, also from North America. He<br />knows little more of John Wood than his continent of<br />origin. I explained how very big North America is. <br />Simon assured me that he is fairly certain John Wood<br />is not from Mexico. <br /><br />Simon also told me his father and older brother were<br />lost in an LRA raid. First their village was<br />attacked, then Simon was taken by the rebels. The<br />Ugandan military followed, attacking the rebels and<br />their hostages at the same time. In that second attack Simon<br />lost his arm and the LRA left him for dead. Simon was<br />taken to Fr. Tarcisio (who, incidentally, found his arm<br />when he went to bury the dead) who brought him to<br />John Wood, the head of St. Joseph Hospital in Kitgum. <br />From Simon’s beaming impression of North America, John<br />Wood must have made a wonderful impact on Simon’s<br />life.<br /><br />There is more to write but little time. I’ve now<br />transcribed what was in my journal to a computer which<br />is running on batteries because the electricity has<br />failed this morning. It’s dark and the battery is<br />draining fast. <br /><br />So thank you for reading again. I am well. <br /><br />love, mollymollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13618768277068325069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930302945062032414.post-46573443651583076662006-07-08T06:46:00.000-07:002010-03-24T06:48:05.756-07:00"Have some, it's especial for this region..."<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CStacie%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="date"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="country-region"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City" downloadurl="http://www.5iamas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place" downloadurl="http://www.5iantlavalamp.com/"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="PlaceType" downloadurl="http://www.5iantlavalamp.com/"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="PlaceName" downloadurl="http://www.5iantlavalamp.com/"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} a:link, span.MsoHyperlink {color:#003399; mso-text-animation:none; text-decoration:none; text-underline:none; text-decoration:none; text-line-through:none;} a:visited, span.MsoHyperlinkFollowed {color:purple; text-decoration:underline; text-underline:single;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;">"<i style="">Have some, it's especial for this region..."</i><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;">The region is <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Kitgum</st1:city>, <st1:country-region st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region></st1:place>. My flight had landed an hour before. Fr. Tarcisio (see Link #1) - a Camboni Missionary from Italy who has spent the past 42 years here in northern Uganda - was standing beside me as I partook in my first meal in Kitgum. He offered me the local specialty, a platter of fist-sized meatball-looking delicacies. I roll the speckled grey and black meat onto my plate. It gives easily to my fork and crunched more than I'd expected when I took my first bite. It has an unexpected flavor released with each chew which, unfortunately, resembles canned dog-food. I smile as brightly as I can looking at Fr. Tarcisio as my fork slices another bite. "Termites," he says and nods. Trying to contain his inner smile he walks away.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><st1:date month="7" day="8" year="2006" st="on"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;">8 July, 2006</span></st1:date><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;">Dear Friends,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;">Why am I in northern <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region></st1:place>? Well, Fr. Robert - a native of Kitgum - invited me and I have the summer free. So I'm here for the month of July to learn about the situation of this region. This is the area so vulnerable to the Lord's Resistance Army (Links #2 and #3) and it is ravaged by HIV AIDS (Link #4). <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;">I arrived in <st1:city st="on">Kampala</st1:city>, the capital of <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region></st1:place>, on the Fourth of July. <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Kampala</st1:city></st1:place> is Delhi-like in its crowd, traffic and general chaos. Though disarming for a visitor - especially one of such a contrasting skin color - it is impressive that <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Kampala</st1:city></st1:place> has come so far. Twenty years ago it was a hollow shell of a city following Idi Amin's terrorizing rule and the subsequent violence as internal power struggles pounded on the city. For most of <st1:country-region st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region>, the past 20 years have been a time of growing stability - for most of <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region></st1:place>, but not for all of it. The north, the area bordering <st1:country-region st="on">Sudan</st1:country-region> and <st1:country-region st="on">Congo</st1:country-region> (<st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Zaire</st1:country-region></st1:place>), the problems of betrayed loyalties, tribal warfare and government neglect continue.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;">None-the-less, I was relieved to be on the low flying 19-seat prop plane as we took off to the northern city of <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Kitgum</st1:city></st1:place>. The view of vast <st1:city st="on">Kampala</st1:city> below gave way to the green of African vegetation only broken by the site of the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Nile</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">River</st1:placetype></st1:place> separating the north from the south. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;">As we neared the landing in Kitgum the sand and clay soil looked soft and comforting compared to urban <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Kampala</st1:city></st1:place>. Kitgum's runway is dirt and runs beside huts of clay bricks and grass roofs. We came to a stop not at a terminal but at a line of six or seven white jeeps bearing the flags and emblems of international Non-Governmental Organizations (NGOs): Oxfam, UN, Red Cross and others. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;">So I had my first meal of a local specialty - upon closer inspection I could see the crunch was the small legs and external skeleton of the insects. I received the information that things were busy right now as one of the Camboni mission parish's catechists had died that day - snake bite. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;">There is so much more to write. Ugandans are wonderful people. As with all new cultural experiences, I find I sink into the experience. What impacts me today will go unnoticed tomorrow as a new layer of the life here is revealed before my eyes. Thank you for taking the time to read this.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;">love and peace,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;">molly<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;">p.s. My sister, Christina, arrived in her community in <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Honduras</st1:country-region></st1:place> the same day I arrived in Kitgum. Christina will stay for at least 6 months living in community (L'Arche - Link #5) with those with mental handicaps. She is excited and happy to be sharing life in <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Honduras</st1:country-region></st1:place>. I'm sure she'd appreciate your prayers for her and her work. Thanks!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;">MDL<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Links:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;">#1 - On Fr. Tercicio -<span style=""> </span><a href="http://www.worldmission.ph/5June06/Tarcisio%20pazzaglia.htm">http://www.worldmission.ph/5June06/Tarcisio%20pazzaglia.htm</a><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;">#2 and #3 - On the LRA -<span style=""> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lord%27s_Resistance_Army">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lord's_Resistance_Army</a> and <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/5157220.stm">http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/5157220.stm</a><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;">#4 - On HIV/AIDS in <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Uganda</st1:country-region></st1:place> -<span style=""> </span>http://hotzone.yahoo.com/b/hotzone/blogs1234 <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial; color: black;">#5 - On L’Arche -<span style=""> </span>http://www.larcheerie.org</span></p> mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13618768277068325069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930302945062032414.post-27329056758998394972004-06-20T16:48:00.000-07:002009-06-27T17:33:48.491-07:00India - 2003-2004<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx70EwI7fi-BER5Q9rKUk7cIjMjzkXU2s99uTQtopKcYLrGGsSYht2wyCtjqBcNb2_ND6soRoh6psKPQdRXxvfqbkrTtohmdSgme2JML5UZ7NIJla-XVPAXAe8ESHa-Ha21ey-kxy7vg/s1600-h/IndiaRotarySchool.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx70EwI7fi-BER5Q9rKUk7cIjMjzkXU2s99uTQtopKcYLrGGsSYht2wyCtjqBcNb2_ND6soRoh6psKPQdRXxvfqbkrTtohmdSgme2JML5UZ7NIJla-XVPAXAe8ESHa-Ha21ey-kxy7vg/s320/IndiaRotarySchool.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352159038691077570" border="0" /></a><br />In 2003-2004 I was an Ambassadorial Scholar with Rotary International. I spent the year at Jawaharlal Nehru University in New Delhi. During my time I traveled through the north of India, across Pakistan and to Nepal. What follows are posts from that trip.mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13618768277068325069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930302945062032414.post-69736738504879319802004-05-05T19:05:00.000-07:002009-06-27T17:11:51.088-07:00A Letter from India - May 5, 2004<p class="MsoNormal">Dear Friends and Family,</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Well, it’s my brother, Devin, who’s here now.<span style=""> </span>This still does not mean the whole family has been here: Patrick and Lisa hold good jobs and have no intention of visiting in my final week in India.<span style=""> </span>Yep, this is my final week.<span style=""> </span>It’s unbelievable to me that I’ll be back in the US so soon.<span style=""> </span>India is not a place one just stops being in.<span style=""> </span>Nor is it a place anyone can really see in a lifetime, certainly not in 10 months.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">In my last letter I promised to share a bit about the trip to West Bengal that my sister, Christina, and I went on.<span style=""> </span></p> <p><i><span style="">India</span></i><i><span style="">’</span></i><i><span style="">s spring festival of love, excitement, childhood and cheer is called Holi. It</span></i><i><span style="">’</span></i><i><span style="">s celebrated by evening fires and daytime color. It happened that Christina and my trip coincided with Holi. </span></i><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style="">She told me her name was Nayna in the limited English the Sisters taught her. The purse probably communicated my lack of intention to stay, though I didn</span><span style="font-family:Arial;">’</span><span style="">t want to send such a message. It fell from my shoulder as I attempted to teach</span><span style="font-family:Arial;"> </span><span style="">her patty cake. Her legs tucked under her, she sat on her bed ladylike with eyes brightly looking up into mine. I wondered if I saw hope in their glow, or if it was just my own need for reassurance. Her toes poked out, round and shiny, beneath her dress. Her bony palms slapped my own, while her fingers, cold and swollen with blue nails, hit my wrists. She</span><span style="font-family:Arial;">’</span><span style="">s dainty, enchanting in her smile, four years old and dying. She lives at the Sisters of Charity</span><span style="font-family:Arial;">’</span><span style="">s Orphanage in Durgapur about 160 kilometers north of Kolkata</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><a href="http://mail.yahoo.com/config/login?/ym/ShowLetter?box=Inbox&MsgId=3556_3420966_219536_1013_13785_0_25398_45237_3000132939&bodyPart=2&tnef=&YY=38877&order=down&sort=date&pos=0&view=a&head=b&ViewAttach=1#FNote1" target="_blank"><sup><span style="">1</span></sup></a></span><span style="">.</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style="">Nayna</span><span style="font-family:Arial;">’</span><span style="">s room is poorly lit, filled with child-sized hospital beds whose railings raise and lower to ease a caregiver</span><span style="font-family:Arial;">’</span><span style="">s task. Four beds are pushed together in an effort to conserve space. The other three children appeared to be boys, but that</span><span style="font-family:Arial;">’</span><span style="">s because their heads are shaven. They each lay in a bed, unable to sit up. Christina took interest in one in particular. His arms bent stiffly and collapsed towards his chest accentuating his handicap. Sister told Christina that he has cerebral palsy. His mouth was open in effort and expectation as if about to speak his first words. No word would be spoken. His expression is one of excitement at Christina</span><span style="font-family:Arial;">’</span><span style="">s attention.</span><span style="font-family:Arial;"> </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><i><span style="">Already, a week before Holi, pink powder had been thrown at Christina and me through a bus window. Knowing it was all in good fun but without color to return the assault we could only duck from the pink dust. </span></i><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style="">Without really planning it, but lead by our common interests, Christina and I found ourselves on an expedition to organizations and agencies that work to address needs here in India. Christina, who works with the L</span><span style="">’</span><span style="">Arche Community (a community of intellectually handicapped people and their caregivers) in Erie, PA, wanted to visit a sister community called Asha Nikitan in Kolkata. My scholarship here in India is through Rotary International, so I was interested to learn of Rotary Projects in the area. Rotary Clubs are all over India. As a Rotary Scholar I have the wonderful luck of being welcomed about anywhere. Amitabha (Amit) Bajpayee is the contact Rotarian I had in the area. Thanks to him we were hosted all along our travels.</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><i><span style="">The powder is the mildest of the fun. Come Holi Morning, syringe type water shooters and buckets filled with colored water are aimed at every moving target.</span></i><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style="">Amit belongs to the Rotary Club in Durgapur. He brought us to the Missionaries of Charity Orphanage where Nayna lives. The next day he brought us to the Speech and Hearing Action Society. SAHAS was begun by Mr. and Mrs. Jajodia whose son was born deaf and were told that in India deafness would mean he was also destined to be without speech. The Jajodias were fortunate enough to go to Los Angeles (John Tracey Clinic) where they were trained to teach their child to communicate with the 2% hearing he still had. Today, their son is 16, still deaf, but fluent in both Bengali and English. In addition, through the founding of SAHAS, there are 80+ children whose parents might not have been so fortunate as to go to Los Angeles, but who are learning to communicate in spite their being deaf.