Public? Justice

The other night, I left a bible study with a male friend who looks similar to Rambo. I was carrying a backpack on my back, a flute case on my shoulder, and a bunch of roses in my arms (one of my colleagues had asked me to get them for his wife). Needless to say, my arms were full. After walking about one kilometer to the main road, my friend and I settled on a fair price to take an auto rickshaw about four kilometers to the area near my house. My Rambo friend is one of the many thoughtful people in this city who would refuse to let me go home alone after a late evening, so he came along as an escort of sorts.

About three kilometers into the trip, our auto was driving along a main road in the middle of a high construction zone (there is a huge metro-expansion project in full swing). Suddenly, I was distracted from Rambo’s conversation by the jerking response of our auto as it was nudged on the right side by a motorcycle with two passengers. As my arms flew up, one of the motorcyclists arms reached in and grabbed my backpack from my lap before speeding up to weave through the heavy traffic ahead.

As I watched my bag drive away, I knew I would probably never see it again. I reluctantly told Rambo that the bikers had taken the backpack, and he switched into action, speaking rapidly in another language to the driver of our auto rickshaw while I stared at the empty space on my lap thinking “At least I still have the flute and the roses.” After getting out of the auto, Rambo and I speed-walked back to my apartment, talking through the list of things that had been in the bag and outlining a game plan for our next steps.

A fact of life in South Asia is that sometimes, things that you want to work just do not work, like Wi-Fi.  Normally, I can laugh and shrug at the fact that my laptop seems to be the only one in our house that cannot pick up a signal, because I live with giving roommates who will always lend a computer in emergency situations. In a sick twist of irony and Murphy’s Law, Rambo and I arrived at my apartment on an evening when the Wi-Fi was completely and utterly dead. With no functioning phones of our own and no internet service, my roommate did a rain dance in front of our router while Rambo magically reconfigured his phone to make international calls.

When I reached my dad on his cell phone, it went directly to his car phone, and I had to fight my way through the delighted and surprised din of British and American voices in his car before asking him to cancel my bank accounts. A quick “I love you” later, Rambo was back on his phone interfacing with the police, who could not seem to find my apartment.

 “The Locust Effect” by Gary Haugen posits that a functioning public justice system is the lynchpin to development. In his analysis of the South Asian public justice system, Haugen systematically outlines all of the ways in which the colonial remnants of British rule in South Asia still serve to protect the powerful from the poor, instead of serving the needs of the common man (let alone the poor). The resources that most developed countries have for basic on-the-ground police work (forms, computers, good translation services, adequate facilities, a fair wage for police, etc) are just not allocated to the grass root levels of the South Asian police system. As I watched the public justice system in action on this particular evening, Haugen’s words refused to leave my mind.

After three phone calls for directions, policemen from three different jurisdictions of my area began to trickle through my door. With Rambo’s helpful language skills, it still took over an hour for the policemen to establish the jurisdiction in which I should file the First Information Report to the police. In order to avoid more trips outside at night, Rambo convinced the policemen from the established jurisdiction to come out to our apartment and take my statement, which involved me writing the details of the event on a clipboard of unlined computer paper.

After taking my statement, I watched as the policeman apologetically told Rambo (in another language) that they see many of these cases every day. There is, in fact, a back log of similar bag-snatching cases in this particular police station.  The chances of seeing my bag again are slim. Regardless, Rambo assured me that he would follow up with the police to ensure that my case would be typed up, filed, and properly registered (which it was, after I was misidentified as a citizen of another country).

Despite all the ways in which the initial intake of my formal complaint could be considered frustrating and inadequate to a person from a developed country, there were certain things about that evening that resulted in me getting better treatment than most in my city. First, I am a white, “Western” foreigner. That fact alone means that I probably get treated with a higher level of attention and respect by police than most of my native friends. When many police look at me, they don’t see a 24-year old idealistic intern; many of them see someone empowered who expects the public justice system to work for them, someone who will follow up with a case until it is fairly processed. Additionally, I had an experienced and forceful advocate in my friend Rambo. He knew the police system well and was able to orchestrate the case-filing through the fog of everyone else’s jurisdiction confusion. Furthermore, Rambo and I speak fluent English and understand what information needs to be recorded in a police report in order for a strong case to be filed. There are so many ways in which my situation put me in a position to receive more deferential treatment than many other people who find themselves in similar situations in the same city, and yet the process still struck me as ineffective and potentially useless.  

