Sunday Afternoon Shopping

Today while waiting for the tailor to come back from lunch, I found the meat vendors in the local market. The air was heavy with the smell of recent death and the sound of unhappy roosters, awaiting a messy fate. The crowing of the roosters was what originally drew me to that corner of the market:

(These guys are tied to cages that hold hens snuggly beneath them. PETA would have a collective meltdown in a place like this.)

I was tempted to take photos of the market once I entered, but then decided that it wouldn’t be fair to show photos of bloody alleys, layered shelves of fatty flesh, and dried goat heads to a reading public with potentially weak stomachs.

It’s been over eight months of cooking vegetarian food at home. Today confirmed that it may be another eight months of the same.

Once back at the tailor, I handed over a receipt and was handed a beautifully-made, Indian-sewn suit in return. I noticed however, that the string that makes a suit “drawstring” was missing, so I inquired of the tailor where I could buy one. Instead of charging me the infamous “white tax” for a small piece of string, he walked next door, bought a string, and handed it to me, completely free of charge. In a world where almost every interaction I have in public is tainted by the color of my skin, this interaction gives me hope for a near future where the people in my neighborhood recognize me and trust me (and vice versa) despite the fact that our only point of intersection until now is an exchange in a market stall. Moments like the one with my tailor make me feel more and more at home in my neighborhood, renewing my desire to get out of the house, explore, and take in every possible site and sound of my corner in South Asia.

If you pray, you probably believe that prayer has the power to do some pretty big and awesome things in the world. In that spirit, pray for the end of bonded labour in India. I think it can happen in our lifetime. A few weeks ago, my boss joined two released bonded labourers for a special show on India’s CNN-IBN. If you’re interested in learning a bit more about bonded labour, click and watch, here. On a more tangible note, please pray for safety as my roommate and I cross the main road every day in our area. Traffic is always heavy and I have heard of one death there already since the walkway underneath closed two weeks ago.

A more thorough update on IJM and my work is coming soon. Thank you so much for the support you have shown thus far! It is truly sustaining.

Love,

Alice

Ps- Interested in learning more about supporting this work? Click here.

Hot Mess Days

It’s been 6.5 months since I first set foot on Indian soil. Looking back, I think I had an expectation that by now, I would have things pretty much figured out and that this beautiful, messy country would make some sort of sense. By now, I would be able to properly construct the defined boxes in my mind into which I could file every experience of the upcoming months. By now, I would know how to speak Hindi and would understand the cultural context of every joke; cows in the street would no longer surprise me, and no spice would be too spicy. More importantly, by now I would have learned to really love people, forgiving with ease, with an unending supply of gratitude for these precious months that I have been given here with IJM.

I sit here, thinking about those original, unsaid expectations. And I giggle.

There are many days that I come into work, looking and feeling like a hot mess. Vegetable vendors still manage to rip me off and the heat makes me cranky. I get annoyed by children begging on the road who refuse to leave me alone. And then, like a perfect hypocrite, I am frustrated by the opulent Audi-and-Armani lifestyles of the “new money” families in this city and their decidedly blind eyes toward the poor. I routinely get honked at in the road and I offend people more often than I realize, and I still cannot make a perfect dal with rice.

…It is precisely in this messy space that grace has repeatedly crept in over the past month and tenderly reminded me to laugh.

Here are some ways of those reminders:

                - On Wednesday, I saw my friend’s leg get healed. As in, her leg grew before my very eyes. I laugh because I forget just how powerful God is and that being on his “team” means that not even the huge, systematic sicknesses like sexual trafficking and bonded labour have a chance of survival against what He is doing in the world.

                - Ever since the arrival of our office’s first Fellow (she is now also my roommate!), she has made it her goal to use positive reinforcement with auto drivers who agree to charge us a fare rate*. I laugh, as I see sweaty auto drivers smile with surprise at her cheers, and I am reminded that auto drivers are people too and that commuting can be an uplifting experience, instead of a battle of the wills over a mere 10 rupees.