</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style="">Two little boys, one 4, the other 3, in royal blue shirts and clean faces ran in circles through the doorways that connect the three rooms making up SAHAS</span><span style="">’</span><span style="">s building. Our serious conversation of the continuing needs of the Center </span><span style="">–</span><span style=""> including a larger building </span><span style="">–</span><span style=""> was repeatedly interrupted by happy shrieks from the boys. I wanted a picture, I thought of just their ordinary play. But the boys</span><span style="">’</span><span style=""> parents wouldn</span><span style="">’</span><span style="">t let it be. Pictures are too rare to be wasted on candid play. Each boy stood still for a moment, the small cords of the hearing aids tucked under their collars. They looked at the box between our faces then blinked, startled by the flash. The second boy reached for the camera. Timid that it might flash in his eye again, he cautiously turned it around in his hand and then attempted to look through it himself. I turned it away from his face and lightly tapped the button showing how to make the flash. In an instant he made it flash taking an up-close picture of me. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><i><span style="">Holi is a festival to pretend we don</span></i><i><span style="">’</span></i><i><span style="">t know any better. Children assault their elders with pink water then tackle their wet hair with yellow dust. Wives take the opportunity to pour purple water over their husbands and husbands smear pasty undiluted die in their hands and rub it all over their wives</span></i><i><span style="">’</span></i><i><span style=""> faces. No person, car, dog or even cow gets away without color. </span></i><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style="">Of the projects we</span><span style="">’</span><span style="">d come to Durgapur to see, I was most interested in learning about a school that the Rotary Club of Durgapur was running themselves. I had read a bit about it, learning that it rested in an area on the boarder of two districts, each of which believed the village belonged to the other. For this reason neither district took on running the school. Before the Durgapur Rotary built a school, the local people wanted their children to receive an education. They were holding school in the shade of a tree in the hopes of bringing it to the government</span><span style="">’</span><span style="">s attention. </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style="">On our day to visit the school the classes were extended into the late afternoon in order for the children to meet us. The homes around were thatched but the school was brick with four classrooms and three walled pits outback serving as toilets. The school was very poor, cracked blackboards hung on each room wall and insect infested bamboo served as beams. Damage from last year</span><span style="">’</span><span style="">s monsoon caused the roof of heavy tiles to sag. The children were shy, not accustomed to visitors. Their eyes raised inquisitively while their chins obediently cast themselves down. A few had been taught English rhymes, like Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. They proudly recited their rhyme and sat as quickly as they had stood. </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style="">Once the children were dismissed, a strong thin father carrying his even thinner four or five year old son arrived. The school building was converted into a simple health clinic. Once a week, a doctor comes from the city to address the health needs of the families in the village. The boy had cerebral palsy, we were told. The doctor explained to us in English the simple (and economical) uses of homeopathic medicines. In the dusty heat, the child clung to his father, trusting his loving efforts would carry him to what good there is to be done. </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><i><span style="">In Kolkata, the Asha Niketan house had a huge terraced roof, perfect for Holi celebration. There was great excitement in the air as everyone donned their oldest outfit expecting its colorful retirement. We climbed the stairs, some more capable then others. A few bounded up taking the steps two at a time. Others held back, apprehensive to see what the day held</span></i><span style="">. The youngest of the community, Bidhan</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><a href="http://mail.yahoo.com/config/login?/ym/ShowLetter?box=Inbox&MsgId=3556_3420966_219536_1013_13785_0_25398_45237_3000132939&bodyPart=2&tnef=&YY=38877&order=down&sort=date&pos=0&view=a&head=b&ViewAttach=1#FNote2" target="_blank"><sup><span style="">2</span></sup></a></span><span style="">, only 10 years old, had the most severe physical disabilities. He could walk only short distances; his legs bent weakly attempting to balance his upper body which was a perpetually in moving "S" shape. Now he clung to the railing, pulling himself up in jolted movement. Christina, who is more instinctively generous than I, quickly knew to lift him slightly, taking some of the weight off his legs allowing him to lift one to the next step. The intimacy and trust was immediate. </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><i><span style="">Once all of us were on the roof the colors came out. Buckets of purple water were poured on one another. Then yellow and pink dust was smeared on one another</span></i><i><span style="">’</span></i><i><span style="">s face, hair and clothes. A puddle of purple formed on the cement rooftop. We cupped the water from the puddle in our hands and threw it at each other again. A short wrestling match took place in the puddle.</span></i><span style=""> Bidhan, clinging to the rail of the porch, smiled in the sunlight, unable to throw water himself <i>but covered with color all the same. After the wrestlers relaxed, with the help of others, Bidhan made his way to the purple pool on the ground. Lying on his stomach, he allowed his hands and arms to swim in the water, the air and happiness. There</i></span><i><span style="">’</span></i><i><span style="">s bliss. </span></i><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > </span>I fly back to the US on 12 May.<span style=""> </span>Devin will say a couple more weeks and visit Pakistan.<span style=""> </span>Incidentally, when Devin went to the Pakistan Conciliate here in India there were at least three times the number of people applying for visas then there were eight months ago when I stood in that line.<span style=""> </span>The India/Pakistan relations have been improving daily since the ceasefire on Eid, last November.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I look forward to seeing so many of you again.<span style=""> </span>Thank you so very much for all the support you’ve shown in the past 10 months (and before too!).<span style=""> </span>I thank God every time I think of having come here.<span style=""> </span>I wouldn’t have taken the risk of it weren’t for family and friends who supported, believed in and prayed for me.<span style=""> </span>Thank you.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">There is no fitting way to stop living in India, nor is there a fitting way to stop writing about it.<span style=""> </span>I don’t say it lives on in me, but that it simply lives on, to be watched, participated in, worried about, born to, threatened by and loved.<span style=""> </span>To have had moments of my life lived here has been an honor and, I hope, an act of peace.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">peace and love,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">molly</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" >* The Speech and Hearing Action Society is looking for information, diagnostic equipment, hearing aids and other needs for children born deaf. Any connection of techniques or technology would be used well in Durgapur. Please contact me if you have any information that could help children born deaf in India. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><sup><span style="">1</span></sup><span style=""> </span><span style="">Calcutta</span><span style="font-size:10;">’</span><span style="">s name was changed to Kolkata in 2000</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <sup><span style="font-size:10;">2</span></sup><span style="font-size:10;"> Name changed for reasons of …Molly’s forgetfulness about names</span>mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13618768277068325069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930302945062032414.post-58997096563792047512004-03-24T19:04:00.000-08:002009-06-27T17:11:13.173-07:00A Letter from India - March 24, 2004<p><span style=";font-family:";" >24 March 2004</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" >Dear Family and Friends, </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" ><span style=""> </span>Hello all! My parents visited India for two weeks last month. In honor of their visit, I’ve moved into a two bedroom apartment off campus. I’m high on the fourth floor of a middle class neighborhood. With my very few furnishings, the cement walls and floors echo. The screenless windows stay open and the fans stay on to keep the rooms cool. Built in cupboard doors, too high for me to reach, hang open in the bedrooms. Pigeons come in the open windows to nest in the vacant storage space. I’m living in luxury.</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" ><span style=""> </span>There is something reassuring in having my parents, so familiar and close, in a land that, though my temporary home, is still foreign and insecure to me. While they visited I took time off class to relax and see India through a newcomer’s eyes again. Maybe I can become so wrapped up in India that I forget how to see India anymore. My parents and I visited Rajasthan – India’s desert area with limber camels and incredible forts. </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" ><span style=""> </span>At the end of my parents’ visit we were joined by my sister, Christina, who extended her Spring Break in order to see India. Together we all went to visit Agra, home of the Taj Mahal. Christina still had a week and a half in India after my parents left. We both were interested in seeing Kolkata (Calcutta’s name was changed to Kolkata in 2000) so we traveled to West Bengal. </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span style=";font-family:";" ><span style=""> </span>As grace would have it, as opposed to great foresight on my part, my sister and parents visited India in the best weather of the year. The temperatures were like a breezy summer day in Ohio. To my surprise, within two days of Christina’s leaving the heat moved in. Now I remember my first impressions of India eight months ago: heat accented by the sound of peacocks hidden in the trees of JNU’s jungle. It’s too hot to sit in class. We lean forward off the backs of the benches so that the sweat does not collect and moisten the backs of our shirts. We try to concentrate while our sub-conscious reasons that now it would be best to sleep. Then, as if to remind us that things could be worse, we hear the outdoor generator conk. The six overhead fans slowly whirl to a stop. This is a daily event now that the heat has returned. Time slows when the electricity is off as if the turning of the clock is generated by the turning of the fan. More likely it’s just the assault of the heat that slows the time. I kid you not, my battery operated alarm clock, sitting on my windowsill, keeps time just fine through the night, but slows during the heat of the day. At 8pm it still reads 5:15. I know the cooler nights are a lingering relief that will disappear soon. And so it is that I’m back in Delhi. The comfortable weather lasted much longer then I’d expected (nearly 5 months!) which has been a blessing. </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" ><span style=""> </span>Tonight is the India/Pakistan Final. As has been the case with the other four cricket matches leading to tonight’s play off, streets and shops will be quiet. Taxi drivers will be hard to find. In order to draw business, restaurants, cyber-cafes and even some shops bring out televisions. Those who cannot afford the goods in the shops or restaurants still gather around the windows to watch the match. Many bets are placed, whether based on skill or loyalty I don’t know. The jovial conversation on the subject masks the depth of the competition. India and Pakistan have been on improved terms since agreeing on the cease fire in honor of Eid last November. Now newspapers carry confidence building stories of how well Indians have been treated by Pakistanis when attending the games. This is very encouraging, considering the high stakes game of 'Chicken' the nuclear armed brother nations have been facing against each other over the years.</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" ><span style=""> </span>I’m aware my letters are often long so I’m keeping this one shorter. I’ve cut a good deal out of this message. There is so much to share. I particularly want to tell you about Christina’s and my trip to West Bengal. But that will have to wait until the next letter. For now I’m well and will write again soon!</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" >love and peace, </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" >Molly</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <span style=";font-family:";" >follow up - 10:20pm - alone in my apartment: India must have won. You should hear the fireworks!</span>mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13618768277068325069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930302945062032414.post-64215593538010839152004-03-15T18:00:00.000-08:002009-06-27T17:10:34.546-07:00Thoughts on Mother Teresa - March 15, 2004<p><span style="">There are some who have criticized Mother Teresa and the Missionaries of Charity. The critics are often those in developed countries who are most concerned about overcoming the problems of poverty and equity in our world. They say that she did not do enough to tackle the systemic problems of poverty. Some say that she took money from the wealthy whose funds may, or may not, have had ethical sources. Her homes, run by her Missionaries of Charity, didn</span><span style="font-family:Arial;">’</span><span style=";font-family:";" >t meet basic health care standards.</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" >But I</span><span style="font-family:Arial;">’</span><span style=";font-family:";" >ve learned it</span><span style="font-family:Arial;">’</span><span style=";font-family:";" >s hard to understand the ramifications of Mother Teresa</span><span style="font-family:Arial;">’</span><span style=";font-family:";" >s actions until you have stepped over a shivering burlap scrap, whom you know may very well be someone dying, and continue on you way for a cup of tea. Only until you have looked a slender mother in the eye as she carries a sleeping child and an empty bottle and tell her a forceful "No", because you don</span><span style="font-family:Arial;">’</span><span style=";font-family:";" >t believe in encouraging begging, can you begin to understand the extent of Mother Teresa</span><span style="font-family:Arial;">’</span><span style=";font-family:";" >s life call. You might think these are examples of the harsh and insensitive wealthy towards the poor. I hope they are not; I have done both already this week. </span><span style="font-family:Arial;"> </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:";" >I search for a word to describe how I feel and can only find "emasculating" even if I have no claim to masculinity in the first place. It</span><span style="">’</span><span style=";font-family:";" >s as if things that I have valued so dearly, held so true to myself, have now been ripped from me revealing how little I had in the first place. </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <span style=";font-family:";" >Mother Teresa</span><span style="">’</span><span style=";font-family:";" >s critics are well intended but far away from the heat of Kolkata. Sure, method matters in all work and good intention is never enough, but Mother Teresa</span><span style="">’</span><span style=";font-family:";" >s inspiration is an incredible ministry. It can be so easy to lose hope when what is present emits no glow of change coming. But to love is an act of faith, and faith is not based on what we see around us but what we believe to be beyond our reach in the realm of that which is greater and better than us. Accepting the humanity, even of Mother Teresa</span><span style="">’</span><span style=";font-family:";" >s ministry, is not to let down our ideals but to put hope in good coming out of our clearly inadequate attempts to love one another.