Check out these links about our operation last week. There are other links to media and journals all over India.
http://www.indianexpress.com/news/cbi-unearths-sex-racket-rescues-34-girls/467099/
http://in.news.yahoo.com/139/20090528/808/tnl-cbi-blows-lid-of-a-sex-racket-in-mum.html
May 30, 2009
May 17, 2009
A Sight to See
I've been in public settings, like addressing a courtroom or presenting before a classroom, in which I was the focal point of the audience. I've even been in foreign countries where people took more notice of me because of the color of my skin. Regardless of these experiences, it wasn't until I reached India that I came to know what it is like to be stared at.
In the good old USA, if an attractive girl catches a guy's eye, he may stare at her, but as soon as she catches him, he reacts- whether he sheepishly looks away or boldly catcalls... he must react. On the other hand, India is the only place I have ever been where the intensity and duration of the stare in no way depend on whether the object of the stare is aware of it. In other words, the stare doesn't change or diminish when I catch the person staring at me. I can dance, make funny faces, or speak gibberish- yet the stare continues and actually intensifies. An English friend of mine responds by staring back with equal enthusiasm, pointing two fingers at his eyes, pointing directly at the starer, and then shaking his head no... but still, the starer is not phased. We have to accept that the stare is a part of life here, even if nothing about it is casual. It is a goggle-eyed, jaw-dropping fascination with the fact that I live and breath and move. No one speaks when they stare either. In traffic, the perpetual horn-honking doesn't distract the guy on the motorcycle beside you or the girl in the rickshaw on the other side from craning their necks inside your rickshaw to gaze at you sitting and sweating, and, rest assured, they will not withdraw until the traffic clears ahead.
If the staring occurs long enough and in close enough proximity, the more adventurous gazers will often squeeze out a quick question, “From which country?” While responses to countries including Brazil and Zimbabwe have met with delightful success, my usual response is America. Further, when I say the US, I get the same two replies: (1) Ohhh, America- Home of the Brave and Land of the Freeeeee!!! (2) Ohhh, America, OBAMAAAAA!!!
The staring is one thing, but many people often take it to another level. I can't count the number of times people have requested a photo with me on their cell phone. Further, it is not just giggling teenage girls, but full grown men with families that ask for these pictures. It can get exhausting because as soon as you allow one, everyone around realizes you're a pushover and they also ask for pictures. My roommate had a whole platoon of army guys surround him for snaps (pictures) in Rajasthan. I have no idea where these pictures go or what purpose they serve, but they sure love'em here.
The ironic/hypocritical element of this blog is that I return my fare share of staring. There is just so much to see here. The colors are dazzling. Every evening the streets fill with people. The markets hold more fruits and vegetables that I can't identify than those that I can. Additionally, rows of canvas sacks overflowing with every kind of spice imaginable supplement the marketplace with dots of color, complementing the bundles of intense color made by the produce. Nevertheless, the brightest banana, mango, or orange doesn't hold a candle to the women's clothing. Women wear sari's here, long pieces of fabric that are wrapped around a woman and pinned in place- and none of them are bland. Vibrant colors all the way across the spectrum are embroidered with gold prints and patterns. Its just something you have to see to believe. The amazing thing is that none of these come off flashy, as they fit perfectly the wild eyes and the bright smiles of Indian women. They are unconditionally elegant, and I can't help but think that my Granny would absolutely love the way the women here dress. The colors don't end with the spices, food, and dress, but festivals frequently pop-up and add colors and lights to the dim neighbors. Fireworks go off every night. I am not exaggerating. In fact, about every three days I am awakened in the middle of night to a tremendous boom and explosion of color bursting through my open window. Needless to say, I don't enjoy these as much.
All in all, these things fit with what I am discovering-- that this country is a country of extremes.