                -In Bangkok, I was overwhelmed by the amount of sexual tourism that has permeated the city. On multiple occasions, I had menus of various sex acts shoved into my face, at which point I was prompted to choose one. And yet, I was able to rendezvous with a college friend who is now living in Bangkok with the sole purpose of loving on lady boy prostitutes. I laugh because I am reminded that God is finding ways to love “even the least of these”, despite the fact that they are overlooked by the rest of the world.

Despite my best efforts to focus solely on the ways that I and the world epically fail over this last month, Grace has poked and prodded its way into my field of vision, obscuring my view of the mirror.  I think He wants to teach me to laugh, or at the very least, to smile in hope, as I watch Him move in this country.

Tons of exciting things are going on with IJM’s work in South Asia right now. As our Communication capabilities have grown, so has our reach to both the policy-makers and to the general public grown. Every week, more non-profits are learning how to connect current and released bonded labourers to government benefits. In this month, the Bandhua 1947 Campaign has made leaps and bounds toward finishing a draft of the Bonded Labour (Abolition) Act rules that they plan to present to the government later this year. In the midst of these exciting progresses, I have been asked by my bosses to take on more responsibility in the area of program design and Knowledge Management. I am thrilled by the faith they show in my potential to contribute to the office and am looking forward to more formally transitioning into the new role.

If you pray, pray for me this week as I make decisions about next year. I have the opportunity to extend my stay here and continue to invest in this Campaign and I want to make a wise choice. Pray also for my office, as we plan events and work toward better enforcement of a long-forgotten law. Pray that my roommate and I make space to relax and recharge after a long work week. Finally, I am doing some travel with a friend in the coming weeks to Sri Lanka and around India. Pray for safety as we take trains, board planes, and catch taxis.

To those of you who have continued to prayerfully and financially support me this year, thank you. Thank you for allowing me to invest in really exciting work. Thank you for making it possible for me to live, surrounded by people bursting with Hope. Thank you for believing that God can work through me. It’s just too great!

Sincerely,

Alice

*Fare rate. Fair rate. Get it?

Interested in supporting this year? Follow this link to learn more.

Hot Stuff

Friends,

It has been a hot few weeks. As the temperature has been rising, I have made some mental notes on living in South Asia during the summer. It’s time to share some of them with you (But bear with me. It gets gross.):

Here, I drink water by the litre.

Dry heat causes nosebleeds too. Not cute.

Construction workers and street sweepers hose off the roads and their construction sites to keep sand and dust from blowing away.

It is possible to sweat while standing still.

Tap water is too hot to drink, even if it were potable.

Riding in an auto rickshaw (I describe them here) feels like sitting while someone holds open your eyelids and points a blowing hair dryer at your face.

Bananas last longer in the fridge. So does bread.

I have ring tans from commuting at 9am every day.

The Taj Mahal is so hot that it burns your feet. The masses tour it by following skinny rows of mats placed out by tour guides.

Some cement gets too sticky to step on.

Everyone knows the difference between cotton and other poly-blend imitations.

Midday napping is less luxury and more necessity.
 

It is possible for heat to affect the appetites of an entire state of people.

The metro is wildly popular. AC is cited most commonly as the perk for that kind of transportation.

The best way to sleep comfortably is by jumping in the shower and getting onto (note my usage of the word “onto”) bed without toweling off.

Clothing dries on the line in 20 minutes, always a shade lighter than it was when you hung it out.

When the electricity is cut, I eat watermelon to stay hydrated, while watching my neighbors get into their air-conditioned cars for respite.

Lying down to sleep reminds me of how hot my hair feels.

I shower at night or early morning, in hopes that the water tank has cooled off.

It is impossible to ever “towel dry”.

 

No one in India comments on sweat marks. They are a given.

While adjusting to extreme temperatures in May, our office was busy responding to some claims made about bonded labour on behalf of a national initiative called the Mahatma Gandhi National Rural Employment Guarantee Act (MGNREGA or NREGA). The initiative is aimed at improving the lives of low caste, impoverished members of the rural community in South Asia, by providing unskilled manual labourers with 100 days of work in agriculture per year. This employment guarantee hopes to protect some otherwise vulnerable rural families from being forced to migrate seasonally to other states in search of cheap labour. So far, it has been successful in making benefits available to otherwise helpless families. Although the act is making positive impacts on those who qualify for its benefits, a recent article entitled “Thanks to MGNEGRA, no bonded labour anymore” misrepresents the state of bonded labour in South India.