</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><br /></span>mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13618768277068325069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930302945062032414.post-7897917654674261782004-03-04T17:59:00.000-08:002009-06-27T17:08:41.676-07:00An update on Yamuna Pushta Slum - March 4, 2004<p class="MsoNormal" style="">Yamuna Pushta Slum Update – 3/4/04<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""> Yamuna Pushta follows the Yamuna River.<span style=""> </span>It was January 10 that I first visited the slum.<span style=""> </span>I wrote these impressions about it soon after.<span style=""> </span>I’ve been back a couple of times since.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">***<span style=""> </span><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""> The narrow alleys between the simple brick homes of Yamuna Pushta are comfortably walked single file.<span style=""> </span>If we walk two next to each other, we’re constantly quickly stepping back to allow those walking the opposite direction to pass.<span style=""> </span>Even single file, at every corner, which is every few meters, we slow down getting closer to the wall foreseeing a possible collision at the blind turn.<span style=""> </span>Each corner we pass presents new angles and views of slum life: naked children gathered around the communal spigot, soap suds dripping off them into the stream of water and sewage following the alleyway; ankle high outdoor stoves made of mud smolder outside of doorways, unattended.<span style=""> </span><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style=""> </span>My favorite sight in the alleys of Pushta was a group of five or six women and girls squatting in the shade outside a home.<span style=""> </span>They were straining their eyes.<span style=""> </span>Half were picking lice from the other half’s hair.<span style=""> </span>Those having the lice removed from their hair were bent over small beads, stringing them on a wire bangle.<span style=""> </span>Anisa had already asked about these bracelets.<span style=""> </span>They’re to be sold to a US company.<span style=""> </span>The bracelets of tiny beads will most likely find their way to the US malls where they’ll be sold in stores like OLD NAVY and URBAN OUTFITTERS.<span style=""> </span>And so, two images of modern life touch.<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""> ***<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""> On January 10, there was an article in the lower left hand corner of the newspaper, <u>The Hindu</u>, telling of a new park to be built in an effort to make Delhi “a world class city”.<span style=""> </span>The term “world class city” is thrown around so much. Those of us from places (like Geneva, Ohio) that have no desire to be a “world class city” wonder what the appeal is.<span style=""> </span>Mostly I’d interpreted “world class city” to mean a nice airport and well organized traffic.<span style=""> </span>Though I like Delhi’s airport (for its efficiency, not its beauty), the traffic…well, there are a lot of people in Delhi.<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""> I didn’t look closely at the article in the newspaper but a few days later Anisa brought it by.<span style=""> </span>It went into describing the plans for the park along the Yamuna River, behind Raj Ghat.<span style=""> </span>It said the first step to building the park was removing the squatters living there now.<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""> ***<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""> Rohinton Mistry’s novel <i style="">A Fine Balance</i> set in 1975 India, describes how slum residents moved in.<span style=""> </span>The characters, an uncle and nephew looking for jobs and ahome in the city, ask about the masses of houses on the land they are about to move to themselves.<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""> <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >“But then, whose land is this?”</span><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >“No one’s.<span style=""> </span>The city owns it.<span style=""> </span>These fellows bribe the municipality, police water inspector, electricity officer.<span style=""> </span>And they rent to people like you.<span style=""> </span>No harm in it.<span style=""> </span>Empty land sitting useless – if homeless people can live there, what’s wrong?”</span><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" > </span>The problem, of course, is when the land is wanted again.<span style=""> </span>In Yamuna Pushta today, it’s not just renters falling victim to decades of corruption.<span style=""> </span>It’s people who have been farming the land, maintaining businesses and holding deeds for over 20 years who are now told they’re squatters.<span style=""> </span>In return for the land and the structures on it, the Pushta families are offered small bare plots outside the city, which would be a 20 rupee (45 cents) bus fare to and from any job they had near Pushta.<span style=""> </span>The land will be given for the reasonable price of 7000 rupees ($150).<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""> A notice will come to a family telling them their home will be the next to go.<span style=""> </span>The trucks come as foretold. Sometimes they come, park for a few hours then leave.<span style=""> </span>Other days the excavators do their work.<span style=""> </span>The strong arm crushes the brick, metal and bamboo homes.<span style=""> </span>The families pile what they can on cycle-rickshaws, sometimes taking the bamboo walls themselves.<span style=""> </span>Very few head to the land offered them.<span style=""> </span>None will leave the city.<span style=""> </span>Most will set up shanty homes elsewhere.<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""> ***<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""> I don’t pretend to know the solution to urban housing problems.<span style=""> </span>It’s true; one does not solve housing problems by perpetuating a slum.<span style=""> </span>But one doesn’t do it by eliminating what housing there is either.<span style=""> </span><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--[if !supportEmptyParas]-->mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13618768277068325069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930302945062032414.post-87619086785725221992004-02-17T17:56:00.000-08:002009-06-27T17:08:09.506-07:00A Letter from India - Feb. 17, 2004<div class="Section1"> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>Feb. 17, 2004<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" >Dear Family and Friends,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><span style=""> </span>In November I sent a message ending with a description of a begging child. I was slightly concerned about the image I painted, not because the girl was not real, but because it was only one angle of India. To clarify, the beggars in Delhi are not the poor of India. Seventy percent of India’s population live in the countryside. In those rural areas there are neither doctors nor education. Far from the cities are the families whose members work their entire lives making bricks.<span style=""> </span>Yet they are never able to repay the 500 rupee (approx. $12) debt taken on to pay for a funeral. By the time they reach old age, though age is hard to measure in grueling places, their wilted skin is a deep brown dusted with red or tan clay. In the extremes of rural areas some people have their only brush with modernity when they lose their land when a dam is built. Children are sent to Delhi for a better life.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><span style=""> </span>Additionally, it must be understood that India is not a country of beggars nor is it a country asking the rest of the world to take pity on it. The poverty is overwhelming, dehumanizing and disheartening. For a foreigner from the West not to notice the poverty or not to write about it would be neglectful. It would be wrong to brush over the fact that 70% of the children in India live in conditions worse than even the poorest child in the United States. But India has a thousand years of history under every stone. A traveler gets used to the towers, the tombs and the forts that at first sight bring images of emperors, dungeons, mist and hobbits. The Indian way of life and culture is both unique and diverse. It’s easy to think that it’s a civilization "catching up", but such a viewpoint is arrogant and faulty. Indeed, I’m often reminded that the United States is the "young" civilization in the world. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><span style=""> </span>As I type, the orange dye artistically painted from my wrists to my fingertips, is slowly fading. Feather-like images along the back of my hand, spirals around the knuckle of my fingers and shapeless wisps up my index finger stop abruptly at my nail. This is henna, an enchanting ornamentation Hindus, Muslims and Christian women alike have painted on their hands and feet on festive occasions. If I turn my hands, more geometric shapes are whimsically stained on my palms. On each finger is a long peacock feather. The beak and elegant neck curl at the inside of my wrist. The die, made of a plant extract, was applied by an artist two weeks ago in the Eid-Adha festivities. First it was extremely dark, almost brown. Within a day or two it faded to a red and now it’s orange. Against my pale skin, the henna appears particularly dark. We’re told that dark henna predicts a good mother-in-law in the future of an unmarried girl. After seeing my deeply dyed hands my female classmates make remarks about my good fortune. Then they role their eyes and say "Oh, as if you people have to worry about that!"<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><span style=""> </span>In most families, the bride is taken into the groom’s home and made a part of the family. It’s understandable that some girls consider a good mother-in-law more important than a good husband. Most bridal couples do not meet each other for the first time until the wedding night. Middle and upper class families are becoming more liberal: the boy and girl will meet a time or two before making the decision to wed. There are some love marriages (less then 10% of the middle and upper class) but such marriages are considered risky. After all, what do an unmarried boy and an unmarried girl know about marriage? Indians and others take the longevity of Indian marriages (and the lack thereof in the West) as an indication of the success of the system.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><span style=""> </span>An Indian marriage ceremony is one of the first things one reads about when looking into Indian culture: exquisite handmade invitations announcing the "auspicious occasion" ("auspicious" means "lucky", did you know that?), a dowry often four times the annual income of the bride’s father, saris intricately embroidered, breathtaking gold jewelry, days and nights of festivities. Grassless parks, empty land and farmhouses are transformed with felt green carpet, multi-colored tents, archways of thick fabrics, a few stages and brilliant lighting to freeze a soul in her place. Read any Westerner’s account of an Indian wedding and it will say the same two things: it’s all alluringly beautiful and the bride looked petrified. Many would agree the groom looked anxious as well. It’s probably not our place to draw such conclusions but I know I’d be scared jumping into such an unknown. However for Hindus, like all of us, marriage is an act of faith. Hindus I’ve spoken to believe that God (most learned Hindus I encounter claim monotheism) is guiding their lives. There is no making a mistake here; they only have their astrological sign, their caste (disregarded by a few), maybe a guru, and their parent’s judgment to go on. There is no second guessing after the big day – this is what they’re called to. I pray for such certainty – without the astrology – as well.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><span style=""> </span>Not everyone wants such arrangements. One friend in his late twenties sets his sights on greater and greater career goals saying he’ll marry once he’s professionally settled. In reality he’s searching for a love marriage. Another friend, single and in her 30s, is a Supreme Court lawyer who only took education seriously when she saw her sister, who did poorly in school, married off against her will at 19. Many of my female classmates at JNU will admit they pursue education as a means of putting off matrimony. But these are the minority; most are content to leave the selection of their spouses to those with marital experience. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><span style=""> </span>All this said, I’d given no thought to the upcoming Valentine’s Day. In Delhi, it’s extremely rare to see a couple holding hands in public. Affection is something kept in the quiet of home. So last Saturday came as quite a surprise. I’d seen the heart shaped balloons appear in shop windows earlier in the week. Still I was taken aback, that night, when upscale Vasant Vihar had traffic at a stand still. There was no parking at restaurants and I doubt there were any tables available inside. Outside the Pyra Cinema Complex, there was a live band. Young people were dancing – not as couples – but dancing on the plaza! The newspaper Sunday Morning reported that prices on gifts, chocolates, cards and roses were four times that of any ordinary day. Cell phone companies were tied up in the morning with the abundance of text messages. The paper also reported that there was a great deal of controversy over the day, claiming that Valentine’s Day was "alien to Indian culture". There were protests and card burnings. One NGO, in an attempt to bring the holiday to India and raise awareness of women’s issues, proposed calling the day "Bahu Divas" – Daughter-in-Law’s Day!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><span style=""> </span>Again here’s India, where internet-cafes are built along side ancient tombs. BMWs impatiently tail ox-carts. Huge stout Dalmatians and Labradors are walked on leashes along road construction passing shoeless little boys sleeping on piles of sand. There are those whose future is in medicine and technology, and those whose lives are spent tending sheep on Himalayan mountain tops. It’s a place where marriages are arranged, but the young with money in their pockets are adopting at least the commercial aspect of Valentine’s Day. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" >Hope you had a wonderful day! <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" >love and blessings, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" >Molly<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" >P.S. My parents are coming on Thursday!</span></p> </div>mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13618768277068325069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930302945062032414.post-55006334519195365632004-01-11T17:54:00.000-08:002009-06-27T17:07:35.388-07:00A Letter from India - January 11, 2004<span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><span style=""> </span>1/11/04<o:p></o:p></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in; margin-right: 0.5in; margin-left: 3.75pt;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" >Dear Family and Friends,</span><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in; margin-right: 0.5in; margin-left: 3.75pt;">What a blessing Christmas in Ohio was!<span style=""> </span>Though I didn't get to see, or even talk to, all of you, I'm thankful for the time and effort so many of you made to get together.<span style=""> </span>My trip to West Virginia and South Carolina was brief but also a breath of air I needed.<span style=""> </span>Thank you so much for all you've been and are for me!<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in; margin-right: 0.5in; margin-left: 3.75pt;">I'm back in Delhi now.<span style=""> </span>I plan to take a trip to Mumbai (Bombay) next week.<span style=""> </span>It should be interesting.<span style=""> </span>I wanted to share what yesterday brought.<span style=""> </span>It might give a better picture of India.<span style=""> </span>I fear it might not too. It might not be respectful of India and those who live here.<span style=""> </span>I trust you to recognize the struggle and I'd welcome your thoughts and comments.<span style=""> </span><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in; margin-right: 0.5in; margin-left: 3.75pt;"> <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in; margin-right: 0.5in; margin-left: 3.75pt;">Yesterday I went to visit Anisa in the slum in which she is doing a research project. Anisa is another Rotary Ambassadorial Scholar here in Delhi.