Rina.

I checked my phone this afternoon and found out that Rina had called me three times. Yes, that's right, Rina from Bangladesh, my cook and best friend, the one who tattooed a heart to my palm and told people on the street I was not a foreigner: Rina.

Whenever Rina calls me I have a rush of divergent feelings. On one hand I am overjoyed that we are still able to communicate and my mind is still boggled by the fact that a poor woman on the other side of the world can pick up a phone and instantaneously talk to me. On the other hand I feel panicked and sick, knowing that something is probably wrong; knowing that I can't help; knowing that everyday I am less able to even speak her language.

Rina is the symbol of both all the powerlessness and failure that I learned in Bangladesh, and of all that mattered. You see, I love Rina, and perhaps more to the point: I know Rina, and Rina knows me.

And what is it that is so important about that little fact? Why do I feel so burdened by my inability to take care of her? Why does knowing an individual make such a difference? Does it really matter if I stay connected to this one "insignificant" person? I mean, if we are thinking utilitarian, obviously not. In utilitarian rationale I could say it would be better for me to give up my relationship with Rina, and all the paralyzing anxiety and pain that goes with it, and instead join some humanitarian aid organization that is helping people in third world countries, and thereby effect many more lives for the better. I honestly think about this often when my anxiety rises; when the feeling of the inevitability of losing touch with Rina overwhelms me and it seems certain she will die miserable and alone.

Once, pretty early in my time in Bangladesh, I told Rina she was my sister. It was an accident. In Bangla there is more than one word for "sister" and one is the word you use for any friend or acquaintance, and the other is for your actual family member. I did not know this at the time so I accidentally told Rina she was really my sister. It was just a silly mistake that language learners make all the time, but it was a mistake that mattered, a mistake that changed how Rina and I viewed one another.

I'm not sure what ethical framework I am a proponent of, but I know that for some reason it feels extraordinarily more important for me to care for this one person, than to care for many others that I do not know. I saw countless sufferers in Bangladesh and they effected me, but it is Rina who sticks with me; Rina who refuses to let me forget what I learned; Rina who keeps me from falling back into my old complacency and letting the difficult parts of Bangladesh fade like a bad dream; Rina who doesn’t allow me to stay the same.

See, Rina is not a poster of a destitute woman in a third world country, she is my sister. I cannot forget my sister.

Though I am not against joining organizations that do good in a corporate kind of way, I think knowing individuals is somehow intangibly more significant. When you know someone, you are forced to find solutions where there seem to be none. We have all probably experienced the pang of guilt when realizing that when our own family members are hurt, our reaction is much different than when we hear about someone unconnected to us being hurt. We feel almost incapable of stopping ourselves from saving our loved ones, even at great cost to ourselves, whereas others who may be in much more dire situations that we do not know are easily dismissed.

Perhaps this is what Jesus meant about making people neighbors. Perhaps this is part of the reason why Jesus didn't come in, snap his fingers and heal everyone on Earth. Perhaps real healing, for the destitute and the overly-privileged alike, comes only with relationship; with two people looking into one another’s eyes and knowing each other.

So I think I am still a advocate of joining aid organizations (probably the organization was formed by a person who was touched by knowing an individual) and doing group projects to help the "less fortunate," but I think if we don't do this in the context of knowing some of the individuals whom we are wanting to help, we are missing something essential in how real change actually occurs.

The practical conclusion to all of this musing is that still I have no idea how I am going to hold on to and help Rina. I only know that in a few more hours, when I am preparing for bed and Rina is finishing breakfast, I am going to call her. Even as I type my heart is clenched in the anxiety of it… I still don’t know what to do, and yet, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Kingdom Come.

Last night while sharing Dairy Queen blizzards an old friend and I talked about our hopes and dreams. Frequently when I talk with this friend I feel a little disconnected because our understandings of God and religion are very different. This was the case last night until she shared with me her vision of saving the impoverished children of India. She said "I see them in my mind, their faces, and over and over I tell God 'I want them; I WANT them. I'll bring your kingdom to them.'"

As she spoke my heart began to beat faster and my chest became suddenly tight. The kingdom.

