It is a dreamlike feeling, the moment when pure silence replaces the overstimulating sights, smells, and sounds that have been crowding my ears and brain for almost three weeks now. Car horns blaring, vendors shouting, children screaming, flies buzzing, rain falling, monkeys screetching...I saw feet, eyes, saris, dirt, dogs, doors...nothing moves in tandom. In India, there is no rhythm. Just chaos. Randomness.
36 hours after flying out of Delhi, I am sitting on the opposite side of the world in pure silence. I hear only the sound of my keyboard, see only the movement of my fingers typing. Just peace. Simplicity.
In this quite state, I am finally able to begin processing all that I experienced in India. I can finally replay all the conversations in my head and picture faces, places without anything interrupting me. Our group learned about many topics: India's healthcare system, rural and urban health, homelessness, slum communities, gender roles, religion, stigmas agaisnt HIV/AIDS, homosexuality, education, what challenges all of these factors create in society and what solutions are being implemented to help improve society.
Many more posts will come as we all gain back our ability to focus and reflect on our work at St. Stephen's. It was a wonderful trip- educative, eye-opening, challenging- and I can never express enough gratitude to the people of St. Stephen's Hospital, St. Stephen's USA, and my group for all their hard work and selfless support.
Namaste.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Community Hero
About 100 boys line up in perfect rows, shortest to tallest, exact arms length apart. Two young boys lead the class in prayers- eyes closed, hands clasped straight together.
Ai maalik tere bandhe hun
Dear God, we are children, help us to be on the right path
This is St. Stephen's Child-to-Child Education, where young boys and girls teach each other to supplement poor government academics and enhance overall education through art, sports, and character development.Under the direction of Melody and Akanksha, we are leading a workshop with the students. Objective: teach them what it means to be a true community hero and enable them to express their own understanding of a hero through art.
As Melody and Akanksha lead the group in discussion (English then Hindi), the boys squat, paying such close attention, I am impressed by their discipline and desire to learn. "A hero has these values: love, joy, determination, honesty, kindness, humility."
The student teacher boldfully follows their lead and explains, "just like when your mother uses all the ingredients to cook a meal, these values are the ingredients that must be present, all together, to make a hero."
We transition into the art portion of the workshop- wooden slats are laid on top of the worn mats and the boys sit side by side eagerly awaiting their paper and pencils. We hand out newly purchased oil pastels and watch as the boys take hold of this rare opportunity to express themselves through art. Some don't know how to draw. Some can't grasp the concept of conveying a hero through art... proof that they are not taught or encouraged in the arts through poor government schooling. And proof that St. Stephen's is expanding their world, their opportunities.
In the end, we give a prize to a little boy, Shazat, who drew a beautiful sketch of Ghandi. What is a community hero? In the words of St. Stephen's students...
A hero is someone who takes care of his community, loves his community, and is honest.
A hero is someone who loves his community, takes care of his parents and takes care of his grandparents.
Ai maalik tere bandhe hun
Dear God, we are children, help us to be on the right path
This is St. Stephen's Child-to-Child Education, where young boys and girls teach each other to supplement poor government academics and enhance overall education through art, sports, and character development.Under the direction of Melody and Akanksha, we are leading a workshop with the students. Objective: teach them what it means to be a true community hero and enable them to express their own understanding of a hero through art.
As Melody and Akanksha lead the group in discussion (English then Hindi), the boys squat, paying such close attention, I am impressed by their discipline and desire to learn. "A hero has these values: love, joy, determination, honesty, kindness, humility."
The student teacher boldfully follows their lead and explains, "just like when your mother uses all the ingredients to cook a meal, these values are the ingredients that must be present, all together, to make a hero."
We transition into the art portion of the workshop- wooden slats are laid on top of the worn mats and the boys sit side by side eagerly awaiting their paper and pencils. We hand out newly purchased oil pastels and watch as the boys take hold of this rare opportunity to express themselves through art. Some don't know how to draw. Some can't grasp the concept of conveying a hero through art... proof that they are not taught or encouraged in the arts through poor government schooling. And proof that St. Stephen's is expanding their world, their opportunities.
In the end, we give a prize to a little boy, Shazat, who drew a beautiful sketch of Ghandi. What is a community hero? In the words of St. Stephen's students...
A hero is someone who takes care of his community, loves his community, and is honest.
A hero is someone who loves his community, takes care of his parents and takes care of his grandparents.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Bhobal Shatabdi
4:00 am. Six of us roll off our respective beds after a much-too-short-night's-sleep. Our train leaves the "new" New Delhi station at 6:15 and we don't want to risk anything on this chance to see the Taj Mahal. The station doesn't look so new- it is a haven for the homeless. Don't be duped the "Deluxe Toilet" sign lit brightly over the entrance.
