The Unexpected Wind of Sadness :-(

Today is Sheikh Mujibur’s birthday. He is the “Father of the nation of Bangladesh” and founder of Bangladesh. He along with all of his family were murdered in 1975 with the exception of two of his daughters who were studying in Germany at the time. One of his daughters is  the Prime Minister of Bangladesh today.

  

Dhaka is in a sombre mood as this public holiday takes place, getting around today was such a breeze and it all happened so quickly, with very little traffic on the road there was no stress to get to my destinations. The rickshawallahs didn’t have to fight for space with cars and all other manner of transportation who all bully each other on the road most days causing horrific traffic jams for miles.

Typical dhaka traffic Jam 

I am feeling a bit sad though, on my way back from my language lesson I saw something which I didn’t expect, just as I was near home. I first noticed RAB-1 in there white pickup truck.  (Rapid Action Battalion are a special branch of police who are meant to be uncorrupt and are there to protect the people. They were trained by the British government. There have being many deaths in “cross-fire” by RAB which have brought there use of force under question.) 

RAB dressed in there usual menacing attire of all black outfits and a black mask covering there face with only a little of there eyes on show all holding there big guns. They were parked just near the lake which backs on to our house. 

I then looked onto the pavement a few feet a way from the parked pick up truck.

Lying on the pavement was a young boy, probably early teens. His wet body and posture indicated the unexpected. I suspect, he had recently drowned in the pond nearby. I recognised the old lady who stooped at his feet.  She is a very fragile looking lady who treats her cows better than she does her self because selling there milk is her source of income. 

The spolit cows.Eating chopped up vegetables

The old lady's residence. Open plan living I guess!

The other four people who stood and stooped near him I did not recognise.

It is common here for people to sleep where ever. Literally where ever! Whether it is the middle of the road, on the pavement, on a river bank, on there rickshaws, you name it, if they are tired, they sleep

rickshawwallah grab an afternoon nap

girl asleep in the rubbish

fisherman on the way to market

shopkeeper take a nap on the counter

.

I took another look at his life less body, hoping I was just imaging again, especially as there are two previous occasions where I had thought someone was dead and they were just asleep, in the most unusual of places of course.  And the floating body I witnessed in the water, turned out to be a shop manikin that was thrown into the lake. I was very relieved at this finding.

The difference is this time. It was no imagination or mistaken plastic identity. I was looking at the life less body of a young boy who had probably drowned. His eyes were rolled back in his head, he laid without movement on his back, in his soaking wet loongi and t-shirt, with his arms still by his side, his head propped up with two bricks from the near-by pile, and the people who looked stark at him, had faces which displayed emotions of sadness. How I wish I could understand there lost?

I imagine many thoughts were going through there mind as they grieve there loss, reminiscing on the life he has lived and wishful thoughts about his life ahead of him and maybe also a few thoughts of what economically his departure would mean for there family. Men are expected to be the breadwinners, his departure probably means they will have even less taka (money) to feed them selves. Boys that age in such poor families would have joined the work force by that age helping to support there families. The sadness of someone dying tends to be a sour taste in the mouth; I pray there sour taste has aspects of sweetness as they can see a light at the end of the tunnel.

Boy sifting through rubbish to find things to sell

Child at work in the brick industry

These people are part of the most vulnerable in society, the really poor who until recently lived in sheds by the lake but now find them self sleeping in the open air at night since the “government clean-up” began 2 months ago in preparation for  Bangladesh to host the cricket world cup. They sent the army and the police to break down the sheds in the name of beautification to impress there guests and create a false sense of prosperity. They instructed these people to move on. But where do you go when the shed is all you have and your daily living is dependant on the mercy of “Allah”.

But I guess such disparity and disastrous and chaotic lives are reaped by the poor in a third world country where corruption rules and the poor are trampled further and further on.

NOT AS PLANNED! BUT JUST THE WAY IT SHOULD BE!

