Dancing toward Freedom

Article published on the IJM website

KOLKATA, INDIA – The crowd stirred in their seats, eager for the dance performance to begin. A police officer from the Criminal Investigations Department (CID), a major police force in West Bengal, India, stood to address the room. While a law enforcement officer seems an unusual emcee, this show was an exceptional one: The 19 dancers about to perform were all sex trafficking survivors.

The officer explained that the CID was hosting the dance performance as a way to honor these brave trafficking survivors, and to support the thousands of other girls like them, still waiting for rescue. The heavy red curtains rolled back, and the girls danced onto the stage. Each girl was adorned in glittering red and gold fabric. Triumphant bells hung from their waists and ankles. For the next half hour, their dance told a story from the epic Indian tale of Mahabharata, a love story about a warrior princess.

Over 300 people clapped and cheered as the dancers exited the stage. Proud staff from IJM and the aftercare homes where the survivors live were joined by friends, family members and other police officers from the CID. The girls excitedly hugged one another and posed for pictures. The real celebration was just beginning.

It was a pivotal moment for many of the girls, who have battled feelings of shame and the deep effects of trauma since they were rescued from exploitation. After the performance, one girl explained that once girls like her have been sold for sex, "our families won't take us back." Proudly, she added: "But even we have talents and positive qualities we can show people. It's my favorite part: being on stage and showing them my talents."

The concert had been months in the making, with many practices and rehearsals. But as Smita Singh, director of Mahima aftercare home for trafficking survivors explained, this was much more than a performance. "It truly shows that encouragement, love and the correct guidance will allow these survivors of the worst kind of abuse to bloom and take a confident stand in the community."

Another housemother from Transition Home beamed as she helped the girls in the green room, as if the trafficking survivors had become her own daughters: "I felt so proud," she said, "It is a dream come true."

Images have been obscured for the protection of these IJM clients. 

Mosquitoes

It’s amazing how our bodies and spirits can adapt to almost any circumstance. It’s as if God designed us to persevere and to survive. 

After three months of living in South Asia, my body has finally started to acclimatize. My lungs have learned to process through the pollution, and seem to be functioning normally again. My ears have begun to block out the constant honking. My nose has created a new scale on which to judge clean versus dirty. And my feet have detached themselves entirely from the rest of my existence.

But there is one thing that I will never get used to, one part of my body that can’t seem to adapt. It’s the thorn in my side, the enemy’s atomic bomb.

It’s those frickin mosquito bites!

One thing you need to know about my city, is it used to be one, big swamp. In many ways it still is. Basically it’s Mecca for mosquitoes. They all flock to my city to breed, multiply exponentially, and then die from blood overdose.

Now comes for the anecdote. Why am I telling you about the mosquitoes three months into my stay?

We were on our way to an aftercare home. Our office decided to host Christmas programs for every home with an IJM rescued girl. So, naturally, as the office photographer, I got to attend them all. :)

Local churches performed skits, our teams passed out gifts and lunch. And I got to sit with the girls, laugh, tell them my name over and over and over; and shower them with love. (I definitely have the best job in the world.)

But one of the homes didn’t have space inside for the dances we had prepared. So we moved outside. On our way out, I noticed the ground looked permanently damp. Some of the sewage from the bathroom was running into the concrete, right where we were going to sit.

But as a foreigner, I am instantly on probation. I am guilty until proven innocent. I am fighting such an uphill battle, that any motion to move the blanket would have been detrimental.

So I sat down, albeit reluctantly.

Zzzzzzzz bite. Slap. Kill: One mosquito down, 80 billion katrillion to go. Another bite. Another slap. I look around me … O my gosh, we were sitting in a fest pool of mosquitoes!

I kid you not. They were swarming. If mosquitoes had nests, we would have been inside it. We had threatened the queen mosquito, and they were coming for revenge.

The little kids sought solace in my lap, hiding themselves from the outside world. I had two girls on each knee, one hanging on my back, and another grabbing my arm. My free hand was swatting frantically, while my brain fought to stay focused on the performance that forged ahead. It was a battle of the mind. It took every ounce of self-control and will power to stay put, knowing blood was being sucked out of me every couple of seconds. 

