An "About Me" Essay for Georgetown

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...

There is a self-consciousness that comes with being asked to explain my last eleven years since graduating from college. One likes to think it’s been a linear journey, with logical turns of events. But life’s more fun than that. I graduated from college feeling as if the world was open to me, but I didn’t know where to start. Maybe I’ve spent the years since just trying to pare it down.

Soon after graduating from Xavier I moved to El Salvador as a volunteer with the Catholic Church. 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. We shopped at the open market. We sang with children. We celebrated Christmas. We waited for the bus. We sat with the dying. We ate lots of beans. We waited for the bus. We waded streams. They taught me to make tortillas. I taught them to make Thanksgiving dinner. We waited for the bus. It was a time for personal formation and an experience of the effects of war and violence. 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.

Having grown in my worldview, I returned to the United States in early spring of 2000, intending to enroll in graduate school. 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. 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. I loved it. I learned about drilling wells, septic systems, 4H, fundamentalism, truancy, unions and patriotism. 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). On a whim I applied for the Rotary Foundation Ambassadorial Scholarship. 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.

I was overwhelmed and challenged by India’s extremes. Delhi is full of dusty crevasses holding images of truth at every angle. I studied International Relations with an emphasis on Development at Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU). JNU prides itself on its anti-Americanism. This kept me from being admitted as a regular student to the program in the first place. I was a “casual student” meaning my classes were pass or fail, and I have never received transcripts from the school. 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. Rotary took me to Kolkata and Peshawar and small villages in between.

As a student of religion I simply assumed a year in India would strengthen my appreciation of Hinduism. 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. 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. 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.

After six years of learning about the world I felt a heavy responsibility to begin sharing. I had been approached to consider teaching religion or youth/campus ministry a few times along the way. So I took the leap into mainstream (or at least the Midwest) USA. I moved back to Ohio and took a job as a campus minister at a high school run by the Sisters of Notre Dame.

For five years now I’ve been working with upper-middle class young people. What a position to be in: to expose children of privilege to a new understanding of what “opportunity” really is. And who can’t love the Millennials – these kids who don’t shut down in the face of ambiguity? 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. 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. They are aching for more; and we, their educators, can’t keep up.

In the summer of 2005, I took advantage of the Teachers’ Institute at Dar al Islam in Abiquiu, New Mexico. It was 10 days of learning about Islam and the ways non-Muslims can teach about it. Georgetown was referenced a number of times but I wasn’t ready to leave a job I so appreciate. However, the recent Israeli offensive in Gaza initiates conversations in classroom, church and social settings. Maybe it’s just my social circle, but we don’t know enough. And what we do know, unfortunately, seems to give rise to antisemitism or islamophobia (or both). 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. So, I take this turn in history as a moment to consider being a student again. I hope it will make me a better educator.

Reflections from Retreat - Summer 2008

In 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.

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.

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.

… 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.”

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?

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.

The Uganda Letters - July 2006

You can find my writing from the first Uganda Trip in 2006 at http://www.booksofhope.org/Uganda.php

Dear Friends

Hello all!
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!

I returned last night. If you're interested, below is a message that didn't get out before this.

Thank you for your interest.

love, molly

28 July, 2006

Dear Friends

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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…

Peace and love,
molly

*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:

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)

**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.

None is like this

24 July, 2006

Dear Friends,

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.

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.

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.

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.

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…

I have been blessed to have visited many places. None is like this.

Love, molly

Dear Patient Friends

July 14, 2006

Dear Patient Friends,

According to the CIA fact book, the median age of a
person in Uganda is 15.

UNICEF is the division of the United Nations that
deals with children and children’s needs. You can
spot the word UNICEF at all angles in Kitgum. Usually
it’s black writing against a white background.
Sometimes it’s blue on white. The word UNICEF is
emblazed on jeeps that take the unkempt roads with
ease. The word is clear in the daylight on the huge
empty tents waiting to be filled by the night
commuting children at sundown. UNICEF is on the
packets of the iodine tablets to clear the water
against the cholera outbreak. It’s on scraps of tarp
that cover the burnt remains of the roofs of huts in
the camps built too close to each other to prevent
fire.