The meaning of IJM’s work in the context of South Asia seems all the more audacious to me after my brush with “the system”. In the face of a system that has the potential to break down at so many points, my colleagues work to fight bonded labour with a relentless and determined hope in the fact that positive change can happen. And that change continues to happen, slowly, and at so many levels of the public justice system. We see it happen on the ground, in the way rescues are conducted and cases are registered, we see it in the conversations that government officials are having about the need to address egregious exploitation, and we see it in the discussion surrounding crucial legislation in South Asia.

So many things have to go well in order for IJM’s work to be successful, meaning that every rescue is all the more of a miracle. Earlier this week, I had the honor of hearing the recounting of a story about a recent rescue involving 179 people, all of whom are now walking freely. In this case, IJM was blown away by the ways in which the government officials of that area stepped up and did what was necessary in order to bring justice to otherwise voiceless people.

Even after a year and a half of getting to work with IJM, I love that I am energized by the hope of my colleagues in the face of overwhelming instances of human cruelty. It continues to be MY pleasure.

Sincerely,

Alice

Markets are like Wal-Marts.

Walking around an average South Asian market is more distracting than trying to navigate a Wal-Mart during Black Friday. There is a market near my apartment that stretches through a narrow street for at least three kilometers, winding through various neighborhoods, and boasting every shop imaginable. One section is lovingly referred to as Home Depot, because it contains a long line of shops which sell everything from air conditioning units to water tank covers. Another area includes men’s jeans vendors, all of whom seem to be selling the exact same type of ill-fitting pants, complete with skinny legs and feminine designs on the pockets. In another area, a group of bursting kitchen supply stores is huddled together, seeming to collectively spill their plastic and metallic contents onto the traffic outside. Every few feet, you see a man sitting on a cart, laden with bananas, mangos, or whatever fruit is currently in season.

 

l like to walk through the market by myself, because it allows me to momentarily forget myself (and bonded labour, desperate poverty, corruption, gender oppression, and systematic exploitation) and get lost in the experience of taking in the activity swirling all around me. As I enter the street, I look down at a small, crouching group of men, swapping a tattoo gun between their forearms.  They notice me, offer the gun, and I continue on after politely waving a “No” with my left wrist. On the left is the main spice vendor, with his once-a-week “masalas” on display behind his scales. I sidestep a bony cow lazily sniffing its way through the trash mound by the public toilets on the corner, and am nearly overwhelmed by the smell that hits my face in the process. The ground is uneven, with small crevices carved by random thunder and lightning downpours of the last few days; I hopscotch my way over the puddles. The chemist shop on the corner is well-lit and the sound of the cricket match on the television above the small Hindu altar distracts the shopkeeper as he looks for the eye drops I use to clear the dust from my eyes at the end of the day.

I re-emerge onto the street and decide to keep walking, not wanting to turn back just yet. A little boy with eyes as black as his hair stares after me as his dad carries him quickly ahead. The characteristic twinkle of the cycle rickshaw bell sounds and instinctively, I step aside with the crowd to let him pass on the right. A motorcycle winds through from the opposite direction and I stop short, right behind the cycle rickshaw as it is forced to move out of the way.

 

 

There is a pile of dark green, golf-ball bulbs on a cart that I have never seen. The vendor notices my curiosity and immediately opens one with a smooth swipe of his knife. The flesh is white, crisp, and tasteless, like a water chestnut. I buy a half-kilo, determined to find out the name and use them in a recipe that week.  My eyes ping-pong from left to right, refusing to settle on one place for fear of missing out on the visual variety. I see the embellished collar of a fancy dress, a dusty pastel trash bin, flattened circles of flour floating in sizzling oil, stacks of unused bricks, and the smile of the man with too many tomatoes to sell by the end of the night. After feasting my eyes, ears, and nose a little longer, I turn back, always feeling a little more alive, and a lot more present than I did earlier that day.

My friend recently posted this quote from Betty Smith’s “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn” on her blog:

 

"People always think that happiness is a faraway thing", thought Francie. "something complicated and hard to get. Yet, what little things can make it up; a place of shelter when it rains-a cup of strong hot coffee when you're blue; for a man, a cigarette for contentment; a book to read when you're alone-just to be with someone you love. Those things make happiness."