Why did we stay? Because South Asia is a shame-based culture, meaning you do whatever you can to save face, and your friend’s as well. To stop the performance and move inside would have been practical but potentially embarrassing. So we stayed sitting.

Dead insects started to collect on the outside of my leggings. I felt like Legolas counting orchs, but not as intense, or as cool. 

The bites stopped itching and instead just starting hurting. 

I don’t think I remember a single thing from the whole program. All I remember is packing up our stuff at record speed, racing the children into the house, and sitting down only to realize that my legs and arms were tingling from insect poison running through my veins.

At home that night I counted an average of 20-30 bites on each limb.

And while I’ve had consistent bites since arriving… no amount of assimilation makes them any less annoying, painful or frustrating. I hate mosquitoes just as much now as I did when I got here.

They are truly in partnership with the evil one. Because they both suck the life out of you.

That’s it. 

The whole point of this story was to make you feel sorry for me. I want your pity!  :) 

Diwali

The Hindu festival season has finally come to a close, and Christmas has begun, which is significantly less impressive. So instead of telling you about Christmas in South Asia, I will backtrack to Diwali. Confession: it was about a month ago, so I am writing this off of memory alone.

Diwali is technically a festival of lights, which also happens to fall on Kali Puja (Kali is another version of Durga, (the Goddess I talked about earlier). But like everything in my city, things are taken to the next level. A festival of lights turns into a festival of sound, which turns into a war zone.

For a week we walked the streets, always one step away from being blown up by fireworks or being burnt by flame torches. It was what I imagine Berlin to have sounded like in the 1940s.

You know the illegal firework stands on the streets of LA? Well imagine if each person in the city bought out his or her own stand … every night.  Imagine the chaos, the danger, and the insane tension of such a situation.

That's how I felt. 

Still there was one night that topped them all. A couple of the interns and myself went to a local aftercare home to celebrate with our girls. We entered the house, climbed the stairs, and walked onto the roof. They of course, had their own mini firework stand as well. Hundreds of fireworks were stuffed into a corner. The girls were running to the pile, grabbing fireworks as fast as they could, and lighting them from the candles lining the wall.

That’s when things started exploding. Sparklers, poppers, flame torches, and spinning firebombs, all going off to the haphazard sound of screaming teenage girls. One would light her flame torch thingy, realize soon after that she had just lit an uncontrollable fire, squeal and subsequently fling the flaming stick into the air, always just missing another girl’s head. Another would light, what I like to call, a spinning flame of death, and girls would run up to see who could step on the flames without dying.

At one point I just stood back to take it all in. I couldn’t help but laugh. My mother would have had a heart attack. It wasn’t just mad chaos; it was mad chaos with fire. 

And this was happening on every roof. It was in the middle of the night, but the sky lit up like it was day. A layer of smoke had settled in the air as well as in my lungs.  And, of course, people everywhere gathered to dance, sing, randomly bang instruments together, and eat.

So as we danced, screamed, and joined in on the near death experience of lighting hazardous dynamite sticks; I realized something truly profound. You don’t need words to speak a teenage girl’s language. You just need to hold her hand and laugh together. A night of genuine and pure laughter does more for friendship than any amount of language training.

It was definitely a night I will never forget.

That may also be because of the ringing forever in my ears from the constant bombs exploding into the night sky.

Nevertheless, I have also concluded that Diwali is way cooler than The Office makes it out to be. 

The Last Ten Percent

 I dedicate this post to my Hume campers 

Ever since Hume I’ve been thinking through the “last 10 percent” and what that means for me personally. I’m already a Christian and I try to be obedient to His callings.  But I also know that until Christ returns or I go to be with the Lord, I am not fully sanctified. I will always be seeking to go the extra mile, because Christ went where no man could go. Which means I will be trying my whole life to just get as close as possible. 

So how does that translate into my life right now? How can I go even further in my obedience to the Lord and my emulation of Christ?

Well, to be frank, my prideful heart thought I was doing pretty well. I imagined myself in the last five percent. I live in one of the grungiest and most impoverished cities in the world, working to end the sex trade. And while I still have my reservations. [There are places I haven’t gone, like into the trash piles with women who dig for food; or things I haven’t eaten, like street food made with gutter water.] It was honestly just a matter of time, because that’s my personality. Taking risks and being adventurous comes relatively easy for me.