The Lords Resistance Army (LRA) targets children. But
then, children are most of Uganda. The LRA is a
rag-tag rebel group known internationally for
kidnapping children between the ages of 8 and 12. They
murder and force the children to watch or even
participate in the murder. Once they beat humanity
from their victims they recruit the young people to join
their ranks. They take girls. This is what is most
horrific in the eyes of the local people. The people shake
their heads hoping not to imagine the fate of the
girls. Sometimes, after months or years, the girls
escape - a baby or two on their backs.

Kitgum Town, with its one bank, a hospital (with one
microscope) and bicycle taxis, is the biggest city
many here have ever seen. Most people who are now
living in Kitgum are not from Kitgum. They will tell
anyone who asks that they are from a now abandoned
village, not too far, mostly within the 65 kilometers
between Kitgum and the Sudanese border. But with the
last 10 years of terror from the LRA, no small village
has been safe. The government set up camps. People left
their home villages, they left their community, their
rural school, their crops and their dead buried near
their family hut which they also abandoned. The LRA
raided the abandoned villages. They stole the crops and
burned all that could be burnt. In most cases, there
is no village left.

The camps are sprawling huts, small, built too close
together and full of children. Near each camp is an
army base protecting its residence from the next LRA
attack. Yet, few feel their children are safe. They
send them into town at night. A child packs a mat, a
blanket and heads to the UNICEF tents in well lit
areas of Kitgum. They find their way, younger
siblings in toe, to the hospital ground, school yards
and the football (soccer) fields. They lay on the
ground, the dust powdering their skin. They pull the
blanket – often shared – close to their chin or
over their heads and sleep as children sleep, angelic
and hopeful.

It cannot be said that anyone appears unhappy in
Kitgum. Perhaps because there has been peace for
three months. Actually, the raids stopped about six
months ago, but it took three months for the awful
frozen shock of terror to melt before people could
realize nothing has happened of late. There has been
no truce, no amnesty (to spite international media,
northern Ugandans are sure Kony will never fall for an
amnesty agreement – Museveni’s word is worthless).
The raids simply stopped. But so has the food.

The LRA, who hides in southern Sudan, grows in number
(by kidnapping children and forcing them to become rebel
soldiers) and in size (most in the LRA are not full
grown adults) from the village raids. But now, with
villagers in the camps, there are no crops for the LRA
to raid. The hope is to starve off the rebels. But
in the process the villagers in the camp go without
food too. The World Food Program provides basics,
corn and oil and rice. A staple of this region is
millet, but the WFP doesn’t supply millet.

Right now, as I sit with my journal writing this
letter home, a young man greets me. He has a beaming
smile and wears brown clothes. His name is Simon and
his right arm is missing just above the elbow. He
looks about 16 and had heard I am from the North
America - a rarity in these parts. He wants to know
if I know Dr. John Wood, also from North America. He
knows little more of John Wood than his continent of
origin. I explained how very big North America is.
Simon assured me that he is fairly certain John Wood
is not from Mexico.

Simon also told me his father and older brother were
lost in an LRA raid. First their village was
attacked, then Simon was taken by the rebels. The
Ugandan military followed, attacking the rebels and
their hostages at the same time. In that second attack Simon
lost his arm and the LRA left him for dead. Simon was
taken to Fr. Tarcisio (who, incidentally, found his arm
when he went to bury the dead) who brought him to
John Wood, the head of St. Joseph Hospital in Kitgum.
From Simon’s beaming impression of North America, John
Wood must have made a wonderful impact on Simon’s
life.

There is more to write but little time. I’ve now
transcribed what was in my journal to a computer which
is running on batteries because the electricity has
failed this morning. It’s dark and the battery is
draining fast.

So thank you for reading again. I am well.

love, molly

"Have some, it's especial for this region..."

"Have some, it's especial for this region..."

The region is Kitgum, Uganda. 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.

8 July, 2006

Dear Friends,

Why am I in northern Uganda? 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).

I arrived in Kampala, the capital of Uganda, on the Fourth of July. Kampala 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 Kampala 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 Uganda, the past 20 years have been a time of growing stability - for most of Uganda, but not for all of it. The north, the area bordering Sudan and Congo (Zaire), the problems of betrayed loyalties, tribal warfare and government neglect continue.