In the good old USA, if an attractive girl catches a guy's eye, he may stare at her, but as soon as she catches him, he reacts- whether he sheepishly looks away or boldly catcalls... he must react. On the other hand, India is the only place I have ever been where the intensity and duration of the stare in no way depend on whether the object of the stare is aware of it. In other words, the stare doesn't change or diminish when I catch the person staring at me. I can dance, make funny faces, or speak gibberish- yet the stare continues and actually intensifies. An English friend of mine responds by staring back with equal enthusiasm, pointing two fingers at his eyes, pointing directly at the starer, and then shaking his head no... but still, the starer is not phased. We have to accept that the stare is a part of life here, even if nothing about it is casual. It is a goggle-eyed, jaw-dropping fascination with the fact that I live and breath and move. No one speaks when they stare either. In traffic, the perpetual horn-honking doesn't distract the guy on the motorcycle beside you or the girl in the rickshaw on the other side from craning their necks inside your rickshaw to gaze at you sitting and sweating, and, rest assured, they will not withdraw until the traffic clears ahead.
If the staring occurs long enough and in close enough proximity, the more adventurous gazers will often squeeze out a quick question, “From which country?” While responses to countries including Brazil and Zimbabwe have met with delightful success, my usual response is America. Further, when I say the US, I get the same two replies: (1) Ohhh, America- Home of the Brave and Land of the Freeeeee!!! (2) Ohhh, America, OBAMAAAAA!!!
The staring is one thing, but many people often take it to another level. I can't count the number of times people have requested a photo with me on their cell phone. Further, it is not just giggling teenage girls, but full grown men with families that ask for these pictures. It can get exhausting because as soon as you allow one, everyone around realizes you're a pushover and they also ask for pictures. My roommate had a whole platoon of army guys surround him for snaps (pictures) in Rajasthan. I have no idea where these pictures go or what purpose they serve, but they sure love'em here.
The ironic/hypocritical element of this blog is that I return my fare share of staring. There is just so much to see here. The colors are dazzling. Every evening the streets fill with people. The markets hold more fruits and vegetables that I can't identify than those that I can. Additionally, rows of canvas sacks overflowing with every kind of spice imaginable supplement the marketplace with dots of color, complementing the bundles of intense color made by the produce. Nevertheless, the brightest banana, mango, or orange doesn't hold a candle to the women's clothing. Women wear sari's here, long pieces of fabric that are wrapped around a woman and pinned in place- and none of them are bland. Vibrant colors all the way across the spectrum are embroidered with gold prints and patterns. Its just something you have to see to believe. The amazing thing is that none of these come off flashy, as they fit perfectly the wild eyes and the bright smiles of Indian women. They are unconditionally elegant, and I can't help but think that my Granny would absolutely love the way the women here dress. The colors don't end with the spices, food, and dress, but festivals frequently pop-up and add colors and lights to the dim neighbors. Fireworks go off every night. I am not exaggerating. In fact, about every three days I am awakened in the middle of night to a tremendous boom and explosion of color bursting through my open window. Needless to say, I don't enjoy these as much.
All in all, these things fit with what I am discovering-- that this country is a country of extremes.
May 10, 2009
Walking Tall in the Fiery Furnace
I know that the Word of God is written to the whole world, and that the stories in the Bible can be generally applied to most places most of the time. It just seems that certain people and cultures bridge the time gap more effortlessly than others. For example, Christians in China may more easily identify with Paul's stories of persecution than Christians in Canada. This doesn't mean that the words don't apply to both- I'm simply saying that a particular significance attaches to stories in the Bible when you are around people who experience them firsthand.
I write this because I am fortunate enough to have met a present day comrade of Shadrach, Meeshach, and Abednego. A man who was put to the test, given a direct command, and whose simple faith prompted him to decide to surrender to God's call, in spite of the pain and consequences.
"O King Nebuchadnezzar, we have no need to answer you in this matter. If this be so, our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the burning fiery furnace, and he will deliver us out of your hand, O king. But if not, be it known to you, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the golden image that you have set up." (Daniel 3:16-18)
My friend (As a coworker, I am not permitted to give his name) grew up Hindu. Every single member of his family was Hindu. In fact, his uncle was a high ranking Hindu religious official. In this way, his life was just like millions of his countrymen. But a friend introduced him to Jesus, and he was born again.