I almost told her to stop. "Stop. Stop hoping, stop believing, and look around. No kingdom is coming, people just waste their lives fighting for a world, a humanity, long lost, spinning out of control in depraved madness. Stop. You'll only break your heart."

Because mine is broken. Talk of the kingdom is excruciating when living in the reality of this world. But the non-sensesical fact of the matter (that sometimes makes me want to scream in frustration at we humans' ability to hold mutually exclusive beliefs) is that the constriction in my chest is the choke of real, history defying hope. I can feel it caught in my throat. If only I had really given up I could live in blissful apathy, but instead my belief in a world of peace, joy, and love in the face of the loathsome actuality, pulls me down till I am prostrate with mourning for what could be but is not.

With C.S. Lewis I am surprised to realize that instead of believing that there can be no good God because of the state of the world, I find myself more sure that only a being of divine love could instill a vision of goodness so deep that even the horrendous deaths of children does not kill it. What kind of being could do this? How very deep this truth must be. A kingdom. It has surprised me since I have been back that, though most of what I considered my "Christian faith" a couple of years ago is gone, my belief in the kingdom is stronger and more real than ever.

It seems that now that I have seen more darkness, and believe in its silencing, abominable reality, love is also more real. At times it seems to be a tangible presence in the room. In these moments, despite myself and my fury at the God who allows this darkness, I hear my soul crying "Here I am Lord, send me."

What is the point now?

Hello there dear friends and dedicated blog followers.

It occurs to me that perhaps in my re-entry daze some of you may not have been informed that did in fact make my way back to the US a couple of months ago. I apologize profusely. I am home.

So I had absolutely no plans to continue this blog once I returned. I mean, Life in Bangladesh, possibly worth taking time out of your day to learn about, Life in Abilene... well, I think you understand what I'm getting at.

Here is the thing though, it turns out that, amid other changes, my time in Bangladesh has turned me into more of a ponderer and processor of life than I was before. It is ridiculous really, almost every day I feel some sort of philosophical sermon burning within. Sometimes it seems I am literally bursting with the desire to share my musings. And the obvious answer is journaling, right? I tried. I mean, I do journal on occasion, but I have realized due to my extroverted nature I am able to process my thoughts and feelings exponentially better in relation to others than I can on my own. This is frequently a very frustrating reality. In the past couple of months I have gotten myself into trouble multiple times by choosing to unleash my soul searching on those completely unprepared for it.

This must end. As good of friends as I have that would perhaps attempt to humor my need to pontificate, I do not desire to put any of you through this, and therefore, I have come to this conclusion: I shall continue blogging. This way I can relieve my desire to rant, feeling like someone is listening (I always imagine you all as I write these), and you in turn can make responsible choices about whether or not you want to be exposed to it.

Please do be responsible.

Also, for those of you who I know will point this out: I am aware of the fact that the address for this blog is still "emilyinbangladesh." I know, I know, I am not in Bangladesh; I am in Abilene. The long and short of it is that I have no intention of correcting this misnomer (i.e. creating a new blog) so you all will have to just deal with the cognitive dissonance that this may produce.

Ok, blog entry #1 from the USA: complete.

-Emily in Abilene

A Trip to a Dokan

(Note: this picture is, sadly, not of the dokan and dokan walla I describe in the post below, but I thought it would help you get the idea none-the-less ;-)

I just returned from a trip to a dokan (shop) where I have been buying the majority of our household items since we moved to the city of Gaibandha. It is a few blocks from my house right at the junction of the main market road. The dokans here are sort of open stalls lined up along the roadside crammed with various goods from birthday cakes (that sit in their cases for longer than I want to imagine) to Dove shampoo (they have an astonishing number of soaps and shampoos here!). The same boy (the dokan walla) is always there. He is always sweet and nervous when I come which makes him speak in a mumbled, laughing Bangla that leaves me constantly nodding and smiling, clueless. Every time I go basically the same scene plays out, ending at various points depending on what mood I am in.