We spent the day touring Agra with Harsheit, a quiet, gentle young man who helps run the family business. Older brother finds tourists fresh off the train, bargains the price, then brings them to the car where Harsheit awaits. Today is his lucky day- six women with lots of bags and twice as much ambition. We go to the Taj Mahal first, embracing the majesty of the ancient monument to love, connecting with the spirituality as our bare feet step across the cool marble. The magic faded with each ray of sun that began to break through the morning clouds. Within minutes we were drenched in sweat. Time to move. Eat a popsicle. Jump in the air conditioned car.
We continue to tour Agra: Agra Fort, Dayal Bagh, Imad-ud-daulah, handicraft market, and finally Costa Coffee- the best Italian coffee from the UK in India… since 1971.
Finally we’re on the train home, feet aching, eyes heavy, stomachs growling. The train staff runs back and forth handing out bottled water, then dinner next. A tray falls in front of me and as I survey my options, I slowly begin to realize… where is the spoon? why is the package opened? why is the foil folded back on the tin container?
It is true: people do not waste in India. Even on the trains. Apparently I had been served someone’s leftovers from the earlier ride. My appetite quickly faded and I submit to the happy peace and tiredness this day has brought. I wrap up in my shawl, cold from the AC that has now dried my sweat-soaked clothes, and follow the yellow sliver of a moon out the window, all the way back to Delhi.
We spent the day touring Agra with Harsheit, a quiet, gentle young man who helps run the family business. Older brother finds tourists fresh off the train, bargains the price, then brings them to the car where Harsheit awaits. Today is his lucky day- six women with lots of bags and twice as much ambition. We go to the Taj Mahal first, embracing the majesty of the ancient monument to love, connecting with the spirituality as our bare feet step across the cool marble. The magic faded with each ray of sun that began to break through the morning clouds. Within minutes we were drenched in sweat. Time to move. Eat a popsicle. Jump in the air conditioned car.
We continue to tour Agra: Agra Fort, Dayal Bagh, Imad-ud-daulah, handicraft market, and finally Costa Coffee- the best Italian coffee from the UK in India… since 1971.
Finally we’re on the train home, feet aching, eyes heavy, stomachs growling. The train staff runs back and forth handing out bottled water, then dinner next. A tray falls in front of me and as I survey my options, I slowly begin to realize… where is the spoon? why is the package opened? why is the foil folded back on the tin container?
It is true: people do not waste in India. Even on the trains. Apparently I had been served someone’s leftovers from the earlier ride. My appetite quickly faded and I submit to the happy peace and tiredness this day has brought. I wrap up in my shawl, cold from the AC that has now dried my sweat-soaked clothes, and follow the yellow sliver of a moon out the window, all the way back to Delhi.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Jayshree
I met a woman today named Jayshree. Drive past the city of Gurgaon, into the state of Haryana, into the village of Dhankot, and you will find her there- a few yards down the cobblestone path, marked with trash and cow manure. Turn right up the sandy drive and through the tall, iron gate to enter upon a gray cement house freshly under renovation.
We cautiously sat in the foam-cushioned chairs. One, two, three, four foreign faces lined perfectly against the wall. Jayshee entered the room, taller than any Indian womanb I have ever seen, drapped in a yellow-green sari; a pink scarf wrapped around her head. Her unexpectedly soft voice begins telling a story...
She had to flee her family due to a situation undisclosed to our estranged ears.
She and her husband were struggling to make ends meet, but she was forbidden to leave the home.
She began sneaking out to attend a women's self-help group.
One day, desparate for money, she got a loan from the group.
She bought a buffalo.
Steady income began coming into the home.
We walk around back to see six buffalo now lounging in the yard. Beautiful buffalos that are Jayshree's pride, her hope for all things better than before...
Her husband no longer restricts her to the home
They have two children attending English-medium school
Every member of her once ostericized family now wants to come live in the gorgeous home
"Madam showed me the way when I thought there was no hope. I owe this all to her." Jayshree's eyes swell with tears and I cry for the hope she has restored for humankind, for women, for me.
'Madam' is Seema Shibappan, the director of the microfinance program for St. Stephen's Integrated Rural Health Development Center. She is the buffalo, the grocery store, the linen shop... she is the hope for the women of Dhankot village.