Thankfully God likes to humble us. Last weekend He showed me that the “last 10 percent” is what is HARDEST for us to give. I’m foolish if I think I will serve God better simply by mustering up enough courage to sit further into filth. But what is hard for me, what God wants from me, is for my heart to bleed as His does.

Let me explain:

This past weekend I left my city for the first time to pass out medical supplies to local villages.

The journey started with a two-hour car drive south, a boat ride across the murky swamps, and another 30 minutes by bike until we finally reached a small, run down, concrete government school. There we set up chairs and started treating villagers who had traveled all day to meet our team, most of whom needed care way beyond our capabilities. 

And while the medical camp itself was fun: talking with the local women, practicing the local language, playing with the kids, holding babies, and laughing with my team; it was probably one of the hardest days of my time so far.

I couldn’t find the words until I got home and started opening up to my roommate Jen, who is a saint for putting up with me all the time. I finally pinpointed the reason for my restless sprit. For whatever reason, my heart had finally opened up, leaving it vulnerable and unguarded.

On my way to the medical camp we passed brick factories. For as far as the eye could see mud was being packed, dried and baked into large, red stones. And right in front of me, in plain, clear sight; I watched five to seven-year-olds slave away in those fields, carrying and shaping mud with sweat rolling down their brows.

My heart froze in time. I saw but I couldn’t comprehend. It was as if those red bricks weighed down on my soul all afternoon. And finally, I broke. I was able to cry, for the first time, over the poverty and injustices I vicariously experienced each and every day.

Through my tears I managed to say what I’ve wanted to scream since being here, “I’m sick of watching innocent children robbed of their childhood and then just driving away.”

For months I had been on protective mode, not really letting these precious kids or their precious mothers into my heart, because if I did I'd be wrecked like I was that day. It was a coping mechanism … a way to stay sane.

But staying sane left me right around 90 percent….

We are taught here that giving the children attention just makes matters worse. If westerners give them food, then their mothers wont. If they can’t work underage, they will be trafficked. If we give them attention, their traffickers will beat them for not getting money as well. If we give them hugs, it creates a dependency on receiving love. If you smile, they will want something more. If you are nice, you’ll make yourself vulnerable.

The excuses are endless. Some make sense, some don’t.

And yet, as I reflect over the way I have been taught to live; the way I have been prompted to protect myself, I can’t help but think that Jesus would have never just walked away. Jesus would have never ignored a child. Jesus would have never refused to eat dinner with an “untouchable.” And so nor shall I.

This is my “next ten percent.” This is the narrow alley way my Savior has asked me to walk down: opening up my heart to those who need it.

The way I live doesn’t make sense to most of the world and frankly to most of my closest friends. But I don’t answer to them. I answer to the Holy Spirit who speaks directly to my soul.

So this is my one piece of advice to you High Schoolers. You know the convictions of your heart. You know what God is asking of you. (And if you don’t read the book of Matthew.) But my point is, don’t be afraid to leave yourself vulnerable to the world. We may get hurt, our hearts may get trampled on; but God wants us to bleed as He bled, for how else will we be remade? 

And know that I will always be here cheering you on. Encouraging you to take that next step into the unknown.

With All His Love,

Kristy

Greece 2.0

As most of you know I have “a Greece story.” It’s a ridiculous tale. But it’s still my favorite memory from all my travels. If you don’t know what I’m talking about you can read up here.

Well … I didn’t think it was possible but I’ve topped it. I did it again … I danced with random strangers, hanging with the locals until late into the night. Basically this weekend was one for the books (or in this case, the blog). ** Warning I apologize for the novel... there was just too much to say**

Last blog post you heard a little bit about the festival season that took place in my city. It is a time for the natives to celebrate their Goddess. Informally, she is the Goddess of death and yet to honor her the people dance in the streets, they play the drums, sing, worship, eat food, and celebrate all day long until all hours of the night. The Pandels, temporary majestic structures built to house the idols, glitter mystically in the night air. The crowds ebb and flow together as one mass. Even the beggars get up and blissfully join in the revelry. The food and spices tempt you to forgo all inhibition to consume the meals prepared by hands never washed, on surfaces never cleaned and with water taken from the gutter you just stepped in (Yes, I eat street food. It’s my most note worthy accomplishment so far). And the children squeal with delight as men balance swords, swarms of people break into dance battles, merchants sell glorious gold adornment, and the priests pass out food once dedicated to the idols.