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 Kitgum. The view of vast Kampala below gave way to the green of African vegetation only broken by the site of the Nile River separating the north from the south.

As we neared the landing in Kitgum the sand and clay soil looked soft and comforting compared to urban Kampala. 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.

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.

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.

love and peace,

molly

p.s. My sister, Christina, arrived in her community in Honduras 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 Honduras. I'm sure she'd appreciate your prayers for her and her work. Thanks!

MDL

Links:

#1 - On Fr. Tercicio - http://www.worldmission.ph/5June06/Tarcisio%20pazzaglia.htm

#2 and #3 - On the LRA - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lord's_Resistance_Army and http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/5157220.stm

#4 - On HIV/AIDS in Uganda - http://hotzone.yahoo.com/b/hotzone/blogs1234

#5 - On L’Arche - http://www.larcheerie.org

India - 2003-2004

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.

A Letter from India - May 5, 2004

Dear Friends and Family,

Well, it’s my brother, Devin, who’s here now. 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. Yep, this is my final week. It’s unbelievable to me that I’ll be back in the US so soon. India is not a place one just stops being in. Nor is it a place anyone can really see in a lifetime, certainly not in 10 months.

In my last letter I promised to share a bit about the trip to West Bengal that my sister, Christina, and I went on.

India’s spring festival of love, excitement, childhood and cheer is called Holi. It’s celebrated by evening fires and daytime color. It happened that Christina and my trip coincided with Holi.

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’t want to send such a message. It fell from my shoulder as I attempted to teach 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’s dainty, enchanting in her smile, four years old and dying. She lives at the Sisters of Charity’s Orphanage in Durgapur about 160 kilometers north of Kolkata¹.

Nayna’s room is poorly lit, filled with child-sized hospital beds whose railings raise and lower to ease a caregiver’s task. Four beds are pushed together in an effort to conserve space. The other three children appeared to be boys, but that’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’s attention.

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.

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’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.

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.

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.

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’s building. Our serious conversation of the continuing needs of the Center – including a larger building – was repeatedly interrupted by happy shrieks from the boys. I wanted a picture, I thought of just their ordinary play. But the boys’ parents wouldn’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.

Holi is a festival to pretend we don’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’ faces. No person, car, dog or even cow gets away without color.

Of the projects we’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’s attention.

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’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.

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.

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. The youngest of the community, Bidhan², 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.

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’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. Bidhan, clinging to the rail of the porch, smiled in the sunlight, unable to throw water himself 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’s bliss.

I fly back to the US on 12 May. Devin will say a couple more weeks and visit Pakistan. 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. The India/Pakistan relations have been improving daily since the ceasefire on Eid, last November.

I look forward to seeing so many of you again. Thank you so very much for all the support you’ve shown in the past 10 months (and before too!). I thank God every time I think of having come here. I wouldn’t have taken the risk of it weren’t for family and friends who supported, believed in and prayed for me. Thank you.

There is no fitting way to stop living in India, nor is there a fitting way to stop writing about it. 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. To have had moments of my life lived here has been an honor and, I hope, an act of peace.

peace and love,

molly

* 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.

¹ Calcutta’s name was changed to Kolkata in 2000

² Name changed for reasons of …Molly’s forgetfulness about names

A Letter from India - March 24, 2004

24 March 2004

Dear Family and Friends,

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

love and peace,

Molly

follow up - 10:20pm - alone in my apartment: India must have won. You should hear the fireworks!

Thoughts on Mother Teresa - March 15, 2004

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’t meet basic health care standards.

But I’ve learned it’s hard to understand the ramifications of Mother Teresa’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’t believe in encouraging begging, can you begin to understand the extent of Mother Teresa’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.

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’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.

Mother Teresa’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’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’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.

An update on Yamuna Pushta Slum - March 4, 2004

Yamuna Pushta Slum Update – 3/4/04

Yamuna Pushta follows the Yamuna River. It was January 10 that I first visited the slum. I wrote these impressions about it soon after. I’ve been back a couple of times since.

***

The narrow alleys between the simple brick homes of Yamuna Pushta are comfortably walked single file. If we walk two next to each other, we’re constantly quickly stepping back to allow those walking the opposite direction to pass. 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. 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.