In the same month that the article on MGNEGRA was published, multiple rescues took place around South Asia, in which families were freed from years of bonded labour. In this story, 20 men, 9 women, and 11 children are taken out of sugarcane fields and investigated for bonded labour. Here, 17 people were rescued from working in rice paddies. Just this week, 273 people were freed from bondage!

In the face of these overwhelming stories, our office and various partners have been trying to redirect the media’s attention toward evidence of the egregious exploitation still taking place throughout South Asia. We hope that responses to this recent article highlight the situations of those who have been overlooked and the amount of work that can still be done on their behalf.  If you pray, please pray that the recent news coverage of bonded labour in South Asia can serve to inform the wider reading public of labour issues in their own regions. Pray that the right people will continue asking the right questions about how to systematically provide bonded labourers with more access to their rights, building on the work of MGNREGA. Finally, pray that each member of my office continues to joyfully seek the Lord’s direction in this Campaign, with renewed vigor to reach our goals every day, despite a massive task. There is so much hope yet to be realized and I love watching it unfold. 

Personally, pray for smooth transitions as we welcome our first IJM Fellow (and my future apartment mate!) to our office. Pray for my health as the heat continues. Pray for sustained energy on my part. After almost five months of continuous work, I look forward to a break at the end of this month!

Every month, I am reminded in different ways of the incredible generosity of those who have chosen to prayerfully and financially support this year. As I pay for electricity bills, know that I am thanking God for every cent and every prayer!

Sincerely,

Alice

 

Interested in supporting this year? Please, follow this link.

Fifth Floor Friends

            The city where I live is not made for walking. Its streets are littered with potholes that can consume a man; the “curb” comes in the form of an occasional raised, road-side platform separating two plots of land. Environmental conservation has failed to catch on, so even if you are successful in finding a park in which to be ambulatory, the chances of stepping on some sort of sharp or infectious refuse is not zero. This may sound like a stressful situation, but when you combine the condition of the roads surrounding my house with the level of traffic and the number of people, walking to the metro station can seem like an exciting, mid-stakes video game; it keeps you on your toes.

Although I have only just mastered the art of walking around my city, it became clear early on that attempting to run on the road for exercise would probably result in a hospital stay. With this in mind, I have spent the last couple months exercising on my terrace, located six floors above ground. Most of the buildings on my block are only about four/five floors high, so I spent the first few weeks of my stay performing calisthenics in peace, knowing that I was relatively safe from the prying eyes of early morning-risers looking for their sunrise entertainment.

Slowly, though, that peace has evaporated. There is constantly construction going on in my neighborhood, as there is all over this city. When I moved into my apartment this January, I could look out of my bedroom window and see the top of the building next door, two floors below. In the picture below, you can see that it (on the right) is under construction:

A full schedule, culture shock, laziness and a painful foot injury (obtained, ironically enough by my one attempt to walk in high heels here) resulted in what you might call an “extended-leave” from morning exercise last month. But two weeks ago I woke up early, excited to restart the regimen.

Upon reaching the terrace and stepping outside, I was surprised to see that, in the span of just a few weeks, the building next door had gained two floors, both of which were partially covered in brick*. “No problem”, I thought. “May as well take advantage of the privacy to exercise until tenants move in.” With a shrug, I began my squats. Around five minutes and two jumping-jack sets later, I noticed the unmistakable smell of curry wafting over from the direction of the new floor next door. Noting the smell with a level of curiosity, I continued moving. Halfway through the workout, I was pushing through a set of burpees, which require a person to constantly move between standing and being in pushup position. While moving up to standing position on one of these repetitions, my eyes skimmed over my terrace wall, back to the building next door and were met by the eyes of a man, standing on the terrace, eating his breakfast and watching me with contentment from across the road. With a high heart rate clouding out my confusion, I decided to ignore the man and finish exercising, with plans to later ask my national friends to fill in any holes I was missing regarding people who inhabit construction sites.   