 

The street market has become one of my “home” places in South Asia, and I think that has something to do with the “little things” that make it so special. With such an incredible amount of activity, I have no option but to put my phone away (baring any seriously awesome photo ops) and be present to the beautiful gifts unveiling themselves all around me. In the market, I am reminded of a God who delights in giving the kinds of tangible, little sensory gifts that make me feel so alive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Niali and Dhandamajhi Still Exist.

Do you remember reading about Niali and Dhandamajhi getting their forearms chopped off in December? Theirs is the violent kind of circumstance that happens with too much unnoticed frequency in some parts of South Asia. Once the dust settled around their story, I found it easy to forget and let their story slip out of my mind amidst the everydays. Luckily, my colleagues don't forget people like Niali and Dhandamajhi.

Few would argue that bonded labour is a terrible atrocity that should be addressed. I used to equate "addressing" bonded labour with a one-time rescue operation and a swift series of legal proceedings that would end in a fitting sentence for the trafficker. Legal accountability is in many ways the linchpin to combatting bonded labour and IJM does this work really, really well***. But the rescue operation and legal work are not the end of Niali and Dhandamajhi's story, so it cannot be the end of IJM's work either.

After coming out of a traumatic experience, it takes a long time for a person to regain their emotional, psychological, and financial footing in order to be a whole, active participant in their community. Thankfully, the government in Niali and Dhandamajhi's state have recognized their need for support. Last week, our office learned that Niali and Dhandamajhi are getting prosthetic limbs for free from a hospital, in addition to long term care.

Aftercare is a lesser-known pillar of IJM's work and I am astounded by the time and effort that some of my team put into their follow up work with clients. There is a huge need for long-term rehabilitation of South Asia's released bonded labourers. Highlight stories like this one give me hope for a region that will not only be free from boned labour, but able to move on from the experience into fuller, sustainable lives (kind of cheesy, but true).

Thank you to those who have helped make this experience possible over the past 16 months. As I write, I am sitting across from one of those pearl friends in a coffee shop, relishing in a Sabbath day of Vespa riding and good weather. And I am overwhelmed by the gift of it!

Truly yours,

Alice

***Don't believe me? Check out Gary Haugen's new book, The Locust Effect.

p.s. Interested in supporting me? There's a link for that!

Pearls or Bubble Wrap?

This morning, I…

8:30am Wake up at Emily’s house with the intention of joining another friend at 9:30am to work in her classroom on my computer. Aka free internet.
 
8:35am Remember that I forgot a small gift for this friend (she’s a geologist and I brought her a sedimentary rock from the beaches of Malibu). Decide to run home to grab said rock.

8:50am Convince the fourth auto rickshaw driver I found to take me home. I am still struggling to understand why some auto drivers refuse work.

9:05am Arrive in my area. Auto driver has no change. Here, change is like gold. It is the consumer’s responsibility to have change. Especially early (before 11am) in the morning. My bad.

9:06am Stop at a road vendor selling a breakfast dish. It contains street water. I buy street water breakfast, get change and give it and the meal to the driver. Feel his astonished stare while walking away.

9:10am Try stopping at an atm. It is not giving cash.

9:12am Call the electrician, Suresh, who is able to arrive at 10am.

9:30am Text my geologist friend and tell her I’ll be an hour late. (It’s not ok for service men to work in your apartment with only one woman so I need to stay with my roommate for electrician Suresh’s visit.)

10:00am Suresh arrives. Then leaves to go buy parts for replacement light switches.

10:40am Call the malfunctioning phone number of our water delivery man for the 20th time this week. Get through to water delivery man. He says he was on his way and would be there by 11.

10:42am Do a happy dance because water delivery man’s number has been malfunctioning since last Sunday, when we started buying 2 litre water bottles.

11:00am Electrician Suresh finishes work and leaves.

11:05am I leave. No sign of water guy.

11:07am Call my geology friend to touch base and agreed to pick up cold coffee.

11:08am Stop at second atm. It is getting maintenance.

11:10am Successfully withdraw cash at third atm.

11:11am Enter a large food chain to buy cold coffees. Miscommunicate with the vendor and proceed to wait (rather impatiently) for small cups of “take-away” hot coffee- two small paper cups with tin foil covering the top. Promptly learn that cold coffee is “unavailable”.

Check out that coffee.

11:20am Stop at the gas station. Buy one overpriced can of cold coffee.

11:25am Grab an auto. Spill the “take-away” coffee.  