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. They were straining their eyes. Half were picking lice from the other half’s hair. Those having the lice removed from their hair were bent over small beads, stringing them on a wire bangle. Anisa had already asked about these bracelets. They’re to be sold to a US company. 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. And so, two images of modern life touch.

***

On January 10, there was an article in the lower left hand corner of the newspaper, The Hindu, telling of a new park to be built in an effort to make Delhi “a world class city”. 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. Mostly I’d interpreted “world class city” to mean a nice airport and well organized traffic. Though I like Delhi’s airport (for its efficiency, not its beauty), the traffic…well, there are a lot of people in Delhi.

I didn’t look closely at the article in the newspaper but a few days later Anisa brought it by. It went into describing the plans for the park along the Yamuna River, behind Raj Ghat. It said the first step to building the park was removing the squatters living there now.

***

Rohinton Mistry’s novel A Fine Balance set in 1975 India, describes how slum residents moved in. 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.

“But then, whose land is this?”

“No one’s. The city owns it. These fellows bribe the municipality, police water inspector, electricity officer. And they rent to people like you. No harm in it. Empty land sitting useless – if homeless people can live there, what’s wrong?”

The problem, of course, is when the land is wanted again. In Yamuna Pushta today, it’s not just renters falling victim to decades of corruption. 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. 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. The land will be given for the reasonable price of 7000 rupees ($150).

A notice will come to a family telling them their home will be the next to go. The trucks come as foretold. Sometimes they come, park for a few hours then leave. Other days the excavators do their work. The strong arm crushes the brick, metal and bamboo homes. The families pile what they can on cycle-rickshaws, sometimes taking the bamboo walls themselves. Very few head to the land offered them. None will leave the city. Most will set up shanty homes elsewhere.

***

I don’t pretend to know the solution to urban housing problems. It’s true; one does not solve housing problems by perpetuating a slum. But one doesn’t do it by eliminating what housing there is either.

A Letter from India - Feb. 17, 2004

Feb. 17, 2004

Dear Family and Friends,

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. 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.

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.

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!"

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

Hope you had a wonderful day!

love and blessings,

Molly

P.S. My parents are coming on Thursday!

A Letter from India - January 11, 2004

1/11/04

Dear Family and Friends,

What a blessing Christmas in Ohio was! 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. My trip to West Virginia and South Carolina was brief but also a breath of air I needed. Thank you so much for all you've been and are for me!

I'm back in Delhi now. I plan to take a trip to Mumbai (Bombay) next week. It should be interesting. I wanted to share what yesterday brought. It might give a better picture of India. I fear it might not too. It might not be respectful of India and those who live here. I trust you to recognize the struggle and I'd welcome your thoughts and comments.

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. She's learning from a non-profit organization that works with women, especially violence towards women, in one particular slum. The slum is located behind Rajghat (Mahatma Gandhi Memorial), running the banks of the Yamuna River. It's the home of cycle rickshaw drivers and trash pickers. The slum is huge, alive and growing. While we stand along the main roadway, a baby crawls to us excited by the prospect of new faces. 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.

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. Women bend kneading buffalo dung into paddies to be dried and used as fuel for cook fires. 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.

We then wandered our way closer to the water's edge along the Yamuna. Shanties are built out of thin strips of bamboo woven into flat sheets and propped against firm bamboo poles. The shanties are built close, the thin wall separating one home from the next. A few weeks ago there had been a fire which engulfed many of the small homes where families lived. Government issued thick canvas tents rest haphazardly on the well-worn slabs where bamboo walls once stood. Daily, new thin walls are rebuilt providing family homes the size of my hostel room. Until now I'd been assessing my hostel room - a little bigger than a king size bed - as extremely small.

There sits a solid square house made of cement next to the entrance to the trash heap. 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. Anisa tells me that the family who lives in the cement house must have a steady income. She also tells that three months ago they lost a child: a baby, only a year old. He got a fever and died before anyone realized he was so sick. His mother excitedly invited us inside for tea. Concerned that it would put too much of a financial strain on the family, Anisa tried to turn the invitation down. But the mother would not let us decline. 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. We drank tea and talked. She began to talk about her dead baby, about his sleeping by her in the night. 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. The mother said that her life was good, no concerns, nothing wrong with it, only now she will always remember that baby. She said it with dry eyes, as if she's aware that her mourning is a luxury her family cannot afford.