<span style=""> </span>She's learning from a non-profit organization that works with women, especially violence towards women, in one particular slum.<span style=""> </span>The slum is located behind Rajghat (Mahatma Gandhi Memorial), running the banks of the Yamuna River.<span style=""> </span>It's the home of cycle rickshaw drivers and trash pickers.<span style=""> </span>The slum is huge, alive and growing.<span style=""> </span>While we stand along the main roadway, a baby crawls to us excited by the prospect of new faces.<span style=""> </span>A child in a green sweater, with the in turned ankles of clubbed foot, seemed to dance a playful game as he and others of his age gathered to watch us.<span style=""> </span><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in; margin-right: 0.5in; margin-left: 3.75pt;">We walk down to the expansive part of the slum that is like a rural village with water buffalo tied in front of the solid homes.<span style=""> </span>Women bend kneading buffalo dung into paddies to be dried and used as fuel for cook fires.<span style=""> </span>In open fields workers pull gigantic radishes from the ground, collect them in bundles so big it would take two people to wrap their arms around them, and carry the bundles on their heads.<span style=""> </span><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in; margin-right: 0.5in; margin-left: 3.75pt;">We then wandered our way closer to the water's edge along the Yamuna.<span style=""> </span>Shanties are built out of thin strips of bamboo woven into flat sheets and propped against firm bamboo poles.<span style=""> </span>The shanties are built close, the thin wall separating one home from the next.<span style=""> </span>A few weeks ago there had been a fire which engulfed many of the small homes where families lived.<span style=""> </span>Government issued thick canvas tents rest haphazardly on the well-worn slabs where bamboo walls once stood.<span style=""> </span>Daily, new thin walls are rebuilt providing family homes the size of my hostel room.<span style=""> </span>Until now I'd been assessing my hostel room - a little bigger than a king size bed - as extremely small.<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in; margin-right: 0.5in; margin-left: 3.75pt;">There sits a solid square house made of cement next to the entrance to the trash heap.<span style=""> </span>Men on large three-wheeled cycles bring trash which the residents dig through removing plastic, paper, cardboard and treasures like a torn blanket to hang as a door of the shanty home.<span style=""> </span>Anisa tells me that the family who lives in the cement house must have a steady income.<span style=""> </span>She also tells that three months ago they lost a child: a baby, only a year old.<span style=""> </span>He got a fever and died before anyone realized he was so sick.<span style=""> </span>His mother excitedly invited us inside for tea.<span style=""> </span>Concerned that it would put too much of a financial strain on the family, Anisa tried to turn the invitation down.<span style=""> </span>But the mother would not let us decline.<span style=""> </span>Inside, her home was twice the size of the shanty homes, twice my hostel room for a family of six, and she had two beds.<span style=""> </span>We drank tea and talked.<span style=""> </span>She began to talk about her dead baby, about his sleeping by her in the night.<span style=""> </span>Another one of her children came in and she held him on her lap. Her husband told her if she continues mourning as she is, she will die; and he cannot care for their remaining children on his own.<span style=""> </span>The mother said that her life was good, no concerns, nothing wrong with it, only now she will always remember that baby.<span style=""> </span>She said it with dry eyes, as if she's aware that her mourning is a luxury her family cannot afford.<span style=""> </span><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in; margin-right: 0.5in; margin-left: 3.75pt;">I want to be sensitive to India's image.<span style=""> </span>Middle class Indians tell me that they do not want their country to be known only for its poverty.<span style=""> </span><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in; margin-right: 0.5in; margin-left: 3.75pt;">I had dinner with a more fortunate family yesterday evening.<span style=""> </span>I met the family at the children's maternal grandparents' home not far from JNU.<span style=""> </span>Two of the children in the family were there: a son who is 6 and a daughter who is 11.<span style=""> </span>The family had just returned from Egypt on a business trip turned family vacation - and they were still glowing with the experience.<span style=""> </span>The children were both excited and dramatic, clearly a family who is fascinated by the world and its possibilities.<span style=""> </span>Their fresh cut hair bobbed with enthusiasm as they described school projects and Egyptian Pyramids.<span style=""> </span>In a clean red shirt and blue pants, the boy skipped to a drum beat in his head around his grandmother's glass coffee table as she anxiously reminded him that he could fall and break something.<span style=""> </span>He and his sister tried to teach me a card game, the name of which they could not remember.<span style=""> </span>They ended up arguing and realized that each was teaching a different game.<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in; margin-right: 0.5in; margin-left: 3.75pt;">Another child came from the kitchen to set the table for us.<span style=""> </span>She was darker, hair in one braid down her back, in an oversize sweater and a gaze that seemed to focus on the floor about a meter ahead of her.<span style=""> </span>She was asked get a glass of 7-Up.<span style=""> </span>The child's head nodded without looking at the other, her eyes locked on the same spot of nothing.<span style=""> </span>She returned with the drink for the girl with short hair.<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in; margin-right: 0.5in; margin-left: 3.75pt;">After a delicious dinner with the parents, children and grandparents, we continued what had been delightful conversation with the two children piping in their every thought even if it had no relevance to the present subject.<span style=""> </span><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in; margin-right: 0.5in; margin-left: 3.75pt;">I asked if the girl, with the braid, in the sweater, had cooked the dinner.<span style=""> </span>I was assured she was too young for such a task and that the children's grandmother had done the cooking.<span style=""> </span>Then I learned that the girl had been sent from Bihar as hired help.<span style=""> </span>She was only about nine when she arrived, by herself.<span style=""> </span>Bihar is at least 16 hours from Delhi by train.<span style=""> </span>That was a year ago.<span style=""> </span>She is soon to go back to visit Bihar for the first time since leaving.<span style=""> </span>I made a remark about a child so young being sent on her own.<span style=""> </span>Clearly I'd stepped in emotionally charged water without realizing it.<span style=""> </span>I was at first assured that her life in Delhi as a servant was better than her life in Bihar.<span style=""> </span>I was also assured that if these grandparents didn't hire her she would be employed by someone else, running the risk of being physically or sexually abused.<span style=""> </span>I'm sure this is true.<span style=""> </span>She has grown twice the height she was when she arrived because she gets two eggs each morning, far beyond a breakfast in the village.<span style=""> </span>The money that she earns goes back to her family.<span style=""> </span>Most likely her younger brothers and sisters will be able to go to school on that money.<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in; margin-right: 0.5in; margin-left: 3.75pt;">The conversation was out of my control.<span style=""> </span>I was simply nodding in comprehension when the children's father brought up how Westerners don't understand the issue of child labor.<span style=""> </span>Westerners think children who are working would otherwise be in school.<span style=""> </span>That would not be the case; children who work come from families who would not be able to send them to school.<span style=""> </span>Even grueling manual labor would be better than starvation for those children.<span style=""> </span>He was sweating by the time he finished what he had to say.<span style=""> </span>Clearly he felt passionately about this.<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in; margin-right: 0.5in; margin-left: 3.75pt;">The girl, with the braid, in the sweater, spoke no English.<span style=""> </span>If she was nine a when she started working a year ago, I'm sure she reads no Hindi either.<span style=""> </span>The dishes were cleared from the table.<span style=""> </span>It was nearly 10pm.<span style=""> </span>She was closing the drapes in front of the sliding doors.<span style=""> </span>I was tired.<span style=""> </span><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in; margin-right: 0.5in; margin-left: 3.75pt;">I hadn't intended to bring up child labor.<span style=""> </span>I was thinking of the mother in the slum whose child died.<span style=""> </span>I was thinking of a Salvadoran mother I had sat with, as she feared for her adult son who ventured undocumented across Mexico in the hopes of finding illegal work in the US.<span style=""> </span>I was thinking of a pregnancy lost.<span style=""> </span>I was thinking of the mother of the girl, with the braid, in the sweater.<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in; margin-right: 0.5in; margin-left: 3.75pt;">In the pre-dinner conversation before her husband had arrived, I mentioned to the children's mother that I'd been to the slum earlier in the day.<span style=""> </span>She was concerned about the image of India I was getting.<span style=""> </span>She told me that people in the West think that India is all poverty.<span style=""> </span>This bothered her.<span style=""> </span>It's not so bad she said.<span style=""> </span>I couldn't tell her about the half burnt face of the child I'd seen that morning, or about the children who spend their days searching the trash for plastic.<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in; margin-right: 0.5in; margin-left: 3.75pt;">I do fear I'm missing India completely.<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in; margin-right: 0.5in; margin-left: 3.75pt;">love, molly<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <script language="javascript"></script><img style="display: none;" src="http://visit.geocities.com/visit.gif?&r=http%3A//www.geocities.com/welinehan/011304MollysLetterfromIndia.htm&b=Netscape%205.0%20%28Windows%3B%20en-US%29&s=1400x1050&o=Win32&c=32&j=true&v=1.2" border="0" /> <noscript></noscript><img src="http://geo.yahoo.com/serv?s=76001067&t=1245459297&f=us-w2" alt="1" height="1" width="1" />mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13618768277068325069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930302945062032414.post-73430032004686896592003-11-27T17:50:00.000-08:002009-06-27T17:07:04.833-07:00Thanksgiving 2003<table style="width: 100%;font-family:arial;" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" width="100%"><tbody><tr><td style="padding: 0in;"><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size:100%;">The guns fell silent along the entire western front with Pakistan today for the first time since the conflict in Siachen broke out about two decades ago. Indian and Pakistani soldiers celebrated the festival of Id by exchanging sweets at some border outposts instead of targeting each other with shells as they have been accustomed to do... in Jammu and Kashmir." <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;"><span style=""> </span><u>The Hindu</u>, November 27, 2003</span><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> </td> </tr> <tr> <td style="padding: 0in;"> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;"><span style=""> </span></span><span style="font-size:10;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <br /></td> </tr> <tr style="font-style: italic;"> <td style="padding: 0in;">(<span style="font-size:100%;">This piece was the headline article for the Ashtabula Star Beacon on Thanksgiving 2003)</span></td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=""> </span>Thanksgiving, Eid and Terrorism</span></p> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; line-height: 16.2pt;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;">Two months ago, on the anniversary of September 11, I was invited to visit Peshawar, Pakistan. I was going as a volunteer, through Rotary International, along with Pakistanis from Peshawar and Americans from San Francisco. Together a program is being developed to train women from Afghanistan who were denied education under the Taliban.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; line-height: 16.2pt;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;">Terrorism fills our news each day.<span style=""> </span>Fear of attacks are present in our lives. Again, this Thanksgiving we hold our loved ones close in gratitude.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; line-height: 16.2pt;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;">All over the world people are fearful of violence and the insecurity it brings.<span style=""> </span>This week marks not only the American Thanksgiving, but a festival of humble gratitude for Muslims as well.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; line-height: 16.2pt;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;">There is a truly American essence in giving thanks. It's rooted in our history. The Pilgrims from Europe feasted together with the Wampanoag Indian People to celebrate with gratitude to God for the bountiful harvest in the New World.<span style=""> </span>Annually, we continue to celebrate Thanksgiving for the bounty we have had over all these years.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; line-height: 16.2pt;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;">This year, in places as far away as Europe, Iraq, India, and Israel the world will be celebrating a festival of joy and gratitude. The one day feast, called Id-al-Fitr, closes the holy month of Ramadan in the Islamic calendar. It is the time of celebration of the bountiful gifts God gives throughout the month, year and all time. This year, along with the US Thanksgiving, Eid falls in the week of November 23rd.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; line-height: 16.2pt;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;">When planning the trip to Peshawar, Pakistan from my university in Delhi, India, friends concerned for my safety recommended that I say I'm from Canada instead of the United States. Though I appreciate their concern, I cannot rightfully disown my US identity.<span style=""> </span>To hide my nationality – or worse, to lie – would only serve to promote misunderstanding and distrust of one another. To share that I am an American reflects the concern we, Americans, have for the well being of those in far off lands. By not knowing one another, we've permitted the extremists of our cultures to represent us abroad. Peshawar is known in the United States for being a possible hiding place of Osama Bin Laden and location of extremist schools in the area. The US is misunderstood in Pakistan partly because Hollywood has misrepresented us as power hungry people without ethics. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; line-height: 16.2pt;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;">Prepared for an abrasive reception in Pakistan, I was instead warmly welcomed. When Pakistanis or Afghans learned I was from the United States, their eyes showed both surprise and bright excitement at the opportunity of sharing cultures and perspectives. Most conversations were basic, about our dress, our education and our families. Depending on their level of English (I do not speak Urdu), and the trust we could build, the discussion went on to Pakistani politics, US divorce rates and our religions. In the course of my week in Peshawar, I was invited to tea and dinner more often than I was able to attend.