11:35am Join my geology friend, over two hours later than planned.

Today feels like an unending series of inefficiencies. I can choose to see these moments as pearls of experience to string into a pretty necklace or I can choose to see them as individual popping bags of plastic in my bubble wrap soul, with each pinprick taking a little more life.

I love living in a place that constantly forces me to make the choice between pearls and pin pricks. I am surrounded by a community of people who have chosen to adorn themselves with pearls. I have hope. Not hope to change my sometimes frustrating circumstances, but hope for living a life that chooses joy regardless.

Passion Conference, Farmer Suicide, and Long Layovers

As the weeks fly by, a stable semblance of routine has been pulled out from under me, and I have lost my sense of time in the spiraling free fall. The last month has been a whirlwind of travel, decision-making, a changing work environment, and hosting visitors. Yesterday, I hit the metaphoric ground with a thump and am taking some “me” time to recharge and write to you.

Since coming to South Asia, I have spent a significant amount of free time haunting coffee shops to study for law school exams and apply to grad programs. In March, much of that work was rewarded when Pepperdine Law School offered to fly me out to Malibu to visit their campus. At my colleagues’ urging (ok fine. It didn’t take that much urging), I took a full week off from work and flew through China to LA, where I spent my time being romanced by Pepperdine, visiting various other law campuses, and connecting with family and friends in the area. Needless to say, I have accepted Pepperdine’s generous offer and look forward to moving there in the fall. Thanks for praying over that!

Guangzhou, China on a 14-hour layover

After months of listening to constant construction that sounds oddly like a gaggle of dying geese, our office has officially expanded into two floors and I moved upstairs to sit in a room with the most good-humored investigators and government relations officers around. My work day is peppered with outbursts of laughter and random impromptu self-defense sessions. The expansion has been healthy for our office; I feed off of my new colleagues in a way that leaves me full.



A typical Tuesday near my new desk.  

I thank God for a strengthening and growing workforce at IJM because stories of horrible labor situations and bonded labor swirl through my inbox daily (we have an excellent Bandhua 1947 Campaign Communications team that can track much of the current news).  Here is a story about farmer suicide that is worth reading. It is a chilling look into the rising rates of rural farmer suicide and the stories of families who are left behind to carry the debt of their husbands and fathers. Ms. Musukula, one such surviving widow, has recently learned that her husband left a $6,430 debt in his wake, an amount almost completely inconceivable for a family in rural South Asia.

 

In the face of such horrendous stories, my team is in the midst of brainstorming and dreaming about the future of IJM advocacy in South Asia. We see a country free from bondage, restored to itself, and filled with whole, empowered families and villages. And we dearly want to have a part in that process. Please pray for God’s clear guidance as we think together about our longer-term presence in South Asia.

Last night, it hit me that I have entered my final three months in South Asia. There is much I could say in response to that crazy reality, but I will limit myself to one thing: it is a miracle that I have been healthy for over 15 months in South Asia! That it is due to your prayer so thank you for that support! Please continue to pray that the Lord will sustain me (financially, emotionally, physically, etc) through these next few months. It will undoubtedly be an intense season.

Recently, a friend an I received impromptu auto rickshaw driving lessons from an eager driver. It is quite possibly one of the better and more responsible decisions I have made this month.

 

Passion came to Delhi! In a city that is 0.1% Christian, this kind of gathering is significant.

With so much love,

Alice

p.s.- Are you interested in financially supporting me during these final months? Please click here if so!

 

 

 

 

Some pretty cool teamwork.

When I first learned about IJM, what drew me to their work were the flashy news headers detailing rescue operations involving arrests of sexual predators and the relief of vulnerable children and families. The individual stories of IJM overwhelmed me and I became more and more convinced that using caswork to influence the justice system was the only effective means of ending certain forms of bondage around the world. I remain convinced that casework is crucial to ending forms of persistent, violent oppression, but working with partners in advocacy has expanded my understanding of “making change” within the wider context of human rights work.

In Siddarth Kara’s book on bonded labour, he highlights the fact that bonded labour is not only a system spilling into multiple industries, but that it involves varying amounts of violence and oppression. Bonded labour takes many faces. In order to end bonded labour, the approach needs to be multi-faceted.