It turns out that an entire family has taken up residence in the open stairwell on the unfinished terrace of the building next door. There are at least four people whom I have seen waking up and getting ready for the day at 6:30am. They have a tarp to create a ceiling, a stove for cooking curry, and a line strung up to dry clean clothing. This is a family of construction workers.

There is not enough space to house all of the people in the city where I live and I have learned that most construction workers live near or around their current projects because they cannot afford a form of shelter, apart from the one they are building. Because of the high number of migrant workers and their willingness to work in almost any situation, it is also not uncommon for construction worker families to be exploited. They are the face of cheap labour in my city.

My fifth floor friends remind me that I am not here for the abstract. I am here to support the work of awesome, passionate people on behalf of other, equally dynamic people who are not in a place to legally represent themselves. I have been advised against interacting unnecessarily with the construction workers in my neighborhood, but their presence is a good reminder that their counterparts with IJM are real people, some of whom would also happily eat breakfast curry and watch the foreign girl contort herself in strange ways.

Where is hope? Hope is in the fact that I can sleep through the night despite the heat. Hope is in the face of the man who gave me a fair price for mangos today. Hope is in deepening relationships with new friends. Hope is in this story. Hope is in the familiar feeling I had when returning to this city after a weekend away. Poverty and brokenness is so visible here; I find hope in the knowledge that people have to consciously respond to it with either decided activity or decided passivity.

If you pray, pray for our office’s ability to affect strategic change in the Bandhua 1947 Campaign. Pray for good communication between all of the people in South Asia who are working against bonded labour, that we may combine our strengths. Pray that my body adjusts quickly to the summer weather and pray for my foot, as it continues to heal, that there will be no long-term damage.

Thank you for your support and for following along! It is a pleasure to share this year with you.

Sincerely,

                Alice

*You may be wondering how I managed to overlook the construction of two floors right next door. Well, it is really hot here. In order to stay sane, people hang incredibly thick curtains over their windows to keep the sun’s heat out. In an effort to adapt (and survive), I have done the same. Now the world directly visible from my room is, for all intensive purposes, dead to me unless I choose to look out into the sunshine.

 

Interested in supporting this year? Please, follow this link.

 

 

Odisha

Cuttack is a 1000-year old city that sits on a peninsula about 25 km from the capital city of the Indian state of Odisha. There are over 600,000 people who call this ancient city “home”. One such person is a friend of mine who invited me to join her for this year’s Easter weekend. On Good Friday, I rode side saddle on the back of her scooter as we wove our way through a maze of knotted alleyways, dodging various forms of cattle and boys yelling about their cricket game, passing rows of sari shops and open-air fish markets. After spending almost three continuous months in a crowded city, it was a relief to escape the (comparative) noise and spend time with the family of my friend.

Each hour of that weekend deserves its own blog entry, but I will do the “moments” a disservice and give you the highlights:

1) My friend comes from a joint family.  I do not. Because of this difference in our upbringing, I was exposed for the first time that weekend to all sorts of ways that “living in community” can express itself in the extended family. One theme of living together that especially struck me is the lack of any real conception of (or expressed "need" for) privacy. Let me explain: after Easter lunch, everyone gathered in the master bedroom to enjoy the air conditioning unit and escape the heat, as it was 104 degrees outside. In an attempt to be a good guest, I got up from the king-sized bed after ten minutes with the intention of making myself scarce so people could relax without feeling the need to be my host. As I stood up, one of the aunts asked me where I was going. I made a vague reference to heading upstairs to study or maybe lie down, to which she promptly stated, “But we are going to nap.” As I stared into her questioning face, I realized that by hosting me for the weekend, I had become a temporary part of the “unit” that is my friend’s family. With some hesitation, I lowered myself back onto the bed, and proceeded to fall asleep to the muted chatter of sisters-in-law as I shared a pillow and had my back patted by a mother. In all honesty, I did not miss the privacy.