Per the tradition, on the fifth day of the festival the citizens gather to tear down their neighborhood idol, march down the streets with the idol in the bed of massive trucks, and dump them into the “holy” river. As the idol sinks into the water it symbolizes the Goddess leaving the people once again.

So my roommates and I were in a taxi coming back from Bollywood lessons when we noticed an unusual amount of traffic. The reason being, thousands of people were piling into the streets, marching to the haphazard beat of a hundred unskilled drummers banging their instruments arbitrarily yet ferociously. Likewise the mob followed along with equal intensity. Arms were swinging in the air. Feet were rapidly stomping the ground. People were laughing, yelping, singing and screaming to their heart’s desire.

So naturally my soul started to itch. My heart needed to join in this beauty. Also not surprisingly none of my roommates want to join. I tried to suppress the urge…

Like that has ever worked before…

Suddenly, without consent from my frontal lobe, my mouth started to yell to the taxi driver to pull over. My roommates freaked out. We were still in the middle of the street but I jumped out, grabbed my stuff and yelled over my shoulder that I would be back.

After sprinting across the street and climbing onto the center divider, I started to snap photos. Soon after, a couple local guys realized they were subjects of an anonymous photo shoot and subsequently decided to act like it.  They ran up to me posing, jumping, flailing and floundering like wild dogs just released from confinement.

At this point I was still safely on my center divider and old men were holding back the others, shouting at them not to touch me. (Great example of this in the photo to the right).

So the crowd reverted to Plan B and beckoned me to join in the dance.

At first my superego was fighting desperately to keep some sort of control of the situation and I hung back out of harms way. People were coming up, asking for their portrait but then leaving before I could even hit the button (resulting in many dark, blurry photos).  However, as I realized that these people just wanted to celebrate, dance and enjoy their sacred festival, I started to cowboy up. 

I made my way to the center of the crowd and began to sway to the beat of the drum. Upon seeing the white girl try to dance to Indian beats, the women clapped their hands together and laughed, roared, squawked or squealed … (sorry but there are just no equivalent sounds to relate this to.)

Point being, I became an instant celebrity.

A woman then grabbed my hand and motioned for me to move my body like hers. That’s when I really gave in. I had to prove I knew what I was doing. I got down and busted out my Bollywood moves with some freestyle thrown in on the side. They went crazy.

One man looked me in the eye and asked, “Are you happy?” (Code for “Do you feel safe”) I answered DUH. He said, “If you’re happy; I am happy.’ He then recruited two other men to literally push the crowd back, creating a foot of space between myself and everyone else like I was president of the United States.  So now not only was I dancing and spinning in the middle of the street in the middle of the night, I was doing so by myself with hundreds of South Asians starring at me.

The crowds literally stopped moving. The marching ceased. The cars turned off their engines. All eyes were on me. (I’m not trying to be egotistical here. This is just plain fact.) And one by one someone would break into my celebrity circle, take my hands, and teach me a new dance move. Once their turn was done, the next would break through, push the other aside and once again teach me to dance. This happened probably 10 times as everyone was laughing and chanting on the side.

As I started to loose steam, I simply turned, motioned to the crowd and yelled to the hundreds of people watching, “Let’s keep moving!” Without hesitation everyone started walking again and the march continued.

I could go on forever trying to describe what it was like. But the best I can do is say that it was pure ecstasy. I have never seen so much energy and delight wrapped up in one event before. Never again will I use the word celebration so lightly. This was a true party.

About a half an hour later I remembered my roommates were most likely sitting at home terrified and praying over my safety (which was entirely accurate). So I made my way out of the crowd, which took another 15 minutes because I had to stop, and bow or shake hands to every person along the way.