As member of the Bandhua 1947Campaign to end bonded labour in South Asia, IJM works with various organizations around South Asia. Although every organization with which we work is fairly established in fighting bonded labour, their areas of expertise are often found in less-violent or different areas of bonded labour that IJM does not aggressively counter. In the space of sometimes having very different approaches to the same issue, there is a lot of wiggle room for disagreement in our work.

One of the goals of our Campaign is to improve the current Bonded Labour Act in South Asia. Doing so will make it easier for IJM to do casework, and it will make it easier for released bonded labourers to access critical social services. For much of 2013, our partners were working to produce a document that represents everyone’s feedback on how to end bonded labour. This document will be presented to the government of South Asia, and will probably be added into the Bonded Labour Act. After over a year of effort, the final draft of this document was finished last week. Watching my office learn to collaborate with other organizations in writing this document has injected massive hope into my understanding of the way in which dissenting organizations can fight on behalf of the same issue; fight on behalf of the same people.

As we continue to work, pray for unity and vision. It seems that my term with IJM can best be defined as one of “transition” for the office, and I hope my contribution can be stabilizing and encouraging as we grow and establish ourselves, both internally and in partnership with others. Pray for my team members’ safety as they put themselves into uncomfortable and sometimes dangerous situations in the field. Pray for clarity as we continue to plan and execute projects with the government.

Thank you again to those of you who have supported this season, in prayer and with financial giving. You are a huge answer to personal prayer and your gifts allow me to continue supporting the exciting work of amazing people in South Asia.

Sincerely,

Alice

Ps-Would you like to be a part of supporting this work? Then please click here.

Niali and Dhandamajhi

In December, two young men from the South Asian countryside, Niali and Dhangdamajhi, met a labour contractor who promised to set them up with work in a city that would enable them to help feed their families. These two men come from one of the poorest districts in their area of South Asia and it is very common for the young men in their communities to migrate for work, so their attempt to secure work this way is not uncommon. However, instead of taking them to the original area for work, the contractor tried forcing the two men and some others to a brick kiln in another state. During a stop on the journey, a group of these workers managed to escape from the contractor, leaving the two young men alone and still in captivity. In a fit of drunken frustration, the two young men who had originally agreed to move and work had their right hands chopped off. Furthermore, these men were then dumped on the side of the road and left for dead. They stumbled into a nearby village and made it to a hospital, where they received initial care.

Bonded labour occurs at the crux of one person’s desperation and another person’s willingness to exploit that vulnerability. Sadly, these two men who were eager to work ended up in the hands of other people who were equally as eager to take advantage of them. Although they are young, without education it will be very difficult for either Niali or Dhangdamajhi (whose original strength was in their physical capability to work) to find and hold a job in the future.

Stories like these need to be known. If it wasn’t for a reporter out in the countryside of South Asia, Niali and Dhangdamajhi’s torture would have remained unknown and the men who were responsible for their continued trauma would not have been held accountable.

When I returned to IJM two weeks ago, I had an exciting conversation with the Director of Communications about the important need for equipped reporters to be in the places where bonded labour abuses occur. This year, my office will work with another organization to offer a fellowship to reporters in the South Asian countryside. These reporters will receive training on tracking and recording bonded labour in order that they can more effectively share the stories from rural areas throughout this year. With hope, these fellows will be the needed voices to speak for people like Niali and Dhangdamajhi.

In addition to exciting work on the Communications front, I have jumped right into my role as the Executive Assistant to the Director of National Advocacy. Amidst drafting proposals and learning how to request flights, the role shift has already been stretching but it will give me ample opportunities to (attempt to) empower and support the members of our office. I think it’s going to be a great fit.

Two Mondays ago, I walked into IJM to meet 12 new members of our office. The situation is nothing short of an interpersonal Christmas. There are all sorts of new titles to learn like “Zone Head” and “Investigations Specialist”. The next few months will probably be months of major adjustment for our office, but part of my job will be to make that transition as smooth as possible so that people can continue their work.

Please pray for my little branch of IJM during this transition. New colleagues and construction are crucial parts of capacity building, but it can put a strain on the current needs of our work. Pray for me as I try to be as supportive as possible. I hope my efforts in these last moths can be of the “five loaves and two fish” variety.

Sincerely,

Alice

Ps-Would you like to be a part of supporting this work? Then please click here.