2) One day, my friend, her mother, an aunt, and I piled into a taxi and proceeded to spend multiple hours driving through the Odisha countryside. Enthusiastic chatter in the Oriya language gave me an excuse to disengage and visually feast on vast expanses of rice paddies and villages surrounding our taxi. Brick kilns also dot the Odisha countryside and we passed many on our way back from the Bay of Bengal. Seeing those kilns has given me a clearer context for the work my office does in IJM, because a large amount of bonded labour that takes place in South Asia occurs in brick kilns, much like the ones we saw from our taxi. The people in my office are not working on behalf of the intangible “oppressed” worker; the workers we serve are real people with real needs and real families to feed, who are sometimes living with the reality of a horrific work environment. I needed that reminder.

3) While driving to the Bay of Bengal for lunch on our way to the Konark Sun Temple, our car got a call from a family member in Cuttack, encouraging us to find and read the state newspaper, Orissa Post. After another hour in the car, we stopped for Chinese food and found this paper in the lobby:

 

 

Here is the article......yep, this actually happened. I am referenced as the "foreigner".

4) The Konark Sun Temple was crafted in the 13^th century by a ruthless King with a really long name and 1,200 stone carving slaves, all of whom (except for the King) had their thumbs cut off upon the temple’s completion, so the building could never be replicated. The temple’s design reflects a massive chariot, whose seven large wheels have become the symbol of the state of Odisha. Here I am, next to one:

 

Despite spending a weekend in a state that is notorious as being a source area for bonded labourers, the weekend was dripping in Hope. I regained Hope in the joint family system after seeing my friend’s family loving each other so well, in such close proximity. I saw tangible Hope in the way I was received and adopted “into the fold” for the weekend. The sheer beauty of Odisha’s countryside instills Hope almost by force. Hope is in the bursting church I visited no less than three times in three days to celebrate Christ’s death and resurrection. Seeing people at brick kilns strangely renews my Hope in the efforts and methods of IJM to improve labour conditions in South Asia.

It is with Hope for South Asia that I ask for your prayers. If you pray, please pray for continued guidance in our office, that we will continually have flexibility, a humble attitude and a desire to learn as we advocate. Pray for those who are a part of the Bandhua 1947 Campaign, that as we have success, we continue to use creativity and effectively pool our strengths toward providing "sustained freedom for thousands". Finally, if you know me at all, you know that I have a fairly strained relationship with technology; and yet I have been asked to basically become one of the office experts on a specific type of web design. Please, cover that one in prayers. I need them.

Thank you for patience and grace during what has been a long silence on my part, and thank you for rejoicing in this time from across the miles. Your support and care is felt daily.

Hopefully,

Alice

Interested in supporting this year? Please, follow this link.



Holi Intermission

There is a widely-celebrated festival in South Asia called Holi, or the Festival of Colors. This festival is known as a celebration of love and serves to usher in Spring but the roots of the holiday grow from a story in the Hindu religion about Prahlada, the son of a demon king.  Apparently, Prahlada’s father (Hiranyakashipu) had a bit of an ego problem, demanding that everyone worship him alone.  Prahlada, however, was an avid follower of the Hindu religion’s god, Vishnu, and he refused to worship his father. Enraged, Hiranyakashipu tried multiple times to kill his son, but with no success. Hiranyakashipu’s final defeat came when he Prahlada tied to a pyre and set the whole thing on fire. According to the Hindu religion, Prahlada prayed to Vishnu for protection and he walked away unharmed. (What a father-son dynamic.)

Today, Holi is celebrated in varying ways according to the region in which it is being observed. For some, the festival marks a time of throwing tomatoes on family, friends, and strangers alike. For others, it translates to a week of singing and dancing in the streets. Some parts of the world celebrate Holi on one day and others celebrate for a month.