We cautiously sat in the foam-cushioned chairs. One, two, three, four foreign faces lined perfectly against the wall. Jayshee entered the room, taller than any Indian womanb I have ever seen, drapped in a yellow-green sari; a pink scarf wrapped around her head. Her unexpectedly soft voice begins telling a story...
She had to flee her family due to a situation undisclosed to our estranged ears.
She and her husband were struggling to make ends meet, but she was forbidden to leave the home.
She began sneaking out to attend a women's self-help group.
One day, desparate for money, she got a loan from the group.
She bought a buffalo.
Steady income began coming into the home.
We walk around back to see six buffalo now lounging in the yard. Beautiful buffalos that are Jayshree's pride, her hope for all things better than before...
Her husband no longer restricts her to the home
They have two children attending English-medium school
Every member of her once ostericized family now wants to come live in the gorgeous home
"Madam showed me the way when I thought there was no hope. I owe this all to her." Jayshree's eyes swell with tears and I cry for the hope she has restored for humankind, for women, for me.
'Madam' is Seema Shibappan, the director of the microfinance program for St. Stephen's Integrated Rural Health Development Center. She is the buffalo, the grocery store, the linen shop... she is the hope for the women of Dhankot village.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Celebrity Status in the Slums
It's fascinating to walk through the streets of the slum and have people boldly step up to me, ask my name-“Hello Madam. What is your name?”-, and shake my hand. Some tap my shoulder and ask me to take a picture of them -- others simply stand and stare, eyeing the camera and my face with evident curiosity.
Oftentimes when standing inside a building, I will turn around to see six, seven, and sometimes more people of all ages craning their heads in at the door to get a better look at us. From surly old men with bushy eyebrows to little naked children hanging on to each other, all are united in the goal of attempting to understand the strange foreigners' reasons for being present in their community.
Indians have no fear of vehicles and utter disregard for any traffic laws Americans may hold sacred. And they certainly have no qualms concerning following people. Even while the car is driving down the street, people rush around it, touching the sides and staring in the windows. When the car is parked, some will stay around and wait for us to exit, even when we spend many more minutes in the car. Yesterday, I got out of the car and a child walked up to me. I waited for the others on my team to join me for a while and then continued. The child followed, only a few inches away from me. I stopped. He stopped. I walked. He walked. I walked around the team and he did the same, never getting very far away from me, always staring at me with a hopeful expression. [After the first day when two boys attached themselves to me not even half an hour after arriving, I realized that most children harbor the hope that the foreigners will bring with them “chocolate?”.] Not until I reached the Community Health Centre did the little boy disappointedly turn away.
Ever so amusing are the moments when I catch a child staring at me. I smile, wave, and feel silent giggle bubble shoot between us as their eyes widen, their face breaks into a smile, and they frantically return the wave while turning their head to yell to another something surely along the lines of “The funny-looking foreigner saw me and waved”.
I don't believe they could possibly get as much entertainment from seeing me as I do them.
What friendly people! What precious lives!
- Camellia
Oftentimes when standing inside a building, I will turn around to see six, seven, and sometimes more people of all ages craning their heads in at the door to get a better look at us. From surly old men with bushy eyebrows to little naked children hanging on to each other, all are united in the goal of attempting to understand the strange foreigners' reasons for being present in their community.
Indians have no fear of vehicles and utter disregard for any traffic laws Americans may hold sacred. And they certainly have no qualms concerning following people. Even while the car is driving down the street, people rush around it, touching the sides and staring in the windows. When the car is parked, some will stay around and wait for us to exit, even when we spend many more minutes in the car. Yesterday, I got out of the car and a child walked up to me. I waited for the others on my team to join me for a while and then continued. The child followed, only a few inches away from me. I stopped. He stopped. I walked. He walked. I walked around the team and he did the same, never getting very far away from me, always staring at me with a hopeful expression. [After the first day when two boys attached themselves to me not even half an hour after arriving, I realized that most children harbor the hope that the foreigners will bring with them “chocolate?”.] Not until I reached the Community Health Centre did the little boy disappointedly turn away.
Ever so amusing are the moments when I catch a child staring at me. I smile, wave, and feel silent giggle bubble shoot between us as their eyes widen, their face breaks into a smile, and they frantically return the wave while turning their head to yell to another something surely along the lines of “The funny-looking foreigner saw me and waved”.
I don't believe they could possibly get as much entertainment from seeing me as I do them.
What friendly people! What precious lives!
- Camellia
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Children Should Be Loved
On Sunday night, we ate at the United Coffee House in Connaught Place.