Finally I broke free, stopped, turned around, waved to all two hundred faces starring back at me, and continued on home.

As they turned the corner down the road and the drums started to fade into the distance, I couldn’t help but laugh to myself. Not only do I continue to survive these precarious situations, I somehow manage to have self-designated bodyguards protecting me through them.

But there is one point I must make sure you understand. The reason why I do the things I do, is not simply for the adventure. I am an outsider. I am white and I speak English. But that does not mean I need to create more barriers than the ones already put in place. My job is to break barriers, not build them up. This festival means the world to this culture, and by participating I started to speak their language. For that brief moment I was part of them. I understood them and they understood me. I honored them by dancing the way they did, by acknowledging their drums, by contributing to their joy. 

How long will we cower in fear of the ‘other’? Because the second you break free from that fear you cease to be separated by trivial matters of culture and finally can embrace each other as the brothers and sisters we were designed to be.

So I can’t say that I regret these moments. God has created me to dance. And so I will. It’s what makes life so exciting. It’s what makes life worth living. 

My Quintessential South Asian Moment

 We’ve all seen Slumdog Millionaire right? If you answered no to that question, go watch it right this instant because it is incredibly accurate pertaining to life in South Asia.  But strangely enough, since being here, I hadn’t experienced anything I could call my quintessential South Asian moment… until last week.

The moment I stepped foot on the bus I knew… I knew I would soon be writing a blog post for what I was experiencing was just too good.

Let me provide you with a context for the story.

It is festival season in my city. But I don’t just mean that a couple people get together and celebrate their religion with family and friends. This is the largest celebration for this particular Goddess in the country (and this country is a pretty big country).

This is not a thanksgiving parade. This is a city of 15 million people doubling in size, marching, dancing and singing in the streets for five straight days. This is not residential neighborhood tastefully decorating their houses for Christmas. This is an entire city wrapped in flashing, dangling and sparkling lights. This is not a family going trick-or-treating. This is an entire population of people throwing money, paint, flowers and gifts at idols that have popped up on every corner and in every alleyway.

For reals. It is INSANE.

Ok that is your context. So now imagine I am getting on a bus, literally days before this festival starts. It is late, I am tired and all the autos and taxi’s are speeding up once they see my skin color. I hate being a silly white girl.

Then I see it. A mob of people sprinting after a bus that is already so packed that limbs are dangling out of every crevice. There is man clinging to the outside , yelling 

RUBY RUBY RUBY…

Crap, that’s my bus.

But instead of calmly and rationally assessing the situation, noting that other buses are soon to follow, I simply turn around and join in, running like a crazy person.  I even started waving my arms up and down and jumping like everyone else as if it would make the slightest difference.

But then, all of a sudden, I kid you not, a hand reaches down and grabs me as the bus is still moving! This man picks me up, shoves people into the bus as if he was shoving clothes into a suitcase that wouldn’t zip, and places me down in the precarious position of one foot on some sort of hard surface, one finger barely grabbing onto a pool and every other part of my body dogging oncoming traffic.

The bus jerks to a stop. Everyone topples onto each other. People may or may not have died. And I jump out of the way as hoards of people start piling off, literally climbing over each other in self-preservation, gasping for air.

But this is not my stop so I climb back on.  This is where it gets really fun.

Since there are now “vacant spots” I don’t get the luxury of hanging off the outside. I am pushed farther and farther back into the abyss of bodies, limbs, purses, and who knows what. Day turns into night and air becomes a precious commodity. Somehow I make my way over to a seat, where a woman has motioned that she will soon be leaving. As she gets up, a nice man wards off the wolves until I make it safely down.

But the seat next to me is vacant as well and I brace myself for the fight that is surely to follow. Curiously, amidst the chaos of men and women literally struggling over the seat, I see this little head pop up between the mass of legs. This tiny hand grabs the seat cover. And slyly a child slips onto the chair. What a boss. The girl smiles at me, beaming for she knows she outsmarted everyone. Her mom is the second to break through the wall of human bodies and proceeds to instruct her daughter to sit on my lap as a means of making room.  The little girl makes herself comfortable and turns around, showing this toothy grin as if we’ve been friends forever.