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; line-height: 16.2pt;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;">In one Afghan refugee camp, an exquisite carpet covers the dirt floor of the dried mud home where the women sit while strangers visit outside.<span style=""> </span>We were unaware of their quiet presence as we learned of the art of carpet weaving and examined the frame.<span style=""> </span>Some Muslim women, as in this home, are only to be seen by men who are related.<span style=""> </span>As the only woman of the four visiting volunteers, I was pulled aside and asked if I would like to meet these Afghan women whom our project hopes to aid.<span style=""> </span>Lead to a dark wood door, I pushed it open.<span style=""> </span>Inside the unlit room were about eight women with covered heads and alert eyes.<span style=""> </span>Pulling my own scarf closer over my head and shoulders I smiled in gratitude for the friendship I was being offered.<span style=""> </span>I joined the women seated on the carpet.<span style=""> </span>Eyes caught mine and held the moment with a smile.<span style=""> </span>We nodded to one another.<span style=""> </span>The younger women shifted a bit with curiosity, their glass bangles lightly clinking in the darkness.<span style=""> </span>I did the same, shifting while trying to keep the scarf from falling off my head.<span style=""> </span>We attempted conversation with their few English words:<span style=""> </span>“Sister”, “mother”, “aunt”, and “friend”.<span style=""> </span>They pointed to one another until I understood their relationships.<span style=""> </span>Closed in a room with women whom the world has just begun to know, I smiled with them and waited for the men to leave, for change to come, for a better life.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Terrorism has affected Pakistanis, Afghans, Latin Americans, North Americans, Europeans, Middle Easterners and many others. Confusing the extremists of another country, religion or culture with the majority of peace loving people promotes fear and vengeance. As humans we all share concern for our mothers, brothers and children. We are grateful for their health and safety. Let’s recognize that this Thanksgiving week - like the Pilgrims and the Indians - we will celebrate with those from vastly different cultures.</span><span style=""><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--[if !supportEmptyParas]-->mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13618768277068325069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930302945062032414.post-79635458003065529242003-11-09T17:47:00.000-08:002009-06-27T17:06:25.979-07:00Letter from India - Nov. 9, 2003<span style=""> </span>November 9, 2003<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;">Dear Family and Friends,<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;"> <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;">India's 15 rupee postage stamp, which will send a letter all over this world, appears to be the same stamp issued when India gained its independence from Britain in 1947. Like a cheap t-shirt, it has only two colors: brown and orange. In the upper left hand corner is the word, "India", written in both Hindi and Roman script. Also in both scripts is "Butterfly", identifying the text book-like image on the stamp. The stamp designer must have gone out of his way to choose the most boring of India’s butterflies. And here it is, that singular uninteresting insect flying to every corner of this world, representing India.<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;"> <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;">This morning from the window of the hostel mess, over my breakfast of chickpeas, chapati and warm milk, I watched a peacock attempt to seduce a peahen. This is India!<span style=""> </span>He stood, all pomp and arrogance, revealing his every feather spread in a daunting array before her. She stared - timidly, if you ask me - until some decision was made. She distinctly and delicately turned, ducked her head, as if to prepare him for what was to come, and flew, rather awkwardly, off the ledge. His feathers drooped.<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;"> <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;">Why aren't they on India's postage?<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;"> <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;">The moths that flit towards the light my hostel room gives off have trouble, like the peahen, with mid-air flights. Coming through the window their tiny bodies seem to stop in disorientation while their wings keep moving giving them balance in the air. Then they drop, to the wall or floor, bouncing along the surface as if to verify its absolute, solid, immobility. Once confident, they bounce along in short low flights towards the florescent light above my bed.<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;"> <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;">The moths gathered around my light are considerably more attractive than the butterfly on India's 15 rupee stamp. The detailed lace-like stone carvings of the Taj Mahal must have been inspired by the wings of these moths. Some are dark, dark brown with a white trail drawn ornately across a wing and mirrored exactly on the other. Many are green and leave glittering dust where they touch down too suddenly.<span style=""> </span>Still others have wings with circles that, when folded, appear to be accusing eyes glaring back at the outer world.<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;"> <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;">Can you tell that I've been confined to the hostel for some time? I was sick with a pesky viral infection for nearly two weeks. Nothing serious. In fact, there was only one day of fever; the rest of the time I felt as if I were making a slow recovery. It was pretty frustrating actually. For the first few days I slept. Soon my mind had recovered, but my body still needed time. My room is cement walls, cement floor and a cement closet - all totaling a space a little bigger than a king size bed. I found myself wanting to move about, go to class and see more of India. Instead I had to lie on my bed watching the insects collecting around my florescent light. <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;"> <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;">As I grew impatient with my recovery, I could hear the voice saying... "A Rotary International Ambassadorial Scholar and what is she doing the last weeks of October? Watching moths!"<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;"> <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;">The scholarship is through the Rotary Foundation of Rotary International which holds a vision of world understanding and peace through education and cultural exchange. Simply put, the more we know about each other, the more likely we are to get along. As an Ambassadorial Scholar, my responsibility is to listen, make friends and be an ambassador of goodwill from the people of the USA to those from other countries. It's a tough job, but someone's got to do it. <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;"> <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;">But seriously, we need this. When we consider that the radio (later verified by internet news) is saying that a European Commission's survey finds Europeans judge the United States as a leading country contributing to global instability (beating Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan and North Korea - only Israel outdid us), we realize something is wrong with our global image. Across nationalities I find a pretty strong distaste for the United States. Be it the Canadian's determination not to be confused with us. Or the Columbian who just responds "well duh" when asked if people in the USA have a global awareness. Or the Korean who has protested in front of the US Military Base in Seoul against the US State in Korea. Then there's the huge poster that hangs outside JNU's School of Social Science building depicting a school of small fish fleeing the open mouth of a large fish painted red, white and blue. Below is a second scene, similar, only the small fish have united making a huge mouth from which the red, white and blue fish flees. The signs reads "Our World, Our Future" We, Americans, aren't coming off as generous, freedom loving people. <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;"> <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;">Issues of US global image and foreign policy seem to be swimming in my sub-consciousness, like when deciding whether to sit on the floor rather than take the last seat for a lecture. However, it is not what most humbles and challenges me. Soon after my arrival in India, I was perceived as "very formal" in my interactions with people I wanted to consider new friends. The reason I was perceived as formal was that I was thanking people for the help they were giving me. In my perception, I was letting them know I was aware that they were going out of their way to help me. My intention was to show that I was not taking them for granted. Instead, my words were communicating a distance between myself and others. It was explained to me that of course they would help me. This is just what friends do. By thanking them I make it sound like some exceptional action.<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;"> <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;">Since that time, I've learned a particular Indian head gesture in which my chin is the axis of a movement that begins with my neck but actually only moves the top of my head. I move my entire head from side to side while my chin holds still. I tend to do this movement slowly, hoping to express sincerity. But like any language in which a tiniest detail can have a completely different meaning, I may or may not be communicating the sincere but casual thanks I intend.<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;"> <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;">So it is as an ambassador. Lets hope I do a better job than India's 15 rupee stamp.<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;"> <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;">I still have a long way to go to understand this world. I'd be disappointed if I were close. My faith holds to the knowledge that we are indeed one world; one Body. <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;"> <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;">In Delhi, when a child is a beggar, she must learn the proper touch. It starts out with the fingertips of her cupped hand brushing ones forearm. It's just a slight gentle graze when she reaches into the auto-rickshaw in which you ride or follows as you shop in the market. Her fingernails are bitten as far back as they can be. Looking her straight in the eye and shaking ones head doesn't help. She flattens her palm against your arm, locking her eyes with yours so you have to make the choice to look away. Her hand begins to pulsate against your upper arm, slightly kneading into your sub-consciousness, consciousness and conscience. <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;"> <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;">Why isn't she on India's postage?<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;"> <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;">She should be in school. She should learn something besides the perfect touch to get the most sympathy. Whose problem is she, as she stands with marigolds strung around an empty tin can to hold the coins she hopes to receive? By not giving her a rupee, am I saying I don't care? That she's one child and there are thousands? One child who is not my own is too much to ask? Is that what I'm saying by brushing her hand away before the rickshaw moves on? But what am I saying if I give her a rupee... just a rupee... just over 2 US cents? Is my conscience taken care of then? Two cents to a child so poor that her pierced nose holds no ring?<span style=""> </span>Now my wealth is shared with her, and I can go on with my day of leisure education and any food the city offers. Is that what I say, that poverty is so big and I am so small, that I do my part by giving her two cents? <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;"> <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;">Lord, when did I see you hungry?<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;"> <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;">And so I'm living in Delhi. The challenge is everyday, uninsulated possibilities. I wouldn't trade it. It's Our World, Our Future.<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;"> <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;">peace and love,<span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;"> <span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none ; margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt 3.75pt; padding: 0in;">molly</p>mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13618768277068325069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930302945062032414.post-34722910645591410492003-09-25T17:42:00.000-07:002009-06-27T17:21:15.702-07:00Pakistan - September 2003<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcAaht8OM9WxEXlsF__3J2sNxKQPwortYYlX8OFKRGGfoLpKmyMrk4Ni_mnfEpyuSgtOu1Cz20Mn-TZq3KX0SJ41ExUxPxe6hKa9n95nYp3C_tpGSVQwpc-zFFgPYG5KmKmuzXazf1Ag/s1600-h/MDrickshawpakistan.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 231px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcAaht8OM9WxEXlsF__3J2sNxKQPwortYYlX8OFKRGGfoLpKmyMrk4Ni_mnfEpyuSgtOu1Cz20Mn-TZq3KX0SJ41ExUxPxe6hKa9n95nYp3C_tpGSVQwpc-zFFgPYG5KmKmuzXazf1Ag/s320/MDrickshawpakistan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352166269138337906" border="0" /></a><br /><div class="Section1"> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" >Sept. 25, 2003 </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" >Dear Family and Friends, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > It's humbling to find that other English speakers cannot understand me. At first I make arrogant allowances that they are unaccustomed to proper English. That assumption works well until I find that they are thinking exactly the same of me! Just yesterday, a student was asking for directions on campus. I started to give them, noticed the look on his face and asked, apologetically, if he could understand my English. He said he could then asked "You are Iranian?" I laughed and told him I'm from the US. He laughed, embarrassed. I'm sure the "Axis of Evil" politics came to mind. It's nice to be confused for Middle Eastern; more commonly people have guessed me Israeli. Here, in India, I can realize how easily our humanity has no political boundaries. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > At one point, when walking past a professor's apartment on campus - the profs mostly live on campus - a little girl, maybe 5 years old, came running out her short driveway seeing someone she knew walking along the street. She was wearing a pink dress with lots of lace (the kind that makes a girly girl, like I was, feel like a princess) and her face beamed with excitement. Suddenly her bright expression changed as she stopped and looked down at her feet, took a quick step backward, then emitted her bright smile back to the person again. Clearly her parents have shown her a very particular limit up to where she can play and where beyond is too far from home. Crossing that imaginary line was a grave error which she had to remedy before whatever was beyond that boundary swept her up. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > Later that night her memory came to me as I journaled. I was a rule following child. I would have stopped and looked at my feet too. I wonder if I shouldn't stop and check my feet right now. What am I doing in a place that my pointing up is the opposite direction from your pointing up? And how will I know if I've ventured too far? <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > Not only was I (am I) a girly girl, I was also scared of everything. My parents didn't have to worry that I might go out into the street because I was clearly frightened that I might be hit by a car in the driveway. Snakes, balloons, showers, storms, bees, slivers and worms all kept me from anything remotely adventurous. Just ask my siblings. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > At some point I began to wonder what I was missing and whether the fear of something bad was keeping me from experiencing something good. I guess once I started challenging it, I couldn't stop. When does the bad outweigh the good? And then, as a student of theology, the moral issue: How not to allow evil to have such control that it keeps us from embracing the good. And as a theist: a choice to be an active part of the Whole which I recognize to be good. As a Christian: to believe there is resurrection is to recognize that death is not the most powerful. Each of us (with an all-inclusive definition of "us") is valued by the Creator who has shown that life is greater than death. However, it is up to us to make a choice of Life. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > It all sounds good until I remember that Daniel Pearl's (journalist kidnapped, tortured and killed in Pakistan last year) book is entitled At Home in the World. <o:p></o:p></span></p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > I was in Peshawar, the border city on the Pakistan side of the Khyber Pass leading into Afghanistan, on the 11th of September this year. <o:p></o:p></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > The Rotary Club in Pacifica, outside of San Francisco, meets for breakfast on Tuesday mornings. The men and women who met in Pacifica on Tuesday, 11 Sept. 2001 were bonded in their common feelings of grief and helplessness. In an effort we all felt, to bring something good out of something so very bad, they began to look for ways to help victims of terrorism. Their aid interest went international, to needs of the displaced people of Afghanistan. There are over three million Afghan refugees living in Pakistan and Iran. Many of them have been living there since the late 70’s when the Soviets began the violence in their homeland. With over a quarter century of instability and refugee life, many Afghans have lost (or never had) a vision of a peaceful home. One practical need is trade learning. The Pacifica Club has set up a project to train women in basic trades like carpet weaving, sewing, embroidering and speaking English. The coordinator, Chris Verrill, a member of the Pacifica Club, has been living in Delhi for the past two months. He invited me, as a Rotary Scholar, to join him on his next trip to Peshawar. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > Pakistanis drive Toyota Corollas just like us. Many also fly kites. On approaching a small city or village the horizon contains brown walls the color of the earth from which they were formed. The single story buildings are at peace with their well squared walls, as if the human's ability for precision is as artistically a part of nature as an ant hill. Perhaps due to lack of electricity, but I hope for the simple joy it, the sky is dotted with darting kites. Each dodges one wind current then catches the next, held to the earth by a string and the hand of a boy or man with his eye on the world of wind currents above him. Like his kite, he darts, not looking where his foot lands on earth but to where he hopes his kite will give the most resistance and sail as high as it can go. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > Until now I associated kites with Highlights Magazines and Mary Poppins. Now I can add Pakistan to the list. Kites... Highlights... Mary Poppins... and Pakistan. It sounds like a joke to put these colorful things in the same sentence as Pakistan. But that fact alone reflects my earlier ignorance. As if a whole country's worth of grandparents, parents and children would be living without color. As if I could claim to understand a country based on the black and white media text from which I read my news. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > The farther west and more rural one travels in Pakistan the more tribal the culture. By the time one arrives in Peshawar most of the women wear burkas (like wearing a tent with a net at eye level to look out through). Unattractive is one way to describe the burka. Just plain ugly is most accurate. Without reason, or conscious thought, I'd concluded that beneath the burka could only be an ugly old woman who would want to hide herself. Then, on Thursday, while in search of a post office, I was on a side street. Two women were huddled at a step where they were caring for a sick baby. Both had lifted the front of their burkas and rested them on their foreheads while they bent to the child. Still I could only see their backs. Try as I did, even when they pulled the burkas back down, they shielded their faces so I could not see them. But I did see one's hand. It was a young hand. I realized this was the baby's mother, and a young mother at that. The young woman hoisted her child - a girl - in her arms. The baby peered at me over her mother's shoulder as the two tents walked away. On the step they left a quarter piece of newspaper that the little girl had been lying on. It was the torn page of international news: "US Defense Spending Could Reach $480 Billion". As an Ambassadorial Scholar, I hope I can represent my country better than the black and white text news. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > Depending on the variation and extent of Islam a family follows, some woman are not permitted to be seen by a man they are not related to. With few exceptions, all women kept their heads covered in public. Those women who don't wear burkas still dressed in a manner which deliberately concealed any feminine curves. The result was that I was out in public in clothing I would normally only wear to bed. Though this may have been bothersome to me, the reality was that by respecting the culture, I was given the opportunity to visit both men and woman.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > At one of the refugee camps, in particular, we visited a home which, like all the other homes, had high walls of dried mud surrounding it. It was explained to us in Pashto (I think, though it may have been Urdu) by men with long white beards and pakols on their heads, that the walls were built to keep the flooding river from taking their mud block homes. We - three male Rotarians and I - met with the men, discussing supplies needed for the classes, the number of students expected, who would teach and where classes would be held. Then, as we went to look at the carpet frame, I, and only I, was invited to meet the women. Until this time we'd been meeting outside. Now a door was opened to the home. I stepped into the small dark room to find at least eight women and a couple girls inside. They welcomed me with excited smiles. They showed me that I should sit. There were no chairs, only an incredible carpet - the kind of carpet people pay hundreds or thousands (I checked e-bay) of dollars for in the USA. We all sat, no translator among us. We spent our time admiring their bangles and my head covering. They were all related, an elderly mother with her two daughters and their daughters. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > I was sad to leave when it was time to go. Again I've been blessed to witness life from what seems like the other side of it. There is truth, at an absolute level, to be found here - even if pointing up from here is in the opposite direction than from Ohio. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > There still feels like so much more to say. But this has been long enough. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > We are such a small earth. We are such good people. Faith can move mountains ... then peace is not beyond us either. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > I'll write again soon. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > peace and love, molly <o:p></o:p></span></p><script language="javascript"></script><img style="display: none;" src="http://visit.geocities.com/visit.gif?&r=http%3A//www.geocities.com/welinehan/092503MollyfromIndia.htm&b=Netscape%205.0%20%28Windows%3B%20en-US%29&s=1400x1050&o=Win32&c=32&j=true&v=1.2" border="0" /> <noscript></noscript><img src="http://geo.yahoo.com/serv?s=76001067&t=1245458529&f=us-w6" alt="1" height="1" width="1" /></div>mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13618768277068325069noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930302945062032414.post-29612529711978945312003-09-05T17:08:00.000-07:002009-06-27T17:40:35.076-07:00A Letter from India - Sept. 5, 2003<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcY_IYwF9bZwUH4IOsG02F1wcodVPz9ldRae8NTt4OOu6JZKmLEmjum0Kz8OGdDGq0KyjHiBnMiVHcMXQQgRhl224qGCzZ4nWeQjPFHC5NfyG6D1HDQN0qovHlu8iM1fj1QKNHZ6p-BA/s1600-h/Agra+area+picture.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcY_IYwF9bZwUH4IOsG02F1wcodVPz9ldRae8NTt4OOu6JZKmLEmjum0Kz8OGdDGq0KyjHiBnMiVHcMXQQgRhl224qGCzZ4nWeQjPFHC5NfyG6D1HDQN0qovHlu8iM1fj1QKNHZ6p-BA/s320/Agra+area+picture.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352171860687447634" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" >Sept. 5, 2003</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > Dear Family and Friends, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > September is here. It's cooler than it was a week ago. I wake to find I haven't kicked the sheet off myself in my sleep. The ceiling fan in my hostel room (a room about the size of a king size bed) still spins at the frantic rate I'd set it the night before. A moving ceiling fan means the electric is still on, which means most likely we'll have water for showers this morning. We fill buckets of water in the evening in preparation for there not being water in the morning. Each week, it seems, a new breed of insect hatches in the hostel's open air halls and then finds themselves drowned in our buckets of water.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > With lack of electricity a regular phenomenom, I was surprised at the interest in the day long power outage in the USA. I think there was more shock, interest and willingness to converse (at least in my pocket of Delhi) about the power outage in the States than the bombs that terrorized Mumbai. Over 900 miles separate Delhi from Mumbai (Bombay), so we were fairly unaffected. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > I've enrolled at Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU). Classes are going well. The professors are excellent, educated at Cambridge or Harvard, and have traveled a great deal. They care about their students, offering their home and cell numbers to the class. Interestingly, professors and their families live on campus. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > More importantly, there is another kind of education that I could not learn at home. Nepali friends tell me about civil uprisings in their home country. Dinner with a Thai and chai (a beverage) with Iranians give me that opportunity to glimpse a bit of their perspective on the world (and, boy, do Iranians have a different perspective!). My neighbor plays the sitar in her small hotel room. I go to movies in Hindi and bowl with a Sikh. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > I also learn the limits: how one lives with such poverty all around. The university and this internet cafe are within walking distance on a not so hot day. Between is a village of poverty set on a small hilltop. Earlier today my auto-rickshaw driver drove past a man alone in the street having a seizure. We just passed. I wondered, in the hype US Christian phrase, what would Jesus do? He wouldn't have passed. A child in the market begs for food. I learned quickly that if I give one child an apple, a dozen more want the same. I cannot say they should be in school or find a job because those opportunities - those privileges - are not afforded them. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > I know I'm blessed to have each of you supporting me. Thank you for all the thoughts and prayers you're sending my way. Also thanks for the e-mails you've been sending. You continue to be in my prayers. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > Will write again soon! <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > love and peace, molly</span></p>mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13618768277068325069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930302945062032414.post-53198629561786547262003-08-06T17:04:00.000-07:002009-06-27T17:04:09.117-07:00Sunday with Mohammed - August 6, 2003My parents kept this quote from an email I sent August 6, 2003. Mom had emailed asking if I made it to Mass on Sunday...<br /><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > I did get to Mass yesterday at 6:30pm. I was walking, intending to get a rickshaw to take me, when an Iranian I had met stopped to talk. He truly dislikes the US foreign policy. His first line, upon learning I'm from the US, was "my country's worst enemy". Anyway, his name is Mohammed. He was on a motorcycle and offered me a ride off campus to pick up the rickshaw. When I told him I was on the way to Mass he was surprised. Then he offered to give me a ride all the way to the church. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > As we approached, out of politeness, I asked if he would like to join me. He took me up on it! So Mohammed and I went to Mass yesterday. He saw the crucifix and asked about the letters above Jesus' head. He then made a remark about Jesus' mother witnessing the crucifixion. He said some of his friends in Iran were executed for their political views. He said when their bodies were returned to their mothers, the mothers were angry. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > I was amazed at the true perspective from the Middle East and that people were still dying for their beliefs... and the role women play as victims of violence. It wakes up the reality of Christ's execution.</span></p>mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13618768277068325069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930302945062032414.post-72518490104760280232003-07-30T17:01:00.000-07:002009-06-27T17:02:52.392-07:00A Letter from India - July 30, 2003<p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" >July 30, 2003 </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > Dear Friends and Family, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > As the passenger on the motorcycle I had to close my eyes to the raindrops falling in them. After only a week of monsoon experience (and the end of the monsoon at that) I've come to identify the season not with rain but with intense humidity. The kind of humidity that enters the lungs with every breath persuading the breather that the next inhale may not need to be so deep. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > The horn in Dehli is a traffic courtesy, used more than turn signals and certainly more than eye contact between drivers. Verma drove the motorcycle, I clung as the passenger, as we swerved among Delhi's notoriously chaotic traffic. Verma has heard my constant request to use the internet. I've had almost no time on-line since arriving in India. Each of you who have so wonderfully written me with thoughts, prayers and well wishes, thank you so much. I look forward to being able to reply one by one. Soon I hope to get internet access with the laptop I brought from the States. (Thanks, Devin). <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > Suzette Paterson, a former Rotary Scholar, hooked me up wonderfully well. From her home in San Francisco, she was able to connect me with her friend Rajeev. Rajeev met me at the airport at 11pm on the 22nd. He escorted me to the hotel (not before being stopped by police and accused of kidnapping me!) where I spent my first night. The next day (which happened to be my 27th birthday) Rajeev met me again and brought me to the JNU campus. I saw the gate with the sign above reading "Jawaharlal Nehru University" I felt like the world had just fallen into place. Here was that place I had found on the internet. Here was the other end of the garbled, incoherent, 2am phone calls. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > Rajeev introduced me to his friend Verma who had the right connections to get me in an air conditioned room at a guest house on campus. Verma has also personally escorted me all over campus (speaking Hindi all the way) to track down my application and status. I learned that I was not accepted because they understood my 3.7 GPA from Xavier to be on a 9 point scale! One person told me she's never heard of a person getting below a 4.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > Later Rajeev invited me to his home for dinner. There I met his mother and sister. We had a wonderful vegetarian Indian meal; and, to my surprise, they brought out a small cake with "Happy Birthday, Molly" written on it. When Rajeev's mother wished me "many happy returns" the reality that I was truly in India overwhelmed me. It's been overwhelming ever since. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > As for India... the raindrops are smaller than anywhere I've experienced. But they fall from the sky in such immense quantity that the size of the individual is lost. I close my eyes to each as Verma and I weave through the streets of Delhi. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > There are people who live as stone crushers. They sleep in beds or on the ground at the top of the holes they are paid to excavate. Children grow up there, marry there and have their own children at the mouth of the hole they dig. On a day when I was not closing my eyes to the small raindrops and looked from the road through the dirt, I could see to the metal bed in the construction zone with two children in it. I wondered about the lot in life I live. I think of my faith that these children are as valuable as any I have loved. How can it be that one human person can choose to travel to the other side of the world at her wish, and another will dig for her entire life? <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > I am well. Delhi is overwhelming.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > Thank you for all of your thoughts and prayers. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" > love and peace, molly <o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--[if !supportEmptyParas]-->mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13618768277068325069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930302945062032414.post-67822589075195518702000-03-18T16:58:00.000-08:002009-06-27T17:01:26.017-07:00<a name="8"> Message from Molly - March 18, 2000</a><p> <a name="8">Salvadorans say that you carry with you in your heart a part of everyone you've loved. I am blessed; my heart is heavy.</a></p><p> <a name="8">On March 28th, I will return home to Ohio after living in San Francisco Morazan, Chalatenango, El Salvador since August of 1998. The adoption of my God-daughter, who is now six months old, is not yet complete; but her adoptive parents will soon move here, to care for her themselves, until the paperwork is finished. The sewing class, the sponsored students, the English classes, the child care center and the other projects have either finished their term or have become self-sufficient (not needing my presence). Still, I know that the most important thing I have done, in my time here, has simply been living with the people. My listening has given them a chance to put into words what they have experienced and known. My presence has represented the listening world to them. I have told them of the support I have received from you, and they have become aware that they are not forgotten. I have learned from them in ways that they will never know or understand.</a></p><p> <a name="8">A family of nine recently moved to a two-room house they are renting near the center of town. The "popular" school in an outlying village was not educating the children well; so have decided to come to San Francisco. Neither of the parents can read; but, Marisol, the slender thirteen year old daughter beams with pride as she says she is now in fourth grade. Not only can she read, the mother boasts as she glances at her husband holding their youngest son, but she's learning to multiply. Marisol becomes shy with the attention and turns away, but the deep dimples in her turned cheek reflect the glee her modesty wants to hide. </a></p><p> <a name="8">The simple manner Salvadoran living takes could stretch on and on: the tortillas, the buses, the town bell, the beans, the dirt roads, the clothesline, the dark eyes, the mountain view, the night sky, the stories that continue to be realized. In the lifetime of someone as young as I, they have seen their land at its worst. They survived, babies, mothers, and grandparents. They are only starting to realize what they have lived through. Slowly, as the shock wears off, a sense of pride sets in. Not pride in the violence that has taken place, but in the survival and struggle they continue to live.</a></p><p> <a name="8">Sister Ann Manganero was an American physician and Sister of Loretto who lived here in Chalatenango through the war. Her bravery in accompanying Salvadorans in the time of terror gave them hope and strengthened their faith in a God who is good and saves. She returned to the United States when she was found to have cancer, from which she later died. She is carried in the hearts of many here. Her life bore witness to the value of all life, as recorded by Scott Wright in Promised Land, Death and Life in El Salvador.</a></p><p> <a name="8"> "At her funeral Mass, a friend, John Kavanaugh, S.J., recalled a time, ten years before, when Ann was working in the newborn intensive care unit of Cardinal Glennon Hospital in St. Louis, caring for a prematurely born child named Tamika, no bigger in size than Ann's hand. One day Ann even got the child to smile its one and only smile. After the child died, John asked Ann, 'What did that child ever have?' "She had the power to draw forth love from me', Ann replied."</a></p><p> <a name="8">As I move on from El Salvador to the United States, I find myself faced with two challenges. The first has to do with leaving here with a sense of hope for a people who face an intense struggle to fill their basic needs. The other is moving on and finding meaning in life in the United States. Sr. Ann's simple response strengthens me: to value all of humanity, no matter how small, dependent or hopeless it may seem, and to risk loving it. In the risk of loving, faith is found; hope grows from misery. This is the challenge to every culture and economy.</a></p><p> <a name="8">I want to thank you who have risked investing yourselves in my work here. Your financial help, your spiritual support, your willingness to risk your heart and care about what I do here, has been real in affecting how I could have impact. You have been present to the people of Chalatenango. We are grateful to you.</a></p><p> <a name="8">Peace and Love,<br />Molly</a></p>mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13618768277068325069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930302945062032414.post-24368653460425700321999-10-06T16:56:00.000-07:002009-06-27T17:00:45.005-07:00<a name="7"> A Message From Molly - October 6, 1999</a><p> <a name="7">Hello! It's been a few months since I've sent my last message. There is quite a bit to update you on.</a></p><p> <a name="7">I've been here a full year. It's said that in another year San Francisco will have multiple phone lines installed in town. That means that any family who can afford it can have a phone in their house. For now Renald continues to make his rounds by bicycle delivering messages. Renald is young, cheerful and flirtatious, stopping along the curb, after delivering a message, to hear the latest gossip. His messages take him to most corners in our small town; so he stays well informed, though not always accurate. He is rumored to have been seeing Silvia - though I don't put much merit in small town gossip. They were seen sitting together on the steps that lead to her cement block house. But then, Renald is at most corners; and, when she isn't at choir practice, Silvia is usually out on her front steps. It only makes sense that the two would talk and that small town eyes would see. Hernan, Silvia's brother, (I wrote of Silvia and Hernan last April) has taken a job in a city somewhere. Now Silvia keeps house, while her other brother tends to the farm. She has survived her father's death last April, and her mother's death before, coming out strong and independent. She joined the choir and, in this month of the rainy season, she carries her umbrella at just the perfect angle to make it a thing of beauty and not the necessity it is. Two days ago, when I visited her front steps, she was consoling a young man crying because his girlfriend had just broken up with him. With a voice that was realistic rather than romantic, and stable rather than harsh, she stated, "Sometimes, in this life, you can't have what you want." It's a calm acceptance to live what is, and not long for what is not.</a></p><p> <a name="7">Estella dropped by the rectory on Sunday before Mass. If you'll recall, I wrote of her last January when her mother was sick. She's fifteen and had to care for her mother and seven younger siblings rather than attend school. I hadn't seen Estella in well over a month; so we hugged and kissed on the cheek, as is Salvadoran custom. She looked good: her clothes were clean, hair down and shoulders back. I asked about her mother. "For the grace of God", Estella responded, "she is in the house but well again." This is wonderful news since the health promoters I traveled with did not predict her recovery. In January, "God willing", Estella will begin the ninth grade. The next January, with the help of sponsors in the US, she might go on to high school in another town.</a></p><p> <a name="7">During my anniversary week, the rains were heavy. That, compounded with El Salvador's severely deforested mountainsides, caused three landslides, blocking the dirt road leading out of (or into, depending on your perspective) San Francisco. When we heard the 5am bus coming into town, there was a quiet sense of relief that the road wasn't blocked from the previous nights rain. I celebrated my anniversary here on August 25th, a day that the road was not blocked. Nor was it blocked the following day. On that day a friend of mine was able to take a bus to the hospital in San Salvador (a luxury most country women do not receive) to deliver a healthy baby girl that evening. She returned to town two days later, claiming the child she held in her arms was not hers. Since she is heavy set, she could keep her pregnancy a complete secret. She is 23. She already has two children. She has no husband, no family, no job, no education, no house. She and the two children share one cot the church gave her. That night she came to Father Rafael and me to tell us the truth: the baby is hers and that she cannot possibly give her the life she deserves. She had heard me tell of the many couples in the United States waiting for years to adopt a baby. She knew that a childless couple, who receives these letters, had written me to say that their house and hearts are open if I should know of a child in need. My friend loves her daughter with an intensity of unconditional, selfless love that I have never seen. I have known the kind of love that wants to be present with, to know, to be proud of and to receive affection. I hope that I can learn the kind of love my friend has for her daughter: a love that lets go.</a></p><p> <a name="7">I contacted the couple in the United States and they are ecstatic. Meanwhile I spent three weeks as a full time foster mom. (loved it) The couple came, as soon as their passports could be in order, to meet the birth mother and their daughter, and to baptize her Maritta Daun. Salvadoran adoptions are difficult. During the war, children in conflicted areas were kidnapped and adopted to foreign couples who thought they were legal adoptions. Only recently has it become evident that the children were taken, often violently, from their rightful parents. (An interesting article on the subject appeared in The New York Times Magazine, Feb. 1999) In order to eliminate any corruption, El Salvador has made its adoption procedures much more complex. Our Salvadoran lawyer has told us the adoption will probably take six months.</a></p><p> <a name="7">We have found a wonderful family in San. Salvador for Maritta Daun to stay with. I will not move back to the United States until the adoption is worked out. I will make a trip to Ohio November 4th - 29th to raise awareness of El Salvador's needs as well as do fundraising for Salvadoran students to attend high school. For anyone in Ohio, or closeby, who has a group who would be interested in hearing about my experience here, I would be happy to share my impressions. Please feel free to call my parents, John and Rita<span isdynflag="1" info="Call +14404663207;1;+14404663207;0;" onmouseup="SkypeSetCallButtonPressed(this, 0,0,0)" onmousedown="SkypeSetCallButtonPressed(this, 1,0,0)" onmouseover="SkypeSetCallButton(this, 1,0,0);skype_active=SkypeCheckCallButton(this);" onmouseout="SkypeSetCallButton(this, 0,0,0);HideSkypeMenu();" context="440-466-3207" reallyisdynflag="1" fax="0" rtl="false" class="skype_tb_injection" id="__skype_highlight_id"><span title="Call this phone number in United States of America with Skype: +14404663207" onmouseout="SkypeSetCallButtonPart(this, 0)" onmouseover="SkypeSetCallButtonPart(this, 1)" class="skype_tb_injection_right" id="__skype_highlight_id_right"><span class="skype_tb_innerText" id="__skype_highlight_id_innerText"></span></span></span>, and they will try to set my schedule in order. Also, anyone and everyone, please feel free to call and chat on the days I'm home. I look forward to making the personal contact.</a></p><p> <a name="7">I hear that there are two theologies in El Salvador. There is one that says that God is in control, that suffering leads to a stronger faith, and that the focus should not be on this world but on that which is eternal. And there is the other that claims that as God's children we should want what is good and pleasant in this world, that suffering is not to be tolerated, and that we need to take control of our lives. One hears what seems to be a hint of the first theology in Silvia's statement. "Sometimes, in this life, you can't have what you want." And one gets a feel for the other in Estella's determination to go to school. But I find that true theology, the one that led Christ to accepting the cross, to be that of my friend. She had done it all by bringing this beautiful child into life. She has taken control of her daughter's future. Letting her go hurts more than all the suffering she has known in her life. And in the final analysis, because her child's future is more important than her own, she knows that sometimes in this life, you can't have what you want.</a></p><p> <a name="7">Please keep my friend and Marita Daun in your prayers. I'm looking forward to seeing and hearing from you in November. Thank you.</a></p><p> <a name="7">Peace and Love,</a></p><p> <a name="7">Molly </a></p>mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13618768277068325069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930302945062032414.post-89059910767322701331999-05-06T16:55:00.000-07:002009-06-27T17:00:15.519-07:00<a name="6"> A Message From Molly - May 6, 1999</a><p> <a name="6">Happy Spring to everyone in the United States! Happy Fall to Mikele in Australia! And Happy Winter to those of us in Central America! What a wonderfully diverse world we all live in!</a></p><p> <a name="6">The dry season has ended. Gracias a Dios! El Salvador has two seasons, wet (winter) and dry (summer). We have not seen rain since early last November. But now, each evening, there is a collective feeling of anticipation of the incoming rain. In the late afternoons, after teaching my seventh grade English class, I usually wander up to el campo, (the field) where the top of a hill has been cleared off. The young men from town are usually playing a serious game of soccer. Last night younger girls had a side game of softball. I join others who sit on large rocks and watch the games. The smaller children get bored with watching and climb trees, picking the pods that the trees produce and throwing them to other children on the ground. The children on the ground use rocks to break the pods open and suck out the sweet juice that surrounds the seeds inside. I've tried the juice. It's really not worth the energy it takes to retrieve, but seed juice really isn't what motivates the children to action. It's got something to do with the unity of our all being there. The wind blowing the dust from the soccer game into our faces. The way we can laugh, for the relief of ... something. For many people here I'm sure that part of it is the sense of peace. Ten years ago there was no way children or young men could play in an open field like they do now. Today children who are too young to remember use sticks to draw hop-scotch in the dust. A little later we feel the few drops of rain and can smile because there is the feeling of something different, something better, in the air. </a></p><p> <a name="6">I teach a lot of English, mostly to children. It's not uncommon for me to walk down the street and have children sing out to me, "Good Morning, Teacher. Good Morning, Teacher. How are you?..." I'm surprised by how quickly my second grade class is learning the days of the week. And my third grade students like me to give a color in Spanish, and they all quickly try to give the color in English - each wanting to be the first to know it. My ninth grade class, a small class which I spend seven hours a week with, are amazing. They understand concepts so quickly that I'm struggling to keep up.