Monday 27 June 2011

Sunday Night


It is ten p.m. on a Sunday night and we are caught in a traffic jam. But for the skill or lunacy of the drivers jockeying their autos through impossibly tight spaces, the street would be gridlock. There are three of us crammed into the back of a rickshaw. We are nearly home, chatting through a hot cloud of diesel and smog. A few moments before, we had been eating dinner at a friend’s favorite spot. Fifteen minutes from our apartment, the rooftop restaurant is worlds away from where we live: fine dining for a few dollars. It is only one more of the seemingly endless number of faces this city wears.

We stop at a red light, hemmed in by a sea of other ricks, coughing and sputtering as we wait. At first, I see them from the corner of my eye. The sight of white people had sent them scampering from their stations at the side of the road to flank our captive vehicle.

A small boy is on my left. He uses one arm to steady a pair of crutches at his side. The other moves in a practiced motion, bringing a phantom morsel of food to his lips over and over again. To my right, a tiny girl clamors for my friend’s attention. Her matted hair frames haunting dark eyes. Even streaked in dirt, she looked like a doll, or a character in Les Misérables—beautiful, tragic. Only there is no stage and no score. Just real life. Neither of them could be more than six.

I feel a hand on my leg. The boy is still motioning, more insistent now. My friend tries a few phrases in Hindi, saying hello and asking them their names, but their faces are unwavering masks. Misery. His hand is on my arm. I don’t know what to do, where to look, what to say. I have nothing for them and even if I did, I know that it would be immediately scuttled back to their handler who is lurking in the shadows and sending them out to canvas the streets.

The light seems to last forever.

Finally, mercifully, it changes. The rickshaw surges forward, nearly clipping the boy’s crutches as the children disappear behind us. It is only when I exhale that I realize I have been holding my breath. Two blocks later, we arrive back at our flat and climb the stairs in silence. I feel a devastating mix of relief to have escaped that moment and shame at how easily I can. I have seen this kind of poverty before. There have been other children in other countries clamoring for money and tugging at my hand, but somehow this sits differently. Here, there are no smiles or banter or practiced English phrases. Maybe it is the enormity or the normalcy of the need, but it makes me furious.

I can’t sleep.

Wide eyed in the dark, I lash out in my mind at any organization, nation or institution that should be doing something, anything about the crushing despair that defines this city. Most of all, I am terrified by the glaring reality of my own helplessness and the massive injustice I inhabit.


Then, gently I am reminded. I am reminded that Jesus knows their names, even though I do not. I am reminded that He has carved them into the palms of his hands and walks with them long after they fade from my memory. I am reminded that tonight I only peered into the story He is weaving over their lives. And I am reminded that his heart beats as loudly for me as it does for them.

An IJM colleague put it more eloquently that I, a phrase that has been etched in my mind and will likely find its way onto this page many times in the weeks to come: “We do not worship justice itself, but the God of justice.”

For now, that is enough.


- Lauren

Wednesday 22 June 2011

First Impressions


Here we are, finally in South Asia. We travelled for about 24 hours stopping off in London and eventually arrived on Sunday afternoon. We were picked up by two fellow IJM interns and took a taxi-cab into the unknown. The very next day we started at the office.

I’ll start with the office. It is truly incredible to be in an IJM field office. Advocates are in and out of Court, investigators pop in and out of the office. Each day prayer requests, and praise reports, and also reports of setbacks and frustrations come in about the young girls and ‘forced majors’ (over the age of 18 currently, but still forced into prostitution, often as minors). I found reading one of Gary Haugen’s (Founder of IJM) books really brought home how horrific the experience of these girls is. But to be so close, to read actual reports – it is almost numbing. I really can’t even imagine. Tricked or kidnapped away from isolated towns, locked in cubicles, servicing 15-20 daily, beaten and threatened, tortured for not performing their ‘duties’ perfectly. I can hardly fathom a more hideous manifestation of evil.

As for the office itself, well, it’s actually a converted apartment building. It is nothing to write home about, although I suppose I am writing home about it. I should provide pictures, but I’m still a little reluctant to brandish my new camera outside. Apparently, everyone has been praying for new office space for five years. There are plenty of shining sky-scrapers marked with corporate logos rising out of the rubble. But we aren’t located there, and probably never will be. Our city is the economic capital of South Asia, and every bank in the world has an office here.  But rent is out of control. Lauren and I pay close to $600 a month for a very humble one bedroom, partially air conditioned apartment. Nobody knows when this ‘promise land’ of a new office will arrive.

How to describe South Asia? It’s hard. The city is completely insane. It’s the population of Australia crammed into one city. Something’s gotta give. It’s out of control in every way. Not enough power (it’s not atypical to just lose power for a couple hours because the power company intentionally rations you to provide power somewhere else), not enough drainage, not enough real estate to accommodate the 20 million people in the metropolitan area. It’s not all bad, though. There’s an incredible energy to the city, that I’m sure I will appreciate more as time goes by. And there are also, apparently, extremely nice areas that we will I’m sure visit at some point.

To get to work, we ride in rickshaws on busted up streets that are jammed with taxis, other rickshaws, people, cows, and many other things. I am convinced we are going to be in a head-on-collision about every 20 seconds. But apparently, because there is so much traffic, everyone is forced to go slow, and there are actually surprisingly few serious accidents. The constant blaring of horns stops only from about 1:30 AM to 5 AM (and I know this because the first jet-lagged night I had little to do but observe the frequency of horn blasts as I lay wide awake in bed).

The air is actually not as bad as I expected. The heat is certainly not as bad, as the Monsoon season is actually relatively cool. But the craziness is about all I could have anticipated, as is the dirtiness.  Some places there are no strange smells. And then you’ll approach a giant heap of garbage --  a public dump right in the middle of a residential neighbourhood, and your sense of smell just gets inundated with nasty. Nasty that just doesn’t exist back home. The first night I was a little reluctant to even venture out to buy water (I did, eventually). Everything was just SO foreign. I’ve experienced Africa, Nicaragua, Thailand, Cambodia... but never this.
-Mark

Friday 3 June 2011

Intro

This will be our blog for our time in South Asia. Preparations have gone well, Visas are in, and support has been truly overwhelming. Thank you all very much! We leave for Washington DC tomorrow to do a week of training. Off to Mumbai soon after.

-Mark