But alas my stop has come, or so I think because I cant really see. Literally anxiety starts creeping up.  There is no freaking way I am getting out of this death trap. I am doomed.

There is only one thing to do. Make a scene.

Hahah I don’t know how to describe this next part because you will think I am either lying or crazy. Well unfortunately it is neither (well it may have been a little crazy, but desperate times call for desperate measures.)

So I decide to stand up, on top of my seat, and announce to the bus that I am getting off and everyone better move or prepare to be squashed. Of course to everyone I am the teacher from Charlie Brown and all they see is a crazy white woman mumbling at them. Some actually look scared while others get the gist of my freak out and start to make room.

As I start crawling over the woman and her daughter I look at the little girl with that toothy grin and am suddenly inspired by her tactics. I progress forward by actually getting on all fours and slithering my way out. Finally the end is near. I see the outside world! My head pops out, I look both ways and I literally tumble out of the bus.

No one seems to have noticed. So I brush off, laugh a little to myself and continue on.

OII (ONLY IN I****[South Asia])

(PS Sorry for the bad photo quality.. these are just quick snaps I took with my iphone...better photos are coming). 

When you have a classically American moment in a classically non-American place

My Team!

I spend lots of time and energy trying to fit into this culture so I can pass as a local and slip in between the crowds, get on my way and continue unseen and unbothered. I bobble my head every time I answer a question or address a person. My sentences always end on a high note. My dupata hangs lightly over my shoulders doubling as both a cover and a mouth guard. I glue my left hand to my side so as to never mistakenly use it. I even haggle for one to two coins as if I was fighting for a fortune.

But still there are times when, no matter how hard I try to conceal it, my American ways burst forth as if mocking my pathetic attempt at assimilation.

There are sadly many examples of this, like when randomly the backstreet boys pop into my head and I start doing the running man in the middle of the market. Or when I cut off the auto driver because I am leaning into his rearview mirror trying to fix my French Braids.

But there is one example that outdoes the rest. When all I can do is laugh and succumb to the inevitable fate of any expat … the idea that, at the end of the day, I will always be a silly American girl crying on the dirt floor trying to figure out how the dang lock works.

It was late on a Saturday night; I had been working weekends trying to get caught up on the small task of learning the entire South Asian political system. But alas I was done for the day because my brain had stopped working, my emotions had run dry and I was craving chocolate (the ladies know what that means.) So I shut down my computer, turned off all the lights and went to lock the door. Simple task? Think again. This is South Asia; nothing is simple.

So I start with the first key. It works. I move down the door to the bottom lock ... it takes awhile but it finally turns and locks. Then I reach up and pull down the large metal crate that covers every window and every door of the entire city. All it requires you to do is stick the key in the padlock, turn left, undo the lock, fit it through the crate and relock.

Fast-forward 20 minutes (Not exaggerating. I checked the clock.) There I am sitting on the floor, shaking and rattling the padlock with all my might, yelling at the freaking door to freaking close with my feet up against the crate as leverage against the demon possessed padlock.

My white leggings have yielded their dignity to the muggy and ambiguously procreating cement floor. A mom walks by and protectively covers her children while moving past the crazy white woman as fast as she can. And of course my overactive tear ducts let loose and my face quickly becomes the cleanest part of my body.

Finally I give myself over to the embarrassing task of calling one of the guy interns to come help me lock up the office. That was a fun conversation. I never thought I had an issue with pride until mid-October 2012.

About 5 minutes later I notice a different gold lock out of the corner of my eye hanging innocently on the door to my left. I get up, wipe off the tears and put the key I was given into the lock.

It opens.

The end. I am silly white girl from America. Nothing I can do about it.

TYPICAL ...

In an effort to capture the reality of life in K (I think you all know what K stands for…) I will take you through a typical day, for in any given day there are perfect and cliché South Asia examples.

I wake up at 5:30am because, like every morning, the sun rises at 5am with a vicious intent to destroy all remnants of slumber. After tossing around, desperately searching for my pink eye mask that inevitably slips behind the bedpost at night, I surrender. By this time the sun and the heat have formed a dangerous pact in the name of world domination. But being the savvy and somewhat spoiled westerner that I am, I whip out the atomic bomb and turn on the AC.