My friend is no different than the rest of this country in that family is everything here. In the slums, a man with bread, but no family is poorer than his hungry counterpart. To spend more than a day alone is a frightening thing. People here love to be constantly surrounded by others, especially their family, which means my friend was now a Christian in the midst of an established caste-adhering Hindu family.
Naturally, it was not long before his faith was tested. In one of the family/community Hindu rituals, each person was to bow before an idol, as well as, before my friend's uncle. In a place where conversion from Hinduism can be illegal and often evokes violence, standing up for Jesus meant stepping into the line of fire. Even more frightening for my friend, it meant expulsion from his family. It meant isolation for an indefinite period... maybe forever. But he stood firm. He approached his uncle and said, “I will not bow to you or to that idol. I met Jesus and now I only bow to him.”
It was a simple statement, but, as I saw him say it, his face showed what it meant to him. I would like to tell you that the family listened or accepted his stand and faith and converted, but they did not. His uncle pronounced the anticipated religious exclusion of my friend, and, like that, he was alone.
He then talked about how he spent the first few years of his Christian walk praying for his uncle, even without any sign that his uncle was interested in Jesus. Several years later, his uncle suffered a stroke, and his uncle asked my friend to tell him about the God that he believed in. My friend recognized that God had heard and answered his prayer, and he let God carry him on the rest of the way through the fire.
As if I couldn't find the parallel already, my friend shared with our group the story of Shadrach, Meeshach, and Abednego-- He told it with passion and admiration... he told like he did, with a wide, unashamed smile on his face, because he knew he had stood firm and had endured the same kind of fire.
I write this because I am fortunate enough to have met a present day comrade of Shadrach, Meeshach, and Abednego. A man who was put to the test, given a direct command, and whose simple faith prompted him to decide to surrender to God's call, in spite of the pain and consequences.
"O King Nebuchadnezzar, we have no need to answer you in this matter. If this be so, our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the burning fiery furnace, and he will deliver us out of your hand, O king. But if not, be it known to you, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the golden image that you have set up." (Daniel 3:16-18)
My friend (As a coworker, I am not permitted to give his name) grew up Hindu. Every single member of his family was Hindu. In fact, his uncle was a high ranking Hindu religious official. In this way, his life was just like millions of his countrymen. But a friend introduced him to Jesus, and he was born again.
My friend is no different than the rest of this country in that family is everything here. In the slums, a man with bread, but no family is poorer than his hungry counterpart. To spend more than a day alone is a frightening thing. People here love to be constantly surrounded by others, especially their family, which means my friend was now a Christian in the midst of an established caste-adhering Hindu family.
Naturally, it was not long before his faith was tested. In one of the family/community Hindu rituals, each person was to bow before an idol, as well as, before my friend's uncle. In a place where conversion from Hinduism can be illegal and often evokes violence, standing up for Jesus meant stepping into the line of fire. Even more frightening for my friend, it meant expulsion from his family. It meant isolation for an indefinite period... maybe forever. But he stood firm. He approached his uncle and said, “I will not bow to you or to that idol. I met Jesus and now I only bow to him.”
It was a simple statement, but, as I saw him say it, his face showed what it meant to him. I would like to tell you that the family listened or accepted his stand and faith and converted, but they did not. His uncle pronounced the anticipated religious exclusion of my friend, and, like that, he was alone.
He then talked about how he spent the first few years of his Christian walk praying for his uncle, even without any sign that his uncle was interested in Jesus. Several years later, his uncle suffered a stroke, and his uncle asked my friend to tell him about the God that he believed in. My friend recognized that God had heard and answered his prayer, and he let God carry him on the rest of the way through the fire.
As if I couldn't find the parallel already, my friend shared with our group the story of Shadrach, Meeshach, and Abednego-- He told it with passion and admiration... he told like he did, with a wide, unashamed smile on his face, because he knew he had stood firm and had endured the same kind of fire.
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