I want to be sensitive to India's image. Middle class Indians tell me that they do not want their country to be known only for its poverty.

I had dinner with a more fortunate family yesterday evening. I met the family at the children's maternal grandparents' home not far from JNU. Two of the children in the family were there: a son who is 6 and a daughter who is 11. The family had just returned from Egypt on a business trip turned family vacation - and they were still glowing with the experience. The children were both excited and dramatic, clearly a family who is fascinated by the world and its possibilities. Their fresh cut hair bobbed with enthusiasm as they described school projects and Egyptian Pyramids. 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. He and his sister tried to teach me a card game, the name of which they could not remember. They ended up arguing and realized that each was teaching a different game.

Another child came from the kitchen to set the table for us. 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. She was asked get a glass of 7-Up. The child's head nodded without looking at the other, her eyes locked on the same spot of nothing. She returned with the drink for the girl with short hair.

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.

I asked if the girl, with the braid, in the sweater, had cooked the dinner. I was assured she was too young for such a task and that the children's grandmother had done the cooking. Then I learned that the girl had been sent from Bihar as hired help. She was only about nine when she arrived, by herself. Bihar is at least 16 hours from Delhi by train. That was a year ago. She is soon to go back to visit Bihar for the first time since leaving. I made a remark about a child so young being sent on her own. Clearly I'd stepped in emotionally charged water without realizing it. I was at first assured that her life in Delhi as a servant was better than her life in Bihar. 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. I'm sure this is true. 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. The money that she earns goes back to her family. Most likely her younger brothers and sisters will be able to go to school on that money.

The conversation was out of my control. I was simply nodding in comprehension when the children's father brought up how Westerners don't understand the issue of child labor. Westerners think children who are working would otherwise be in school. That would not be the case; children who work come from families who would not be able to send them to school. Even grueling manual labor would be better than starvation for those children. He was sweating by the time he finished what he had to say. Clearly he felt passionately about this.

The girl, with the braid, in the sweater, spoke no English. If she was nine a when she started working a year ago, I'm sure she reads no Hindi either. The dishes were cleared from the table. It was nearly 10pm. She was closing the drapes in front of the sliding doors. I was tired.

I hadn't intended to bring up child labor. I was thinking of the mother in the slum whose child died. 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. I was thinking of a pregnancy lost. I was thinking of the mother of the girl, with the braid, in the sweater.

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. She was concerned about the image of India I was getting. She told me that people in the West think that India is all poverty. This bothered her. It's not so bad she said. 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.

I do fear I'm missing India completely.

love, molly

Thanksgiving 2003

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." The Hindu, November 27, 2003

(This piece was the headline article for the Ashtabula Star Beacon on Thanksgiving 2003)

Thanksgiving, Eid and Terrorism

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.

Terrorism fills our news each day. Fear of attacks are present in our lives. Again, this Thanksgiving we hold our loved ones close in gratitude.

All over the world people are fearful of violence and the insecurity it brings. This week marks not only the American Thanksgiving, but a festival of humble gratitude for Muslims as well.

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. Annually, we continue to celebrate Thanksgiving for the bounty we have had over all these years.

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.

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. 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.

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.

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. We were unaware of their quiet presence as we learned of the art of carpet weaving and examined the frame. Some Muslim women, as in this home, are only to be seen by men who are related. 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. Lead to a dark wood door, I pushed it open. Inside the unlit room were about eight women with covered heads and alert eyes. Pulling my own scarf closer over my head and shoulders I smiled in gratitude for the friendship I was being offered. I joined the women seated on the carpet. Eyes caught mine and held the moment with a smile. We nodded to one another. The younger women shifted a bit with curiosity, their glass bangles lightly clinking in the darkness. I did the same, shifting while trying to keep the scarf from falling off my head. We attempted conversation with their few English words: “Sister”, “mother”, “aunt”, and “friend”. They pointed to one another until I understood their relationships. 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.

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.