09.20.10 *FOUND

Beth Jennings has recently opened up a center providing shelter, education and vocational training for homeless women and their children here in Dhaka. CUP which stands for Children's Uplift Programme is strategically located blocks away from an area similar to a town square where many people gather to shop or pray, or for the homeless, sleep. It is not safe and many are abused and sexually exploited. It is a desperate situation as many of these young women are young mothers with one or more small children. Many have no husbands or have been abandoned. Some are widowed, some have run away from even worse living situations. Some have turned to prostitution as a means to provide food for themselves and their children. After spending time with women on the streets and talking to other NGOs, Beth decided that what they needed was a safe place. Regardless of their circumstances or what lead them there, all are in need of a nutritious meal, a warm shower and a place to feel safe and loved. 

CUP is truly a shelter. The space is clean and welcoming. It smells like something is always simmering in the kitchen. Within minutes, a child will be pulling on your pant leg. Old saris are stacked colorfully in corners about the shelter waiting to be sewed in to kantha blankets. Many women here are learning to make these traditional blankets which are sold through partner organizations such as Hand & Cloth to produce income for the women. In addition to vocational training, many are learning to read and write for the first time in their life. They also learn to make seed bead jewelry and are busily threading string after string of colorful beads. Some have babies in their laps or nestled in blankets near by. In the next room, their children are playing, sleeping, eating or are just taking it all in. There are also educational programs for the children that aren't able to attend school. Above all else, it is clear that the focus here is on love. And for many, it is the first time in their lives they have ever felt loved.

Beth said that when CUP first opened, the women were very territorial and harsh towards one another and their children. During lunch they would never sit together, instead protecting their food. You live with a different set of rules on the street, so when kindness is shown to you, you expect it too will be taken away. Trust is hard to rebuild and habits die hard. CUP mandates that if the women commit to the program which provides a salary for the products they produce, they must take apartments and leave the streets, thus initiating a two-sided commitment. As the center has shown its steadfast support for each of the women, they see that this place is different, that this love is real and that their lives can change.

Every day is different and full of challenges, but the transformation that Beth has seen in these women's lives over the last year is enough to keep her committed to these women and the many others CUP hopes to reach through eventually opening up another center. The time I spent with Beth and these courageous women was so inspiring. Not speaking any Bangla, they welcomed me to sit among them, hold their babies, communicating with laughter and love and creativity. Beauty found!

To read more about CUP and how you can support its mighty work, visit:

http://www.sim.org/index.php/project/98336

09.19.10 *LOST AND FOUND part 2 of 2

On the meaning of neighbor. Part 2.

Many non-governmental agencies and foundations are established to meet the needs of humanity that cannot or will not be met by government programs. Political corruption and economic greed are common causes of neglect for one's citizens. Of course corruption exists within NGOs, but at their core, NGOs are founded on empathy. They stand in the gap for those that have no voice or means.

Private hospitals have sprung up all over Bangladesh as a reaction and response to the conditions described in the previous post. Some of these are specifically for those that can pay, but many are for all persons in need.

Diane has come to know Miriam, a 9 year-old girl who cannot walk and has no wheelchair. This means her very slight mother must carry her about.

Enter, CRP—Center for the Rehabilitation of the Paralyzed

CRP was started by Valerie Taylor in 1979 in response to the massive need for services for the disabled population of Bangladesh. This is a country where workers build multi-storied structures without helmets or harnessing, where an unwieldy amount of people jam streets crowded with packed rickshaws, buses and bicycles. There are many sub-standard working conditions which give-way to disability, not to mention those that are simply born with complications. Furthermore, this is a society which marginalized those with disabilities, they are hidden away as an embarrassment or curse on the family. Up until one mighty woman stepped forward to literally get rolling, there was nothing. CRP has single-handedly changed the face of disability in Bangladesh. No one in need is turned away regardless of wealth or status. All are treated equally.

Diane has arranged for Miriam to receive her very own, custom-fitted wheelchair! While Miriam was being specially fitted for her wheelchair, we toured the massive compound. Simply-stated, it was mind-blowing. The medical aspect in and of itself is fully comprehensive from surgery through rehabilitation. Each patient is handled holistically, not just medically. Patients who receive treatment will be given environmental therapy relevant to their varied living situations. Every detail is thought of. The therapy options are equally endless: physical, psychological, vocational, educational, and occupational. Instead of slighted as useless to society, each of these patients is celebrated in their uniqueness and provided the best skills and equipment available for their comfort and development. Each of the wheelchairs are individually constructed by trained engineers from local materials. 