Febuary 8^th 2011

I am well rested and ready to take on another week, I am really pleased all the drama at the India visa office is over and Marquel and I were able to get to India on Saturday to uphold the conditions of our visa. We stayed in Calcutta (Kolkata) until Monday, when we returned to Bangladesh. 

 There was a Hartal (public Strike day ) in progress on the day of our return. This  meant all business were forced to close and all transport must cease from travelling for the duration of the Hartal, as observance of a unified front for the Hartal which was called because of proposals to move Dhaka’s international airport from  it’s current location to 2 hours south of the city, and also a demonstration about rising food prices.

Though a few taxi’s, CNG’s, Rickshaws, and buses would run the risk of getting there transport set on fire by travelling during the Hartal. And for Marquel and I this then presented a very interesting situation, trying to get from the airport to the house.

The army and the navy stood guard outside of the airport to keep the peace and to prevent the general public from accessing the airport, unless they were departing.  It is an everyday occurrence to find large groups of spectators at the airport, some are there just to “sight see”, who gets on and off the plane, and others are there to beg amongst other things.

As we couldn’t be picked up in the family car, the only viable option we had, was to go out on to the main road in the hope that some CNG’s and Taxi’s were not in observance and we could get one for hire to get home.

A CNG

 We walked through the exit doors of the airport. I notice my plan may be slightly flawed!

  

I first had to negotiate the crowd of people who came to sight see and beg, which would probably mean we would get mobbed, especially because we were foreigners. And as all eyes were on us as we exited the door “Plan B” quickly came to mind; Approach one of the army guys with his big riffle in toe to see if he could help in any way!

 With my very limited bangla and his non existant English I some how managed to explain I needed a CNG from the main road. He shook his head and signalled me to wait behind him. I was standing there whilst it seemed he was chatting to his colleague so I thought maybe I read his sign wrong and he didn’t quite understand what I said, so I proceeded to walk past him. OK, He understood! He order me to stand behind him again, staring at the big riffle and desperate to get home, I stood there, then a Taxi came along. 

The Army guy spoke to the Taxi who could see I was “Bdeshi” (foreigner), who then came out with the most ridiculous price, 1000 Taka! He exclaimed.  I then remembered where I was, of course he is going to try and rip me off, ten fold. This journey should cost no more than 100 Taka! But on a Hartal day I was willing to pay more, 300 Taka, tripling the actual price, He refused, and suddenly a sense of justice came over me , in my very desperate state. I WILL NOT PAY HIM 1000 TAKA, even if it meant I stood here all day until the Hartal is over.  Then we can get a CNG or  Taxi at the right price. 

I was being so stubborn. The big riffle didn’t scare me anymore and the army man’s plea to get into the taxi fell on deaf ears. The soldier  then tried to get the driver to be a little more reasonable and got the price down to 800 TAKA. It was still a ridiculous amount of money I thought,  and Marquel didn’t seem distressed with my plan to wait it out. BUT God had mercy on us, along came another Taxi, I proposed 300 Taka and asked him if he would take me, and with out any questioning or hesitation, He took us. Praise God we didn’t have to stay there all day.

When we got home. I began to reflect on my very own personal Hartal. Why would I in such a vulnerable and  desperate situation not just go along with the 1000 TAKA?  Surely, it is more important to get home safely and quickly? Espeically, with my choices seeming non existant. Through my own questioning I began to realise I had started to grow weary of being ripped off regularly and I just snapped, (not the best time or place to snap I admit).

And even with this realisation, the following day on my way home from my language lesson I ended up walking for 1 hour in the hot sun because Rickshaw wallah , after Rickshaw wallah kept trying to rip me off, some prices were ridiculous but others were just double the real price. The bags of shopping I was carrying didn’t feel heavy as I was determined to walk home instead of being ripped off. By the time I got home I was weary and ended up falling asleep.

