Lighting My Own Fires

I've been trying to research slum burnings for the past hour to get an idea of the history behind this practice, specifically in Kolkata, India. From the perspective of municipal officials, the existence of slum settlements are an undesirable eyesore occupying valuable land in already overcrowded cities; while there is such a thing as "authorized" slums, where tenants pay taxes and rent, there are many more unauthorized squatter communities where families do not have access to basic amenities, including water, sanitation, and electricity.

There have been movements over the years to reduce the presence of slum communities in Kolkata and cities around the world. In India, a country that has struggled to promote their identity as a global power and modern country, slum residences belie the millions of men, women, and children living in abject poverty beneath the economic boom.

One strategy for development are "slum demolitions," where entire communities are bulldozed to the ground without warning. Illegal squatters, or families, as I like to call them, have no rights to the land.

This may be what happened in the Bidhan Nagar Slum in Kolkata. Nobody knows for sure what started the fire that burned down the entire community, destroying all of the worldly possessions these families had. Fires are fairly common in slum communities, where families cook over fires in ill-ventilated huts. Sometimes, authorities use this fact to their advantage - there is no way of proving who or what ignited the flames.

Brother Mahadeb has been working in this community, raising up local leadership and teaching classes in the newly constructed school building. I have met some of the residents of this community, seen their daughters dance and their sons dreams of something more than the life of their fathers. Today, thousands of these residents are without homes, and the community is shattered.

Mahadeb and his wife Rita are one of the most amazing couples I have ever met. Their love for God, for his people, and for each other is truly incredible and merits another blog post sometime. They are dedicated to helping the families of this tragedy in any way possible, but they will need your financial resources. If you are able, please consider sending a check payable to Good Shepherd Ministries care of:

MAHADEB & RITA MONDAL
327, LAXIMINARAYAN ROAD.
P.O. RABINDRANAGAR.
NEAR SHIBTALA PRIMARY SCHOOL
KOLKATA – 700065

They also need your prayers. We have a powerful God who cares for the plight of the poor so much that we must seek relationship with them to seek Him. Regardless of our financial situations, we always have that ability to give. As long as we don't let that keep us from action...

Wanting to Be Her

When I was little, I wanted to look like Jasmine. I thought she was by far the prettiest Disney princess with her flowing black tresses, dark skin, huge brown almond eyes, curvaceous figure - and she got to wear a pretty sexy ensemble. Normally a very sharing child, I would sometimes hide the coveted Jasmine Barbie when friends came by to protect her from being damaged. Later, my sister and I would reenact the scenes from the movie with our now headless Ken (since Cory had thrown it out the window).

Of course, out of all the Disney princesses, she looked the least like me. I was reminded of this painful reality every year on the first warm day when everyone busted out their shorts, and my skinny little stick white legs were the scorn of so many jokes. Rather than bronze my body, the summer sun brought out the freckles across the bridge of my nose. And it did nothing for the rest of me. It got worse as I got older and more conscious of how much I didn’t look like society’s expectations of a golden goddess, especially once I started working as a lifeguard. I remember one patron coming up to me and joking, “must be your first day here, huh? You need a tan!”

[Actually, a-hole, I’ve been working since April. I’m on the swim team, I teach lessons, and I’m here all the time because I’m the head lifeguard. And I once got somebody arrested for diving in the shallow end. (True story.) Do you really want to continue this conversation?]

So it figures that I would eventually end up in India, surrounded by millions of women who look much like Jasmine. I don’t believe a more beautiful population exists in all the earth. Even women living in the depths of poverty looked to me like they could step off the cover of a magazine. I, on the other hand, had sweat pimples, flat hair, glow-in-the-dark skin, and constant wardrobe malfunctions (Indian women never get dirty or flash people on accident, but I did both of those things with frequency). If I had never felt very pretty before, this just amplified every insecurity l had ever experienced.

But in a bizarre twist of irony, my fair skin was highly valued and noticed in Indian society. I was stared at everywhere I went, and sometimes a lot more than stared at. It didn’t make me feel beautiful, just uncomfortable and even more irritated that I couldn’t fit in the community I so badly wanted to be a part of.

And then, I was blessed with one of those iconic moments that define the rest of your life. I was shopping for bangles to take home as presents; the girl at the shop – she looked about my age – took my arm and said, you have such beautiful skin. Taken aback, I looked at her more intently and realized that here in front of me was the spitting image of Jasmine, and she was even lovelier in person. So I told her that I had actually always wanted to have smooth dark skin and eyes like her own. No no no, she replied, I am so ugly. Too dark, so ugly.

It didn’t make me feel beautiful, just sad and disturbed by the colonization and multi-billion dollar tanning industry that had led to this very moment.