There are heaps of opportunities including: wheelchair basketball, equine therapy and art classes where students learn to paint with their mouths and feet. There are integrated schools where disabled students work right along side those without disabilities. There are vocational programs where students learn to sew, to garden, to build furniture, toys and wheelchairs. Many of those employed in the center started out here as patients themselves. In a world where they are set up to be forgotten, one woman made sure these human beings would be treated as human beings. Over thirty years later, there are now four centers throughout Bangladesh, 13 rehab hospitals, accident prevention centers, hundreds of students and specialists flock here to provide and receive training. Today, CRP receives international funding, accolade and support. All because one, mighty woman dared to stand up for those who literally couldn't stand up or speak up for themselves.

What a stark contrast to the misery of the government hospital! Three cheers for Diane who knew of this great NGO and for Valerie Taylor who tirelessly champions the value of each human being. Beauty found!

http://www.crp-bangladesh.org/

09.19.10 *LOST AND FOUND part 1 of 2

On the meaning of neighbor.

Bangladesh is a rural nation with a deep heritage in tribal living. They are people of the land—resourceful, industrious and community-based. When you fly in to the country you see waterways and rice patties for miles, many with small boats and thatched roof huts perched precariously on stilts hugging terracotta shores. Outside of the heaving cities, I imagine Bangladesh looks largely like it did a century ago. Sari-clad women tend about their clay huts with babies perched on their hips. Sinewy men pull in fishing nets. Market bazaars sell beautifully stacked collections of fruits and produce, baskets filled with live chickens are ready for tonight's meal. Small shops sell limited ready-made goods, bits of clothing and sweets. There's a tremendous sense of community in these places, and family trumps all. From an outsider's view, village life seems fluidly content. 

Tragically, out of economic need and desperation, many citizens are forced to leave their rural villages to seek employment opportunities in the city, which are usually always found. Bangladesh has a burgeoning garment industry and factories are always in need of more able workers. There is a constant influx of people in to the already congested cities. Such is the case with Dhaka. Many people stay with family members who have gone ahead of them, the very poor end up on the street in make-shift shanties along back-streets, alleys, riverbeds and railroads. "Home" is usually a couple pieces of tin, cardboard, a plastic tarp, a few things to cook with and maybe a blanket, vulnerable to the heat and the muddy monsoon rains. Women and children are frequently abandoned as their husbands set out on their quest for work leaving them especially vulnerable to exploitation. There are clusters of these make-shift shanties all over Dhaka, one which lines the road behind the Jenning's house. 

On his morning walks, James sometimes interacts with the people that live in this make-shift neighborhood, and he has found out that there is an elderly woman named Jovita who has come in to Dhaka to get medical help. She has broken her hip and there is no help for her in the village. She has children here in the city, and she is hoping they will help her get the surgery she will need. She spends her days listlessly lying on a wooden slat surrounded by flies, trash and merciless heat. While her children attempt to do what they can, they are unaware of their rights yet aware that an attempt to get their mother in to a hospital is nearly impossible. They know they will be treated poorly, lied to, unfairly charged and most likely neglected. Their fear causes greater neglect and Jovita's condition plummets.

Always hopeful, Diane however has decided to take Jovita in to the government-run hospital— meaning she will be treated regardless of ability to pay. While the idea is ideal, the reality of this hospital is something akin to a horror film. Forget everything you know of  modern medicine, think of your worst nightmare, and you've arrived at the public hospital in Bangladesh. Jammed corridors of sick and hurting people wait endless hours just to be told they can't be admitted, they won't be admitted, they will but they won't. Bribery is rampant. There are few chairs, even fewer wheelchairs, shabby, rusty, horrific piles of refuse and medical waste overflow into public areas. This place is ridden with anguish. There are rooms piled high with age old records amounting to nothing more than a fine feast for rats. You couldn't find a neon sign in that heap if you tried. This is not a scene for the faint of heart. It is a living battleground of filth and confusion. 