My introduction to Holi came in the form of a water balloon aimed right at my face. As I stood, dripping in the park outside my office on a lunch break, my coworkers breathlessly explained (through doubled-over laughter) that in the city where I live, Holi is celebrated by throwing colors at others. Originally, people threw colored powder at each other but the colored water balloon method seems to have caught on. The culprit in this case was a school-aged boy repeatedly throwing balloons from his third story balcony across the street. I must admit, he has impeccable aim.

Holi isn’t until March 27^th but there are obviously some who cannot wait to pelt passers-by. Honestly, I don’t blame them. Holi is like Halloween for all ages- but it encourages people in the community to “let go” and play in a way that Halloween only hints at. Here is Google Image Search’s depiction of Holi:

My [pasty] skin makes me a walking canvas (and therefore a prime target) for all of the inevitable reds and blues that will be flying around in the next couple weeks. I have been warned to watch where I walk. Listening to one of my co-workers excitedly discussing Holi street-walking strategies reminds me of watching freshman guys at my undergraduate school prepare for Nerf wars in their dorms. I have been invited to a Holi party on the 27^th so I’ll make sure to report back.

Sincerely,

Alice

 

Knots

I have been sitting in front of my key board for some time now, trying to get my thoughts together in a way that will put a nice bow on my experience over these past couple of weeks. So far, all I am coming up with are knots. Bear with me as I try to untangle a few of them:

Knot One: Two weeks ago, culture shock drop-kicked me in the face. Almost overnight, I lost my any appetite for South Asian food and found myself more and more frustrated by the little stressors of being in a new place. Sheer exhaustion- combined with an awesome but demanding internship, and a host of new friends and families I am beginning to get to know-has forced me to recognize that I feel overwhelmed. I am ready to feel comfortable, safe, and at-home. But I don’t yet and that’s ok.

Knot Two: This morning I woke up sweating. This is after removing all but one sheet on my bed, opening the window, and turning on the fan. Short of getting an air conditioner, there is not much to do other than laugh it off at this point and joke with others about how “Alice is going to perish come May”. Earlier, I walked to church squinting behind dark sunglasses and shading myself with a large scarf wrapped around my head as protection from the sun. For a fleeting moment, I imagined myself as a young Audrey Hepburn but the dream died as soon as my scarf got caught in the rickshaw seat while I was getting out of the car.

Knot Three: Interning with IJM is proving to be valuable in a myriad of ways. There are very few staff members in the office where I work, which means that I am being given lots of substantial responsibilities and opportunities to contribute. There is so much to learn. Recently, though, there has  been an increase in the number of articles being published on bonded labour in South Asia (click here, and here, AND here!). That public attention to an important issue has given myself and the rest of the office something to celebrate over these past few days.   

Knot Four: I keep meeting interesting people. Like a three year old girl named Swastika. Her parents explained that the swastika symbol is an auspicious sign for the Hindu god called Lord Ganesh, revered as the Remover of Obstacles. His elephant head makes him easy to recognize. Swastika’s parents seemed a bit concerned about any future travel plans she may make to Germany. I also met a holder of a Guinness World Record. He earned his title for having the largest mass of bees on his body at one time. So I bought some of his honey.

This is Lord Ganesh in household idol form:

 Knot Five: In the past couple months, my ears have slowly become attuned to the larger, public conversations swirling all around this city: things like gender issues, labour issues, joint family systems, generation gaps, public education, and imperialism are thought about and discussed. As a Sociology student in college, a lot of these topics are familiar, but being in a different part of the world is throwing them into a completely new light for me.

Amidst the knots of my life, there is so much space for Hope. Hope is in the bonded labour articles I mentioned above, and the implications they have on the awareness of bonded labour as a national issue. It is in the promise of getting an air conditioner installed this month. It is in the fact that Indian food has not made me sick for weeks. It is in the beautiful blossoms of the red silk cotton trees all over the city.

There is so much room for prayer here. If you pray, pray for people in power to respond well to bonded labour in South Asia. Pray that I see culture shock as a series of chances to learn; to learn about another culture, to learn about God’s creativity, to learn about myself. And please, pray for strength as my body adjusts to the heat (it’s really quite pathetic)!

More to come!

Sincerely,

Alice

Interested in supporting this year? Follow this link to learn more.