I arrive and the dokan walla tells me “bosho, bosho!” (sit down!). I refuse, he says it again, I give in and sit on the small bench that just barely fits on the open floor in front of the counter. I try to tell him what I need that day, but he ignores me and walks to the small freezer that sits in the dirt outside the shop.

“Ice cream kabe?” he says. Will you have ice cream?
“Na na na, kabe na” I answer. I will not.
“Aske onek groom, kao.” It’s so hot today, take it.
“Na na na, lagbe na.” No, I don’t need it.

And thus we continue arguing until the point where he puts the ice cream in my hand and I begin eating it. By this time (if not earlier) people have begun to notice my presence at the dokan and a group makes their way over. While I attempt to get the ice cream into my mouth (the freezers are usually not especially cold, so it begins to liquefy immediately upon contact with the hot hair) some people will stand outside the shop staring at me, while a few brave souls will squeeze in to begin the normal barrage of questions (usually these are a mix of Bangla and English, I’ll just stick with English).

The men: What is your country?
Me: America.
The Men: What is your service?
Me: My sister works for Jivita. I care for her son.
The Men: How long have you been in Bangladesh?
Me: Since last September.
The Men: How do you like Bangladesh?
Me: I like it very much.
The Men: How do you like the people of Bangladesh?
Me: They are very nice, I like them.
The Men (while exchanging smiles and patting each other on the back, they come to the question they have been working up to the whole time): Are you married?
Me: No.
The Men: Hmmm... so you are unmarried?
Me: Yes.

My hands are sticky and the dokan walla hands me a glass of water which I take outside and pour over my hands.

The men are unconvinced about my singleness. They ask in a few different ways just to make sure I am, in fact, available, then the joking begins. Would I marry a Bangladeshi, how do I feel about their skin color, could I take any of them to America, etc.

During all of this I try to work in asking for my various groceries. The dokan walla will look a little nervous when I ask for an item or two. He glances around the shop, taps his chin, and tells me he has it and then runs off. It took me a while to figure out what happened then, but I came to realize that the small dokans (all lined up together and having almost the same things) just buy from each other for their customers. So my walla goes out and buys my things from someone else, and then runs back 5-10 minutes later.

The crowd then asks about my education. I say I am getting a masters in psychology (because it is the most simple answer… have I mentioned this before in the blog?). They all nod and repeat the clearly strange word knowingly, “ah, psychology.”

When all of my things are assembled they are packed away in small net bags, or makeshift paper bags of used papers stapled at the edges, and (depending on the quantity) sometimes a big plastic bag that was obviously the packaging for something else.

I look out to the road and make eye contact with a passing rickshaw walla. I reach out my arm and with my hand down open and close it once (the sign here for “come”). He pulls over on the dirt and waits.

As the dokan walla totals my tab the men tell me to stay and have cha with them.
“Shamoy nai” I say, shaking my head. I don’t have time.
“Apnar mobil ache?” Do you have a cell phone?
“Ji.” Yes.
“Apnar nombar den.” Give me your number.
“Na” I say with a smile that lets them know I am their friend, but won’t be their girlfriend.
“Acha!” they say with a laugh. I see!

I pay. I get a few taka discount. I walk to my rickshaw with everyone calling “abar dekha hobe!” See you again!

And that my friends, is a typical shopping trip in Bangladesh.

Ponderings.

I’m not sure what this blog is about. I wrote it a month or two ago and discovered it again recently. It seems worthy of posting though, if only to share an important piece of what goes on in my mind while I wonder and wander in the East.

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Yesterday I stood on the roof holding Ezra. It was about dusk, and for some reason there was none of the usual clatter coming from the road. It was just an ordinary moment when quietly a change came over me. My skin registered the feeling of the light breeze; my eyes took in the leaves of the rain tree dangling over me; my ears noticed the bird calls; and then I became aware of Ezra, still and listening and feeling too, taking in the coming evening with me. Then the words of a psalm came to mind:

“I have calmed and quieted my soul. Like a weaned child is my soul with in me.”

And I thought, oh, this is beauty.