After several attempts, Diane has decided the tactic to admittance will be to say she will pay for the bed, and alas Jovita is admitted. It is now 3 weeks since her hip has been broken—neglect has caused bed sores, dysentery and pneumonia. Her body is depleted as are her spirits. The bed she is put in has no pillow, no privacy and she is surrounded by many others with equally desperate stories. The sounds of pain and suffering are her companions. The nurses here exist not so much to keep patients out of pain, but to follow unsympathetic doctors around whilst shuffling papers. 

But, Jovita has been promised an operation! Diane is checking in on her daily, chasing doctors and uplifting Jovita's spirits as much as possible. She shared that in the midst of all this misery, Jovita was quietly singing. Oh hope, from where do you spring? What would have happened had the Jennings passed this woman by? And how many thousands are left in the gutters each day? 

As a child who attended Sunday School weekly, I frequently heard the phrase, "Love your neighbor as yourself". Yet, rarely have I even known my neighbor's names. In these dirty halls of neglect, I have seen love pour through Diane's hands as she has loved her neighbor. Beauty found.

09.18.10 *LOST AND FOUND

Hello here I am, did you wonder where I went? I'll tell you... 

I have been in Bangladesh now close to 3 weeks. There is so much to share. Yet, I have found myself completely hung-up on how to share it all. That along with the hit and miss internet connection, further impeding timely blog updates. But let's catch up.

Every morning I enter a new day in Bangladesh with a new perception, yet by that very afternoon, I will have experienced something that will have me thinking quite the opposite. For instance, just this morning I stood in front of a classroom of bright-eyed 9 and 10 year-olds and left thinking, "Wow, what a bright future Bangladesh has!", but then on my way home I saw a heap of dead dogs and learned that they'd been "forked" to death simply because someone found them annoying. So instead, I think, "This country is barbaric!". And such has been my experience in this country. I see two sides of the coin almost every day. Desperation and hope. Darkness and light. Lost and found.

Bangladesh was born out of suffering and is a nation just shy of it's 40th birthday. Henry Kissinger famously referred to it as a "basket-case of a nation" in its early years.  It is the size of Wisconsin but holds a population of 160 million, and it is estimated that soon it will be the 5th most populated nation in the world. 40% live below the poverty line. Enveloped by India on all sides albeit the southern bay, it has been fought over, named and renamed, received and rejected and as a result is a land of resilient survivors. These people know who they are and are determined to climb out of the terrible cloak of poverty that was theirs out of the womb.

It has all the classic marks of an underdeveloped third world nation with all the abuses that poverty grants, however, there is something here that feels different. In comparison with the unwieldy and chaotic "cart before the horse" growth in India, Bangladesh is more of a workhorse. Slow and steadfast. While I have only been here a short while, most of my time has been spent under the wings of an unsung hero, Diane Jennings who showed and shared her Bangladesh with me, a nation she has called home for over 30 years. She along with her husband James arrived shortly after this country ceased life as East Pakistan and began life as the liberated nation of Bangladesh. They've raised their children here, learned the language, loved their neighbors, are loved by their neighbors, served the community and aside from the proper Anglo accent, are as close to being Bengali without being born of it.

While I sit and write this, a normal Saturday afternoon unfolds behind their house. Rickshaws tumble by, groups of half-naked children run by screaming and laughing, the mid-afternoon call to prayer cuts through the air, and a man has just folded-up his "lungi"  in to a perfect sort of gym short (a lungi is a continuous piece of folded fabric worn by men instead of pants), tied his machete to his back, put out his cigarette and promptly free-climbed up an 8 story coconut tree. Currently, I can't see him because he is so high up there. The only evidence of his lofty existence is the sporadic rain of coconuts thudding on the ground every few minutes. At the same time, luxury apartment buildings are springing up across the field, people walk by chattering on cell-phones, and I am sometimes connected to the world wide web.

This is Bangladesh. It is at once old and new. Forgotten and invested in. A heaving human ocean of blood, sweat and possibility. This is a place that does not wince at hard-work. Nor at the impossible. Their very existence depends on proving that basket-case or not, they are moving forward and steadfastly so.

BANGLADESH

XXXV

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;

Where knowledge is free;

Where the world has not been broken up in to fragments by narrow domestic walls;

Where words come out from the depth of truth;

Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;

Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;

Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action—

Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

--Gitanjali, Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)