The Great Unwinding

My American life has been set up to celebrate and honor self-sufficiency and personal space. I set an alarm clock for every morning, I use password-protected technology, I sleep in my own room, I work on papers and projects by myself, and I eat in restaurants when the meals are made and ordered for one (because my taste may be different from my neighbor’s taste). In college, the Type A parts of my personality became proud of my capability to rely on myself and I considered my growing sense of sufficiency a marker of adulthood. We value that sufficiency in this culture, to the extent that it is often equated with maturity.

The benefits of personal space and self -sufficiency can be countless in a culture built around those principles. Driving trips take shorter periods of time; I do not need to rely on other people to fix some of my problems; I ultimately have more control over my schedule, my decisions, and my life (or so it seems most of the time). That being said, I think something is getting lost between the cracks of the lives we are building.

It seems that all of my friends and I yearn to connect with others, to the point that we are willing to exploit the interesting, personal and meaningful things in our lives to gain online recognition from anyone who is willing to give us the time. We collectively fight for internet/financial/personal privacy because of our right to it, and yet so much of my Facebook feed is consumed by personal pictures of This Morning’s Tea Next to My New Favorite Succulent and posts detailing My Most Recent Revelation about Antiquing. There are many factors contributing to my need for love and acceptance, but there is a certain level of connection that is lost when I opt to do more of life on my own. In the absence of community, I find myself tempted to turn my social media experience into an online community-seeking venture.

When I describe the past year to friends and family, conversation inevitably circles back to the social nature by which work, society, and even my IJM office functions. Things that I would normally consider a one-man job are actually a group project that requires three times the time to complete. For the first time, I have offended friends by not asking them for help in hiring an electrician. Naps are a social event. Moving into a people-oriented culture necessitated a transition that was far from comfortable. 

Somewhere between grimacing through shared meals and common decision-making, life became less about the goal and a bit more about the people and the process of getting things done. I found myself paying less attention to the clock (much to my brother’s chagrin) and choosing to be ok with doing life as a group project. Living in a country with 1.2 billion people necessitates that everyone make room for everyone else, especially if your next door neighbors are extended family members.

Living in South Asia confronts me with the real fact that I control very little of my life. One could call 2013 “The Great Unwinding” of the uptight coils that have historically supported and defined my identity. As nice as it would be to lay claim to that process, it only took place because of the persistent intrusion of people into the empty spaces of my life. I am forced to humbly acknowledge (yet again) the beauty of doing life in community. I look back and thank God for those who [un]knowingly pulled and stretched those coils, forcing me to surrender to the ebbs and tides of South Asia.

As I sit at Gate E7a, my heart is preparing to jump back into the waters and swim with my sisters, brothers, and friends living across the ponds. I look forward to a year of celebration, to a year of dancing in the (metaphoric?) streets over IJM’s work, and a year learning how to intentionally bring “life together” way with me wherever I go.

Looking forward to it,

Alice

If you pray, please pray for my office as it grows. Pray for grace, as I adjust to what will be a new work environment and pray that God is ultimately glorified as a result of our expansion efforts!

Road Trip.

November was a hectic month, mainly because I had the distinct pleasure of sharing my life in South Asia with four family members, including an aunt, two cousins, and my mom for the first two weeks. Their time here deserves multiple blog posts, but you will need to ask them for the stories. Anything you think South Asia could throw at you was thrown at my family members during their stay.

One day during her stay, my mom and I needed to separate from the group, leaving a beautiful mountainous area to drive into rural South Asia to meet my coworkers for a Family Retreat. The place we left my aunt and cousins is pictured below:

According to Google Maps, the estimated travel time for my mom and I was 3.5 hours.

A basic premise of Sociology is that the “map is not the territory” meaning that it is ultimately impossible to capture the full reality of a moment in words or pictures, or by any other means. In our situation, the Google Maps travel estimate was definitely not a reflection of reality. We spent almost 10 hours on the road that day. Here are some of the reasons why:

Single lane roads in rural India mean that every time you encounter a large track (which is often) your driver is required to play chicken with oncoming traffic in order to pass them. The owner of this particular truck is aware of this phenomenon and has painted the phrase “Blow Horn” on his rear. At least he will have warning.

 Sometimes big trucks ARE your oncoming traffic. And they always win chicken.

Our driver is one of the many drivers on South Asian roads who suffers from perpetual lethargy brought on by 24-hour work shifts. In order to keep him awake, we needed to periodically stop for chai breaks at roadside rest stops. What else would you do to pass the time at a rest stop other than impersonate the local idols?