Though my blog never seems the appropriate place to talk about it, since I came to Bangladesh I have made a concerted effort to face pain and suffering. Part of the education that I have sought here was a deeper understanding and experience of these things. So I have paid attention to pain and suffering. I have thought about it, I have tried not to allow myself to ignore it, or soften it, pretending that the people I see living lives of constant deprivation are really not feeling so bad, pretending that the children I see begging on the street don’t mind. I am glad of all of this (if you can use the word “glad” for it), but this moment, as others earlier have, reminded me of one of the traps you can get caught in when choosing to see the dark side of life: I forgot the beauty. Truly when I looked around me it was like I hadn’t been in this place before. In seeing and believing in the scum of the earth, I became blind to the beauty.

Now reflecting on this experience, I wonder, how can I do both? Sometimes it seems to me that when I have eyes looking for the impoverished and oppressed (who are often invisible to those of us fortunate enough to be out of the group), I render myself unable pick up on the good. Like a hypochondriac who comes to see everything as a possible symptom of disease, I come to connect everything with darkness. But the opposite problem is so often true. I want to see things as beautiful. I don’t want to experience pain or believe in its existence, and so I reject or gloss over much of the dark reality around me.

I find it easier to skip both of these experiences actually; to walk through life seeing beauty and pain alike as a tourist. You see something pretty, snap a picture and go back home to tell about it. You see an abandoned man in a nursing home, a documentary about the children in Africa, and you hold a picture in your mind, shed a tear perhaps, store away the knowledge for your next intellectual conversation about humanitarian crisis in the world, and get back to life. This is what I do.

The real experience of either light or darkness I think is profound and often difficult to come to terms with. I think the truly wise people are those that learn how to accept both, those who find a way to walk through life with eyes wide open to beauty and pain, darkness and light, holding real joy in one hand with sorrow in the other.

But as for me, I am not yet so wise nor so strong though I seek to be; not yet so deep though I pretend to be. I throw up my hands and admit that I do not know how to deal with both. My mind and heart turn to putty in the face of it. The darkness is too dark, and the light too bright for me to look at them steadily. I just take quick glimpses.

I hope though. That’s what I do most of the time. I hope that I will learn. I hope that one day my words will mean something more than the grasping wonderings of a romantic mind. I hope that eventually my forced glimpses will turn into a holding gaze. A gaze that will give me the knowledge and wisdom to experience the moments of life in their totality, not pretending, imposing, or snapping pictures. I hope to live a life that enables me to give good gifts to others, gifts that can only come from one who is living in the truth.

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For a while I looked for a photo to go with this blog entry. After not being able to find one that seemed good for it, I re-read it and felt the irony of my quest. Of course there is no picture to go with a blog about not experiencing life in pictures… being human is such a paradox.

Oh Bangladesh.

So I am now almost exactly two months from my return journey. After the 9 months that have passed it seems like not long at all and my mind drifts more and more frequently toward that day. As such, I have begun making a list of things that I will be leaving behind to help me remember when they are far away and I wonder if I dreamed this year. Some of these things I will miss dearly, others I can hardly wait to free myself from, but most are a little of both. I often find myself thinking how something drives me crazy, but then the idea of it not being there makes me a little sad. You know what I mean. It has become standard for my sister and I, when experiencing many of the things on this list to give a little sigh and say "Oh Bangladesh."

1. The constant jingling of bicycle and rickshaw bells.
2. “Announcer” rickshaws blaring out music, advertisements, or community news at all hours of the day and night.
3. Random groups of people riding by in large trucks shouting.
4. Riding in rickshaws and haggling over taka.
5. My bathroom floor always being wet because they don’t have separate shower areas here.
6. My digestive system not being crazy (I’ll spare you the details, but man, this is definitely something I am excited to leave behind).
7. Conversations of crazy mixes of Bangla and English… and speaking in English slowly, loudly, and without contractions (i.e. “NO I AM NOT HUNGRY”).
8. Bangladeshi food… and having some one else make it… and on the flip side, American food, and getting to make it myself.
9. GIANT spiders.
10. GIANT mosquitoes (now that I think about it you could really just have a whole list of insects here…).
11. The panic of realizing I just accidentally stepped out my door without my orna on, and our guard turning the other way and pretending he hasn’t noticed anything.
12. All the green and the blue (i.e. coconut trees, mango trees, litchi trees, rice patties, rivers, streams and ponds, EVERYWHERE, oh, and rain).
13. Sweating. All the time.
14. Knowing that when I walk down the street everyone notices me… and the occasional excitement of having men burst out into love songs when they see me coming.
15. Going to 15 different tiny shops to find item I need.
16. Hearing gossip about who had a “love marriage.”