We exited the restaurant and headed off to where Micheal, our driver, was waiting. A few seconds after leaving the doors of the restaurant, a little girl sidled up alongside me. Her slight figure and the way she incessantly babbled in Hindi bespoke of no more than five years of age, but then again, many Indians I've seen here are relatively small.
Surprised at her presence, I smiled, greeted her, and continued on my way.
She followed, looking up at me with a sweet face, swinging her arms, still talking unceasingly in a sing-song voice.
“Lauren”, I called, “Look what's following me home”.
“Ignore her. Don't give her anything. Just keep walking.”
We arrived at the car. The little one stared, still talking in Hindi, as we climbed in and started the car. A little beggar girl.
Akanksha called. She was at Connaught Place and would meet us at the parking lot, We stayed, the car thrumming with life while a little brown face continued to peep through the window.
It unnerved me, this inability to give this little girl anything because we didn't know the outcome. She had obviously been trained to beg. Was she owned by another? Would they take everything she earned?
I wanted so much to look her in the face, but acknowledgment of her presence would only serve to further her attempts.
I wanted to look into her eyes, to see the burden in her face, to ask her if she would let me take her away to a better place.
I wondered if I gazed into her eyes, if the windows to her soul would tell me how old her heart was.
Her persistence is to be commended. For the ten minutes we sat in the car, waiting for Akanksha, she was outside our window, pleading in childish tones, knocking on the window.
Another little girl, perhaps a few years older and carrying a baby not much smaller than herself, joined her. The three soon became four as a little boy entered the game of survival.
Beseeching. Knocking. Hitting the car. Attempting to open the doors.
The poor, poor children. Sent here to beg from foreigners in order to survive. Trained to use their youth and innocence to feed another. Reminiscent of Fagin's band of children in Oliver Twist, stealing for the hierarchy of the streets, stealing to stay alive.
It literally hurt to see these children in such a state. Children should be loved. They should be cared for and have no lack of necessities. They should be disciplined and taught whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report.
They should be loved.
I am so grateful to Dr. Joseph, Dr. Kumar, and the staff at St. Stephen's Hospital and Community Health Center. They truly love the children and seek to provide them with the best lives possible. Many lives have been blessed through their work and only time will tell the enormity of their impact.
I doubt I will ever see those children again. But I will never forget the first-hand glimpse they provided me of the injustice and corruptness in the world.
Children should be loved.
- Camellia
We exited the restaurant and headed off to where Micheal, our driver, was waiting. A few seconds after leaving the doors of the restaurant, a little girl sidled up alongside me. Her slight figure and the way she incessantly babbled in Hindi bespoke of no more than five years of age, but then again, many Indians I've seen here are relatively small.
Surprised at her presence, I smiled, greeted her, and continued on my way.
She followed, looking up at me with a sweet face, swinging her arms, still talking unceasingly in a sing-song voice.
“Lauren”, I called, “Look what's following me home”.
“Ignore her. Don't give her anything. Just keep walking.”
We arrived at the car. The little one stared, still talking in Hindi, as we climbed in and started the car. A little beggar girl.
Akanksha called. She was at Connaught Place and would meet us at the parking lot, We stayed, the car thrumming with life while a little brown face continued to peep through the window.
It unnerved me, this inability to give this little girl anything because we didn't know the outcome. She had obviously been trained to beg. Was she owned by another? Would they take everything she earned?
I wanted so much to look her in the face, but acknowledgment of her presence would only serve to further her attempts.
I wanted to look into her eyes, to see the burden in her face, to ask her if she would let me take her away to a better place.
I wondered if I gazed into her eyes, if the windows to her soul would tell me how old her heart was.
Her persistence is to be commended. For the ten minutes we sat in the car, waiting for Akanksha, she was outside our window, pleading in childish tones, knocking on the window.
Another little girl, perhaps a few years older and carrying a baby not much smaller than herself, joined her. The three soon became four as a little boy entered the game of survival.
Beseeching. Knocking. Hitting the car. Attempting to open the doors.
The poor, poor children. Sent here to beg from foreigners in order to survive. Trained to use their youth and innocence to feed another. Reminiscent of Fagin's band of children in Oliver Twist, stealing for the hierarchy of the streets, stealing to stay alive.
It literally hurt to see these children in such a state. Children should be loved. They should be cared for and have no lack of necessities. They should be disciplined and taught whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report.
They should be loved.
I am so grateful to Dr. Joseph, Dr. Kumar, and the staff at St. Stephen's Hospital and Community Health Center. They truly love the children and seek to provide them with the best lives possible. Many lives have been blessed through their work and only time will tell the enormity of their impact.