Now I settle into a pseudo version of comfort, eat my imported cereal and turn to the verse that talks about persevering in order to gain treasures in heaven J.

Finally I concede that I must leave my apartment if I am to get anything substantial done, so I put on my pajama-like outfit, clip my hair as far away from my neck as I possibly can and take in a massive breath, while I am still able.

Bicycle Rickshaw (will try to get a photo of the Auto Rickshaw'

After securing the 5-part lock on our door, I head toward the street. The first thing to note is that every time you even near a sidewalk you have instantly decreased your chance of survival by 60%. I know most third world countries claim they have crazy drivers, as if it is a contest to see who can be more reckless, but I would like to say to those countries … at least you have cars. The three wheeled auto rickshaws, which surreally resemble the carts from Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, literally answer to no man. If there is space between you and the taxi you are entering, they will beat you to it. This is especially true if you make eye contact with them, for their rationale is … well you saw me.

Somehow I make it through the field of stray bullets and jump in a taxi, which even though it costs $1 dollar for just about anywhere you need to go, I still feel guilty about not taking the bus. I negotiate with the driver for a bit because I am white and he wants to charge me $2 … heck no. 

Then I start to pray.

As we weave between cars, people, sidewalks, huts and courageously stupid dogs in the middle of the street, I keep my eyes fixed on the 100-page map I bought of the city. Ok, here is the gas station this must be right before Gariahut. There is the huge Sprite Ad; we have just passed Deshpriya Park. There is the blue and white fence; we are getting close. There is the tea man; I’m here.

I pay the driver. Doh noh bad (meaning thank you. A word South Asia made up for foreigners who insisted on being polite). 

As I step out to look at this huge metropolitan complex, which is air-conditioned, I am acutely aware of the fact that I have officially turned into the girl who feels most at home in a mall…. Mehhh. 

I leave with two bags stuffed full of food because you have to pay 5 Rupees per bag (Los Angeles please take note. K is more economically advanced than you in this area. That is just straight up embarrassing).

Now that I have brick filled bags hanging off each arm I decide to scuffle toward a smelly, packed bus because, well, I am an idiot.

There is a man holding a pole leaning vertically off the side yelling Ruby, Ruby, Ruby, Ruby… but it sounds more like Ro Ro Ro Be. I make eye contact with the driver signaling I want to get on, so naturally he starts driving away as if jumping onto a moving vehicle is fun. Thankfully I get on and make my way to the back … badddddd idea! It was as if the whole bus was waiting for the trigger in which to lift their arms at the same time releasing their bent up body odor. I must have been the trigger. I stick my head out the window for “fresh” air, which is full of burning trash, gas, oil and human pee. At that moment I realize my face is only a couple inches away from a puking kid in the bus next to ours. This kid is sitting on his father’s lap spewing who knows what into his father’s hand. No one else even stirs. The father calmly takes the puke and dumps it out the window onto the street like it was gum, barely missing my face. I decide to take my chances with the BO. 

(Lovers of the God Card – I was going to make a reference to my roommates about how God let’s us spill all our crap onto him and he removes it like a doting father… but then I realized we weren’t on that level yet)

So I begin to stare at the tea stands where men with huge potbellies sit like Buddha, fitting into compartments smaller than your carry on, with their shirt pulled up so you have an extra good look at their potbellies.

A woman adorned in an elegant and colorful Sari steps over people sprawled out, lining the streets as far as the eye can see, as if they were cracks in the ground.

There are two police officers snuggling up on a motorcycle as the officer in back rubs the shoulders of the officer in front. No big deal … totally normal.

Finally, tired of starring, I face forward and zone out, letting the world around me fade away.

But in my peripheral vision I can still see colors blending together in an abstract portrait of urban beauty. And suddenly the sticky and humid air mixes with an array of alluring spices. The relentless honking becomes a rhythmic beat for a chorus of human bartering. The death defying traffic flows into a graceful and intricate dance in which every person participates. The moonlight, typically hidden behind a cloud of pollution, breaks through, shinning forcefully and equally on all people no matter their status. All are subject to the power of her beauty. 