17. Scented facial tissue that I swear has been dipped in men's cologne.
18. Arguing with “servants” trying to get them to stop calling me “madam.”
19. Trying to explain why I am not married and why "no I am not interested in marrying you” (although especially since I live in Abilene and my age is breeching the legal Church of Christ limit this problem may follow me home ;-).
20. Ezra. I can’t say more about that or I’ll turn into a worthless puddle of sentimentality.

Whoops, it’s too late. The list will have to stop here for now.

Happy New Year! Or “Ceasper, I’m just acting!”

Remember how once upon a time I said I would post a blog with a video of my next drama? I have finally remembered that myself. So here it is my friends. I couldn’t put up the whole thing because after I explained asides* to Ceasper he took full advantage of the new understanding and a skit that should have been 4 minutes turned into 15…. Oh, and it was lengthened by the fact that Ceasper refused to believe that any drama (even an improv about a foreigner) was complete without a song and a poem.

So, the basic plot: I am an American tourist named Britney (yes, I chose the name on purpose because everyone here knows Britney Spears) who has been in Bangladesh only a week and is having trouble figuring out how to catch a rickshaw. My friend Ceasper (in the skit named “Dumketu” which evidentially means “comet”) is a Bangladeshi man who happens upon me and decides to attempt to seduce the witless bideshi. The skit progresses as the two try to understand each other using Britney's Bangla phrase book. In the course of things Dumketu sings for Britney (something that actually does happen to me here) and he has Britney mimic a poem he recites.

The section I am putting up here is the big finale. Dumketu has just told Britney that the celebration she sees is the Bangladeshi New Year (which is actually what we are performing at, is this brilliant stuff or what?). Britney argues at first, not knowing that there can be any new year other than her own. Once Britney is brought up to speed, Dumketu asks "tomar deshi ki hoy?" (what do you do in your country?). I, of course, do not understand ("Ami buji na") and attempt to look up the words in my phrase book. He then begins to act out** what he thinks we do (leaving out the hilarious, but inappriote immitation of being drunk he did in rehearsal), building up to our New Year kisses "choomoo." At the critical moment, Britney sees a rickshaw and jumps up to catch it.

So I feel like I could have done an entire blog series just on our rehearsal process, which I think was more interesting than the performance itself. In the midst of cutlural and language confusion trying to direct and be a part of a quasi improved skit was more of a challange than I expected. The biggest obstacle was overcoming Ceasper's missunderstanding of realistic acting. Even though he knew that my character, Britney, was the one who didn't understand his Bangla (not me), over and over again we would be in the midst of a run and Britney would say "ami buji na" and Ceasper would kind of furtively look around to see if anyone could hear, then lean over and translate his Bangla into English. Though I was patient with this at first eventually it propelled me into yelling "Ceapser, I'm JUST ACTING!" Following the outburst was a speech about the importance of staying in character no matter what (to which I wanted to add "or I'll strangle you" but held myself back).

So that is the end of my short lived acting career in Bangladesh. Though the experience is one I wouldn't trade, two performances were enough to satisfy me for the rest of my life. Since then I have begun teaching an English class at my NGO, an activity I find demanding as many of my theatre skills as drama itself. Like for instance, frequently I must "act" like I understand English grammar... :-)

*Asides: If you happen not to be a theatre buff yourself, an aside is dramatic convention often used in Shakespeare where a character speaks directly to the audience unnoticed by other characters.

** Cultural Note: If I haven't made this clear in earlier blogs, in Bangladesh (outside of the capital) the vast majority of men and women make no physical contact in public, and in private only between close relatives or spouses. One of the funniest things here has been guys who get excited about shaking my hand. At the end of this performance there was a long line formed to do just that.