 You find yourself playing “Where’s Waldo?” while driving carefully around trucks heavily-laden with furniture, bags, and people. It can be distracting.

This picture was taken at another chai pit stop for the sake of the driver.

Driving in South Asia requires you to share the road with multiple kinds of vehicular and ambulatory things (as discussed in my earlier post on traffic), including the auto rickshaw. It definitely runs faster than its human and bike-pulled counterparts, but it is another vehicle to avoid on the road.

If you can discern through the blurred photo, you will see a cycle rickshaw pulling two people. Drivers of cycle rickshaws have an amazing ability to wind into the crevices of traffic, but their human effort is no matched for impatient vehicles at a young green light. They often set off a lot of impatient honking when the light changes.

It seems that people here can ride everything sidesaddle except horses (they really struggle with horses for some reason). Look at the grace of this man on his friend’s bike.

This picture says a lot, but I think it is best captured in the following haiku:

Overstuffed autos

drifting in lanes, ignoring

cell phone usage laws.

For some reason, this guy was the icing for me. He is riding on a cart pulled by a bull, without a care in the world. The man, not the bull. Or at least that’s what his stance says to me.

With nine hours of stressful, chai-filled driving under his belt, our driver was very reluctant to venture out of the towns and into the real “inside” of South Asian rural countryside in order to get me and my mom safely to the retreat center, especially since the sun had set. We found ourselves driving along a narrow road bordered by tall grasses on either side. Apparently the area where we were driving is famous for bandits, and our driver was not thrilled about carrying us in his vehicle with so little visibility. We emerged from the slender road onto a dirt road, cutting through a village. Using my non-existent sense of direction and vague directional hand gestures from villagers, my mom, our driver, and I found ourselves on the final road leading through an orchard to the relief of the retreat. Relief, right?

Wrong. Earlier in the week, the retreat center decided to begin road “improvements” to their entry road, but they had only gotten so far as moving dirt to the road, which meant that the road we needed to travel was covered in large mounds of soil; completely and totally impassable according to our now-panicked and vehement driver.

With repeated mutterings about “criminals”, our driver turned on the overhead light, got out of the taxi, and walked into the darkness of the night with other villagers, leaving me and my mom alone and highlighted, in the middle of nowhere, rural, “criminal-infested” South Asia. I slid down in my seat, looking over at my mom with bewilderment. Moments later, she turned to gaze out into the blackness and I saw her neck freeze. Very slowly, my mom turned back to me and, with a wide-eyed straight face, muttered, “Alice, there’s a man standing outside our taxi with a rifle”. We hadn’t realized it, but our taxi driver had gotten out of his car to consult with villagers and other retreat center employees, including a plain clothes guard. At this point the absurdity of our situation hit home and both of us had to stifle a stress laugh.

Within minutes, our harried driver returned with even more retreat center staff, including a man on a motor bike. I noticed a patch bearing the retreat center name on the mismatched front pockets of a few of the men, so I figured that we were relatively safe. We were directed to leave our bags (which we instead draped all over ourselves, save one) and take the bike through the dirt piles, into the retreat center. I carry a basic Nokia cell phone (which we all know is the ultimate life-saving weapon) which I was using to contact the retreat staff, so I directed my mom to take the first ride into the retreat center, assuring her that I was fine because “I have a phone”. My mom had not noticed the [un]official retreat center patches, so when she was directed to get on the bike, she tells me that she thought a) that she might never see her big luggage bag again, and that b) she might never see her daughter again. In that order.

I watched my mom ride off into the darkness and found myself alone, with a stressed-out driver, an old man with a big gun, and a crowd of curious villagers, none of whom I could actually see because it was so dark. The driver ordered me to call the retreat center and tell them he would borrow the guard to get him safely back t o a main road, so I attempted to call the center. After nine uncompleted calls, I told the busy signal (and everyone within earshot) exactly what I thought about their phone service and hung up. In the time it took me to pay the driver without revealing my money to the suspected hordes of on-looking criminals hiding out in the bushes, the retreat biker was back, minus my mom. I hobbled onto the back of his bike with my luggage and he drove me along a bumpy road, through an orchard, and into the bright, warm, safe light of the retreat center, where we met my mom at the entrance.

After throwing our bags in a cabin, my mom and I followed the sounds of “Amazing Grace” floating through the air, directly to a campfire surrounded by my IJM family. The significance of the lyrics, “I once was lost but now am found” was not at all lost on us.