I doubt I will ever see those children again. But I will never forget the first-hand glimpse they provided me of the injustice and corruptness in the world.
Children should be loved.
- Camellia
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
"Didi!"
St. Stephen's Community Health Center offers an amazing variety of programs for the people in their slum, including the: Elderly Center, General O.P.D., Women's Empowerment Scheme, Fashion Institute, Daycare, Child to Child Education Program, Spice Production, RCH, and Research Team.
My personal favorites were the Daycare and Child to Child Education Program.
The Child to Child program serves close to 1,000 children everyday, and astounding number of those unable to attend government-run schools. The children are divided into “batches” of approximately seventy individuals, and each batch is assigned a time slot for school. In this way, 1,000 students receive training that they would receive in a normal school everyday.
Perhaps the most startling aspect of the Child to Child Education Program is the source of its teachers. Students who have gone through the program and its training are the teachers – they understand the importance of good education and the effect the Child to Child Education Program has on their community. Therefore, the teenagers who could be out in the slums creating havoc, smoking, and bumming around are in the schools, teaching and mentoring the children who look up to them.
What a beautiful picture of community! The Community Health Center now has a fantastic education program that benefits all, and the cycle will continue prosperously.
As an individual who loves children and seeks to see them all as blessings, the Daycare was an especially heart-tugging place to be. When I walked into the room, all the children looked up from their little blackboards and gave such loud squeals of delight, some even jumping up from the tables and running over to me. Whether they do this to every visitor or because I looked so different, I will never know.
The children ran around me, tugging on my sleeves and skirt, reaching eager fingers towards the lens of my camera. I wanted so much to wrap my arms around each child, thanking them for sharing their child-like joy when they had so little else.
Their teachers graciously allowed me to lead their class into distraction, their students leaving the lesson on leaves and running around in a frenzy.
“Didi [big sister], take a picture of me,” they called, shoving each other out of the way of the lens. Their big eyes crinkled with laughter when I turned the camera around to show them themselves and they shrieked in mock horror before posing once again.
Hours later, when the tour was completed, I walked through the streets of the slum, observing the swarms of flies that rose from the piles of trash, not unlike how I envisioned the plague of flies during the Ten Plagues. Babies picked up rocks and threw them at the cowering stray dogs that lined the streets. Others stopped to gawk at the foreigners, staring at the camera and camcorder.
A little girl from the Daycare was dragged along the road by her mother. “Didi!”, she called out to me with outstretched arms before disappearing around a bend.
Didi.
It broke my heart.
- Camellia
My personal favorites were the Daycare and Child to Child Education Program.
The Child to Child program serves close to 1,000 children everyday, and astounding number of those unable to attend government-run schools. The children are divided into “batches” of approximately seventy individuals, and each batch is assigned a time slot for school. In this way, 1,000 students receive training that they would receive in a normal school everyday.
Perhaps the most startling aspect of the Child to Child Education Program is the source of its teachers. Students who have gone through the program and its training are the teachers – they understand the importance of good education and the effect the Child to Child Education Program has on their community. Therefore, the teenagers who could be out in the slums creating havoc, smoking, and bumming around are in the schools, teaching and mentoring the children who look up to them.
What a beautiful picture of community! The Community Health Center now has a fantastic education program that benefits all, and the cycle will continue prosperously.
As an individual who loves children and seeks to see them all as blessings, the Daycare was an especially heart-tugging place to be. When I walked into the room, all the children looked up from their little blackboards and gave such loud squeals of delight, some even jumping up from the tables and running over to me. Whether they do this to every visitor or because I looked so different, I will never know.
The children ran around me, tugging on my sleeves and skirt, reaching eager fingers towards the lens of my camera. I wanted so much to wrap my arms around each child, thanking them for sharing their child-like joy when they had so little else.
Their teachers graciously allowed me to lead their class into distraction, their students leaving the lesson on leaves and running around in a frenzy.
“Didi [big sister], take a picture of me,” they called, shoving each other out of the way of the lens. Their big eyes crinkled with laughter when I turned the camera around to show them themselves and they shrieked in mock horror before posing once again.
Hours later, when the tour was completed, I walked through the streets of the slum, observing the swarms of flies that rose from the piles of trash, not unlike how I envisioned the plague of flies during the Ten Plagues. Babies picked up rocks and threw them at the cowering stray dogs that lined the streets. Others stopped to gawk at the foreigners, staring at the camera and camcorder.
A little girl from the Daycare was dragged along the road by her mother. “Didi!”, she called out to me with outstretched arms before disappearing around a bend.
Didi.
It broke my heart.
- Camellia
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