Again, I question myself. Why did I subject myself to this and not simply pay? After all, I have known for the past month i was being overcharged by the different CNG drivers and rickshaw wallahs, but just carried on, and paid for the sake of getting to my journey quickly. What caused such burning passion in me to erupt over this cause?

The answer came swiftly to me, as sudden realisation dawned on me! My stand offs were not just about me! Nor were they about the specific situations that had occured on these two days.

I was mad yes about what was happening to me, but I was already frustrated by poor infrastructure which threw the vulnerable people out to the vultures. I had grown infuriated with a great deal of social injustices, including all the money that has being poured into the public hospitals here from abroad, many levels of corruption meant people couldn’t fully access the “free” service which is for them effectiviely. It is ludicrous, when someone is sick in hospital, they are expected to  pay bribes to get things done. To get a necessary  injection the paitient must bribe the nurse to administer it, when this is her job which she is being paid for. The nurse will then defend her actions by explaining she does not get paid merely enough to live on, and being disheartened with her job, and the need to feed her family the only way to make enough money is to extract money from paitients .

It is well known that this goes on in the hospitals, but nothing is done about it. This is not an attack on nurses, as this culture of bribery is used by the porter, doctors, administrator, x-ray department, and others within the institution. If you want to be moved from the trolley onto the bed after your operation, you better pay the porter a bribe for them to move you.

What I have described is merely the tip of the iceberg of corruption. A distasteful aspect of this society, which seeps into layer after layer of infrastructure and cultural attitudes.

March 7^th 2011

I wrote all of the above 1 month ago with the intention of completing it and posting it. I stalled from posting for a few reasons including power cuts which would interrupt the modem and my pc being a pain in the neck recently , choosing when it would work and when it wouldn’t,  and  my commitments here.  Though mainly, it was because at the time I was writing I was on a spiral of bottled up passion which quickly turned to anger and frustration.  

  I had to decide not to write anymore until I got a grip of my emotions and can pursue a sensible way forward.  There was no physical action I could pursue, I couldn’t write a letter to an organisation, phone a call centre or speak or pursue any physical solutions. I then realised my safety net to pray whilst pursuing a physical solution was not going to work as there were no avenues I could pursue. NONE! IT FELT LIKE NO ONE WOULD LISTEN AND I would here the statement again, “IT IS CULTURAL!” which is all the more maddening because my view is, it may be cultural but it is NOT JUST, ITS NOT OK, AND IT NEEDS TO BE ADDRESSED!!!!!!!!!!!

I have heard the phrase, “in space nobody can hear you scream”.  This was how I felt AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ,I would scream inside.

It was at this point I came to the end of myself, and could truly hand it over to GOD, within the first day of doing so I could feel a huge difference. The situations have not changed, but my peace was returning.  I have had the most beautiful prayer life in the last month and can truly testify to the power of prayer. If you had asked me in London, do you pray? I would say yes , conversing with God throughout my day and at night time was a regular pattern since Christ called me his daughter 8 years ago.

The last month I have prayed in a way I have never prayed before, if things were terrible in London there was always someone to at least speak to about it if I choose to do so, God would let me know He is there and the impossible would sometimes become possible and even when all the doors would seem closed I could keep pursuing and something could change in my endurance and research for a solution, or even look like there is a possibility of change even if one was yet to be found.

At once, ALL OF MY SAFETY BLANKETS WERE PULLED FROM ME.  ALL OF THEM! I began to worry. I may have finally bitten off more than I can chew. And on top of it all I was worried that I may be spiralling into a silent depression.

The one thing that kept me going was knowing in the core of my being that God wanted me in Bangladesh, and if He wants me Here, I know He will make a way.  SIMPLE!!!!!!!!!!!!

Through my tears, I found myself praying and praying and praying. Today, I can say I have never felt this alive, from such a dark place to where I am on this day is truly a testament to the power of prayer, I did nothing physically, the situations I was mad about have not changed, but “behold, God has begun a new thing in me”.