Both of us had been told by our native lands that we were not beautiful, that we were made the entirely wrong color altogether. We had been offered products to reverse the mistake from billboards high above, looking down on our inferior complexions. When these did not work, we took to self-loathing.

For so long I had wanted to be her, and when we finally met, it turned out that she had always wanted to be me.

10-Rupee Thrill

did you feel something new last night

as we huddled close in prayer

wondering what it would be like to be you

begging that you would know that someone cared

I feel like I know you already

you look like Manju and Sabatri and Kalpana and Usha

and their stories have become yours

lives unwanted and discarded by a society as stuck

as my own

did I walk past you once

thinking how beautiful you were

with your dark skin eyes hair lashes

haunted by the eyes of a girl

who has known too many men for such an age

raped of her childhood

and dignity

and worth

and the truth that she is beloved

do you know that I’m still thinking of you

as I awake this morning

comfortable and clothed

alone in my own bed

while you go to work once again

in the arms of a stranger

looking for a 10-rupee thrill

Trekimony

I was recently asked to write up my Trek testimony - in one page. How could I summarize the TREK in one page?? So many stories were cut - how God answered prayers in unbelievable ways, bizarre experiences where I was left powerless and vulnerable, meeting Jesus in the form of a two-year-old with lice and a thirteen-year-old in a dim hut, funny moments where I cried from laughing, not-so-funny moments where I cried for many other reasons. But the exercise of remembering encouraged me to reflect on where I've come from, and where I'm going next. I don't know the answer to the latter, but I've got a feeling that the best is yet to come...the following story may be the most important one I ever tell.




I first traveled to Kolkata, India in the summer of 2007, following a lifelong interest in India and passion for working with the poor. I would be working with the Compassion Service Society of India, teaching children and adolescent women living in a slum community inhabited by the Dalit, or “untouchables” of Indian society. Even after abolishing the caste system, Dalit men and women work in “unclean” jobs, with sanitation and housekeeping, and their children are often unable to attend the regular schooling required to find better jobs.

In the era of Bono and the One Campaign, I think ending poverty has been a bit glamorized. But living and working in Kolkata is anything but glamorous. Trudging through flooded streets, overpowered by the scent of curry, vendors, and human misery of the streets, and plagued by big red sweat pimples, I sometimes wondered what I was doing there. As an American woman with very fair skin, I stood out and was targeted by male passersby. Even with all of my education and training in microfinance and community development, I felt helpless to make a tangible difference in the lives of the kids and teenagers I was working with.

They called me “Miss January,” and eagerly gathered each day for lessons in English and math. One young woman asked to work with me everyday, though she never acted like she liked me very much. Usha acted more like an ornery younger sister, making fun of my butchered Bengali and “tsking” her tongue at my silly dancing and vocabulary lessons. But as I watched her labor over the same simple math problems and copying the same English words, I came to realize that we had a special connection. Right before we left, she took my Bible and wrote her name in the back. I opened to that page every so often, and smiled as I thought of her – wondering if she had even known what Book she had held in her hands.

A few weeks after I returned to the U.S., Usha passed away unexpectedly from a fever. I was crushed by the news, and mourned being so far away from the community in this time. The best I could do was write Shaji, my host father and the leader of CSSI in Kolkata, and try to express to him how much I shared in their sadness. I mentioned the inscription in my Bible as a fond memory of her – almost as an afterthought.

When Shaji responded, he shared with me that after the team had left, Usha had wanted to know more about the Jesus we stood for – why did we, as privileged Americans, choose to come and share in the joys and struggles of their community? What was this Love that we had so often referred to and tried to show through our actions? And within a few weeks, Usha accepted that Love into her heart – as Shaji wrote,“when Usha wrote her name in your Bible, God was writing her name in the Book of Life.”

Usha’s story illuminates the core of the gospel. We are required to fight the injustices of physical and spiritual poverty through the Good News. We cannot share the gospel without bringing opportunities for education, employment, and empowerment, but projects that neglect the reason for the mission are just as empty. Usha was 15-years-old, and her life was ended far too early from a simple, preventable illness caused by poverty. But she has been given eternal life through the love of Jesus Christ, something that was demonstrated through laying down our own American privilege to work in the very lowest of places. It was as simple as that. In the end, it wasn’t my education, my abilities, or my money, but the power of Jesus to transcend linguistic, culture, social, and religious barriers that made the difference. And I experienced Jesus, too, by following Him to walk among the least of these.

“As you go, preach this message: ‘The kingdom of heaven is near.’ Heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse those who have leprosy, drive out demons. Freely you have received, freely give.” (Matt. 10:6-8).

Come join the adventure.