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.
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