That night, mom and I retired to our cabin and let our nervous energy loose with 15 solid minutes of side-splitting laughter after promising each other that we would not “tell Dad” until my mom got home.

There are many prudent lessons to be learned from this story. Lessons about preparation and having a map and patience. Those lessons will continue to sink in, but for now, I marvel in my mom’s ability to take it all in stride.  

Big Infinities

In his novel, “The Fault in Our Stars”, John Green writes, “Some infinities are bigger than other infinities”. Between 0 and 1, there is an infinite set of numbers including .1, .01, .001, etc. In a sense, the infinity between, say, 0 and 5 may seem staggering in comparison.

It’s a bit abstract, but the concept of varying infinities is changing the way I see life in South Asia.

Our days are brimming with various infinities of all shapes and sizes, for us to perceive and to celebrate. I challenge myself to look at an orange as a piece of infinity (stick with me) and it is transformed before my eyes. What is a simple piece of fruit, is also a symbol of friendship between me and the orange-seller; it carries memories of my childhood home and of Will telling me that every piece of pulp contains enough energy to power all of New York City’s lights for a millisecond; its skin reminds me of the pores on my mom’s cheek (sorry Mom); this orange is something to be explored using every sense. And I, of all people, I get to savor it.

In this light, the beauty and awesomeness of a single piece of citrus absolutely pales in comparison to the recent activity of the IJM office where I get to work. In an earlier post, I mention a show that aired on India’s CNN-IBN, featuring released bonded laborers as they told their stories on national television. As a result, a government body called the National Rural Livelihoods Mission approached our office and asked to become a formal partner in the Bandhua 1947 Campaign, and join us to help eradicate bonded labor in specific areas of South Asia. When I came to IJM, my colleagues could have never dreamed that we would be working officially and formally with a South Asian government to combat bonded labor. These are days of learning, planning, and traveling for my colleagues, as they prepare to undertake another year of work with a new partner.

The Bonded Labour (Abolition) Act is a law that hasn’t been taken very seriously in South Asia for about thirty years. Among others, the act states that released bonded laborers are eligible to receive 20,000 INR ($?) from the government to help them rebuild their lives. Historically, no one has received full benefits. Last month, two released bonded laborers made history, receiving 20,000 from their government under the Bonded Labour (Abolition) Act to enable the beginnings of rehabilitation in these peoples’ lives.  

Release stories coming out every month (like this one), new partnerships with the government, and actual enforcement of the Bonded Labour (Abolition) Act convince me that bonded labor will end in South Asia. I watch people whom history will forget, setting the stage for a significant shift in the exploitive systems of labor in South Asia, and I see [only a fraction of] the infinite implications that the shift means for our world. And I am overwhelmed by hope.

I find myself frozen in shock, at various times throughout the week when thinking about the generosity and encouragement of you, the people who have chosen to partner with me this year. Your support has enabled me to get a glimpse of some of the tangible ways that massive work happens in the world. You have made it possible for me to be strrrrrreched in a new work environment; you have enabled me to rent an apartment and buy food at the market; you have enabled me to afford life for a year in one of the more expensive parts of South Asia.  

I look back on the past 11 months, and I am thankful.

I look forward to my final 6 months serving with IJM with hopeful anticipation. The building pressure in South Asia convinces me that there will be much to report and it will be an absolute pleasure to share those months with you.

In order to continue this work, I will need some financial support. If you are at a place to provide, and if you want to do something tangible to contribute to the work of IJM, then please choose to partner (or continue partnering) with me. The actual process is quite straightforward. Click here and press "Support an Intern/Fellow". Then select my name from the drop down menu and IJM’s giving site will direct you from there. For the sake of transparency, here is a breakdown of the cost of basic living in my corner of South Asia:

Airfare (round trip)	$1000
Rent	$195/month
Electricity, Water, Wifi	$57/month
Food	$160/month
Daily Travel	$50/month
Misc (toiletries, household cleaner, etc)	$30/month
Trash collector/ stair cleaner	$7/month

I love interning with International Justice Mission because it gives me the chance to see varying types of infinite work going on against bonded labor in South Asia. If you’re able join me, financially and prayerfully in these next 6 months as we watch bonded labor lose in South Asia. It’s going to be a good ride.

Sincerely,

Alice