</a></p><p> <a name="6">Education is the key for the future of El Salvador. It is through education that we learn to see beyond the next corn or coffee harvest and into long term economic stability. Education is what allows the individual to take ownership of his or her own future.</a></p><p> <a name="6">I'm glad I can have the opportunity to help encourage education to people here. I don't have great hopes of my students all learning English in the next six months (though, like I said, my ninth grade class is pretty spectacular). However, my teaching opens my student's minds to what could be learned. I hope to plant curiosity to motivate them to want to continue their education. However in a country like El Salvador, instilling curiosity is not enough. Here in San Francisco the school only goes as far as the ninth grade. If a student wants to go any farther he or she has to travel to another town. Other towns have public schools as far as the 12th grade. The problem is the traveling expenses. The children of a farm family don't have the extra money it costs to ride the bus to and from other towns. So, with Fr. Rafael's help, I am trying to address the needs these students have. The project we are setting up is a sponsorship where an individual, family, or group in the United States will cover the additional cost it takes for a Salvadoran student in the rural areas to go to high school. A relationship will be set up between the student and the people in the United States who are helping. The idea is to begin the relationship now with letters and pictures. The actual financial contribution will not begin until next January when the next school year begins. The additional cost to send one student to high school is about $30 a month. With that they get transportation and other needs such as food, notebooks and uniform. If anyone is interested in beginning a relationship like this, please contact my parents (John and Rita L.), who can then get in contact with Fr. Rafael and me. I am doing well. I love (and am challenged by) the delicate balance between being motivated to take action, and discovering the peace and beauty that comes from simply being present. I'm living with people who have little control over their lives. There is so much I have to learn still. You hear a lot about the systemic problems of under- developed countries. I don't want to pretend that I have a sense of all that, at least not from the perspective that I'm given of rural Salvadoran farmers. Education empowers, and hopefully those who are educated can work to address the systemic problems found in these countries.</a></p><p> <a name="6">I hope all is well in your part of the world. Enjoy the change of seasons. God Bless.</a></p><p> <a name="6">Peace and Love,</a></p><p> <a name="6">Molly</a></p>mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13618768277068325069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930302945062032414.post-74191765093193739241999-04-05T16:54:00.000-07:002009-06-27T16:59:42.356-07:00<a name="5"> A Message From Molly - April 5, 1999</a><p> <a name="5">Hello! For everyone who has been at all concerned because it has been two months since I’ve last written, let me thank you for keeping me in mind and reassure you that all is well with me in El Salvador.</a></p><p> <a name="5">I’ve been here over half of the time that I will be here. It has gone by terribly fast. When I think of it I can’t believe it. I’m in my eighth month. My commitment was for one year, which will be up in August. However, I’m the English teacher for nine English classes in three towns. The school year ends in early November. I’ll probably return to the States in late October. That seems so soon.</a></p><p> <a name="5">A young friend of mine, who knows me through these letters, wrote me asking, "Do you ever smile down there or is it all terrible with nothing to smile about?" (Thanks, Bobby) The question caught me off guard and made me consider what I write in these letters. I feel myself wanting to put into words what I cannot. I know that I have said that it is a great privilege to be here. I know I’m repeating myself when I say that an old woman’s dark eyes or a child’s smile are the most real things I’ve ever known. I know that I’m repeating myself when I say that I am more alive than I’ve ever been before. So how can I tell you that the struggle is so real that it can only lead to joy?</a></p><p> <a name="5">I'll try. Today is the day after Christianity celebrates the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. As Christians, we know that even the greatest suffering is overcome by the greater joy of resurrection. On Good Friday morning (three days ago) Don Tonio died of cancer. Parents die of cancer everywhere. In fact, the cancer rate is much lower here since many people die of something else at a younger age. Perhaps here I have learned to sit with pain, to accept the mystery of it, then grow in peace and joy.</a></p><p> <a name="5">Don Tonio had six children. One died in the war, another works to send money from the United States and could not be here. The rest live near by. Two of them, Silvia and Hernando, are my good friends. Since embalming is not customary, and this is the hottest time of year, the funeral, procession and burial were Saturday morning. We were present for the family in the procession from the church to the cemetery, a kilometer along the dusty, unpaved road. Our dark clothes, worn for the funeral, quickly absorbed the heat making us damp so that the dust stuck to us all the more. A barefoot woman, who is slightly out of her mind, with large eyes full of tears, put her arm around me as we walked. Men cried; the sons hugged each other. In the heat and sadness our breathing was deep but short as our heart pushed against our esophagus, wanting so much to hold just some part of their pain.</a></p><p> <a name="5">That night as it was getting dark, I went to visit Silvia and Hernanndo. They were out on the steps to the house with cousins from another town. They had had no sleep since Don Tonio’s death but didn’t seem to want it. Instead they asked about me and how I was. We talked about English and the United States. They told their cousins, with pride, how I planned to stay only a year but I like it here so much that I’m staying until October. Hernando invited us for pupusas, a traditional Salvadoran food sold on street corners in the evenings. We had pupusas and Coke and talked about how unusual it is in this country, that their family has green eyes. We joked and enjoyed each other’s company. There was the slight hint of stability returning to their lives as they looked for the eye contact that I could give.</a></p><p> <a name="5">For Silvia especially, breathing without crying may still have been difficult, but she was doing it and even venturing to smile. And I was glad to be here. No, more than that; I was grateful that their father had loved them and that they loved him. And I was extremely grateful that I could be here for them. The pain that Silvia and Hernando feel has little to do with their living in El Salvador. Parents die of cancer everywhere. Embracing pain and joy is embracing death and resurrection. It’s not a call to look for suffering or even to accept suffering as God’s will, but it is a means to hold firm in the belief that good does overcome. Do I ever smile? I wonder if I ever don’t.</a></p><p> <a name="5">I will not let so much time pass again between my future letters. It is exciting to be this busy. However, writing these letters needs to be a priority. I am grateful for your interest in what I do, and, in turn, in the lives of Salvadorans. Like eye contact giving stability to those who are mourning, your awareness has value. My father, when visiting me in February, used the metaphor of holding hands. As long as we value the common humanity of each other and reach out to hold hands, we will not be lost. It is easy for me. I’m in a situation in which barefoot women put their arms around me, and children just want to be sung to. I don’t have to reach far to hold hands. But you are present too. Your interest is a way to reach out to them.</a></p><p> <a name="5">They know that I have the support of people at home, and it is received with joy. Please don’t underestimate the value of your compassion.I’ll write again soon.</a></p><p> <a name="5">Peace and Love,</a></p><p> <a name="5">Molly</a></p><p> <a name="5">"Tell me how much you know of the sufferings of your fellow men and I will tell you how much you have loved them." -Helmut Thielicke</a></p>mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13618768277068325069noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5930302945062032414.post-19094035958152758481999-01-21T16:52:00.000-08:002012-10-11T17:47:30.212-07:00<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="4"> <span style="color: #444444;">A Message From Molly - January 21, 1999</span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="4"><span style="color: #444444;">Estella is 15.The oldest of eight. She held the youngest on her hip while we visited. Her mother was inside, sick, most likely dying. Her father hovers close, worried about his wife and this year's small corn crop. She didn't go to school today. Her mother and younger siblings take priority. Her smile wasn't pathetic, or an attempt to reassure us that they were all right . . .She smiled because she honestly saw goodness in our visit. I don't know anything.</span></a><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">Celestina*</span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="4"><span style="color: #444444;"> is 17. Tall (approximately 5 foot 3 inches) with thick black hair that, when down, flows to her waist. She's beautiful but doesn't let it get in her way. Finishing the eighth grade this year is her first priority. She is not from San Francisco, but here we have school up to the eighth grade. Celestina lives with Nina Tila's family during the school year in exchange for housework and helping make cheese (the daily income for the family). Celestina's mother died in an accident when Celestina was three (not war related). Her older brother was recruited by the guerrillas and was killed by a land mine when he was twelve. Celestina's father took her to be raised by her extended family.</span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="4"><span style="color: #444444;">The family has had to move a lot; but her home is Las Canitas, a mountain village that had to be deserted during the war. Since the war, a few families have gone back to the land where they now grow coffee. Last weekend, Celestina needed to make a trip home and I went with her. We left San Francisco at 4:45am taking a bus partly up the mountain until there was no longer a road. There we waited for daylight before following a footpath up the mountains. It was an uphill climb and we hiked quickly. When we got to Las Canitas, which was at the top of the mountain, I realized that I'd been paying so much attention to the hike that I hadn't realized the beauty I was passing through. The village is high enough that there are pine trees, and though it's the dry season, they still get rain. All that can be seen for miles are mountains followed by more mountains. Here I'd hiked up the side of one of these mountains, focusing so on my balance and making each step that I didn't stop to take it all in.</span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="4"><span style="color: #444444;">I found the village enchanting. Translated "Las Canitas" means, "The Sugar Canes". Sugarcane grows plentifully in the high mountains. While there I tried homemade honey(not from bees but from heating sugarcane), a candy that is crystallized honey, and a sugar drink, as well as simply sucking on sugarcane. All of these things were new experiences for me which I delighted in. The product of Las Canitas is coffee which the families sell. I'm told that the coffee grown in this tiny village will eventually make its way to New York City. Every time I think of it, it throws me into some culture shock. When I left in August, coffee was right up there with bagels as being trendy. Imagine people in NYC, paying god-only-knows how much for NYC coffee, so they can get in their shiny cars and be held up in NYC traffic. And I'm laying in a hammock, sucking sugarcane, looking at mountain after mountain. There is not even a bit of New York City up in Las Canitas. It's so peaceful and I feel as if I've been given a chance to step back in time. It's like the peace that people of New York City must dream of.</span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="4"><span style="color: #444444;">It can seem that way from my perspective. I visit Las Canitas with the security that I can leave if I need or want. However, for those who live here, there is no doctor, school or church, no electricity, and the water is brought up daily from a nearby stream. There is no way out; the world has gone on without them. They don't have control over their lives; life happens to them.</span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="4"><span style="color: #444444;">On our way to her grandmother's house, Celestina and I were on the high side of a steep ravine. Below was a stream that went around a huge volcanic rock. Celestina pointed below, explaining that when she was two months old, the guerrillas took over their village and the family had to spend the night hiding by the rock in the stream. She said that her father tells her it was amazing she slept the whole night without making a sound. Had she made noise, of course, the guerrillas would have opened fire on the area and the family probably would have been killed. After describing this to me, Celestina simply said, "My family's story is very sad". She smiled; and once again, I don't know anything.</span></a><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">Celestina</span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="4"><span style="color: #444444;"> is remarkable. She has a sense of self worth that will give her options. She explains that school comes first. If a boy really cares about her, he'll wait for her to finish. And if Celestina can find the money, she intends to go to college (secondary school) in San Salvador. I admire her. She sees what few Salvadorans see: a vision of the future. Youth like her could change El Salvador for the better. But still there are many who simply cannot look beyond surviving today. Estella is as strong as Celestina, but she does not have the privilege of thinking of the future. For her, and most Salvadorans, it's an uphill climb. There is no way one could ask them to stop and take in the view of the future. Keeping their balance, climbing, plodding on, surviving takes all they have.</span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="4"><span style="color: #444444;">I admire Estella, probably even more than Celestina. The suffering that constitutes her life would crush me. At 15 years old she has to look misery in the face and believe in a power that is greater. She can find goodness, when I want to look away because it hurts to see her pain. Both she and Celestina are teaching me to accept an imperfect world. I'm struggling with the balance between accepting suffering as an instrument of growth, and then wanting to relieve the world of it. I cannot accept it as a good that children lose their mothers, and I know that school is something that every child should have. And so I ask God for serenity, courage and wisdom where I am. I continue to be astounded by what a true privilege it is to live with the people of El Salvador.</span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="4"><span style="color: #444444;">Pray for us; we are praying for you.</span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="4"><span style="color: #444444;">Love and Peace,</span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="4"><span style="color: #444444;">Molly </span></a><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">* Name changed for my friend's privacy.</span>mollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13618768277068325069noreply@blogger.com0