It is then I have an epiphany. I have finally crossed the threshold of appreciation. I will never be able to understand the dance these people have learned to execute so delicately. But at least I can hear the music. 

Misjudged

Here is the thing about South Asia… 

I have no idea. 

How do you describe this place? How do you explain why it is the way it is or why people are the way they are? I could tell you what I’ve seen, but then you would be just like me: consuming a culture you do not understand, loving the adventure but not the person. This is not Africa. People don’t generally come here. People don’t suddenly develop a heart for this city.  Mother Teresa, the only woman who stuck around long enough to actually have an impact, actually disliked the place and yet found, deep within herself, an ability to love it simultaneously.

I am sure you have heard or seen movies about the sheer number of people and vehicles inhabiting this decaying city. You may have even read statistics about the pollution that clogs your lungs within minutes of stepping outside.  If you are really educated – or have done research like my pre-deployment self – you would know the British built this beautiful, cutting edge metropolis that hasn’t been touched since the day they left.  And with modern access to the world, you have probably stumbled across articles of those kids living outside my apartment, playing in the feces and bacteria infested trash because their parents will not let them go to the free schools now available in town. But what you don’t know is that every single person I have met has been helpful, loving, genuine and kind-hearted. The Hindu women are resilient and strong. The men are honorably doing their job as they are told. The children are learning to survive and smile at the same time. The dogs are gentle and steady. The neighbors seek your friendship almost desperately. And the cars wont harm you if you don’t put yourself in harms way.  

What I have concluded so far is this is truly just a place of survival. People do not have the means or the energy for upkeep (would you at 115 degrees Fahrenheit with 100% humidity and dollar-a-day wages?) The mobs of curious people and lawless cars are truly dangerous but the individuals are not. I am convinced even the petty thieves feel horrible about doing so.

So while it is easy to hate this city. And I mean it is truly easy to hate this city. It is extremely fulfilling to love it as well.

And while I am still cautious about who to trust and I still pray with incredible fervor every time I step into an auto, I am also hopeful that I will learn to see life here as my own. I pray to one day sit down with the kids outside my apartment and have a meal with them. I pray the anxiety I feel during the height of rush hour turns to laughter. I pray to one day feel comfortable enough to stop on the sidewalk and look at my surroundings. I pray I can actually learn Bengali. I pray for a community both inside and outside the church. And if you were willing, I would be honored if you would pray for these things as well.

People say this is the city of joy. People say this is the city that was once of joy. People say this is the city of darkness and decay. I say this is a city that has been grossly misjudged.  

Dreams are made possible. Just maybe not the way you dreamed them.

I had two reoccurring dreams as a little girl. I would lie in bed, look up at my glow-in-the-dark ceiling stars and fall asleep, imagining myself flying from city to city, fighting crime and destroying whatever punk kid made fun of my siblings that day (yes, I am well aware of the irony, being a 13-year old girl who only wore dresses to school.) 

If I wasn’t playing the superhero in my imagined reality I was Harriet Tubman working the Underground Railroad, in which I was wearing a conductor’s hat and sneaking slaves into the luggage compartment.

I never thought too deeply about the potential repercussions of such delusions; after all, I also dreamed about being a supermodel and climbing Mount Everest and we all know how that would have played out in my life …

But then I joined IJM (International Justice Mission).

It wasn’t until training week that I finally connected my past and present. I had subconsciously chosen a career path that would let me fly around the world in an effort to rescue victims from the slave trade. What up! I am a 21^st century abolitionist who can fly! The only difference: I get to talk about it somewhat openly.

During training our leadership spoke incredible truth into our lives, the most poignant being paraphrased as: we expect excellence because what you’re doing matters. 

So here I am, in transit to “a major city in South Asia”, sipping on wine and eating unbearably salty peanuts, off to save the world. Just instead of flying with a cape I am flying in a mega international plane. Instead of saving slaves by hiding them in my home I am saving them by hiding them in my words. Instead of superman powers I have God.

So as I spend the next year abroad, I look forward to including you all in this journey to end human trafficking. There are just a couple things you need to know if you are going to jump on this train: firstly it’s a LONG ride, secondly it can be done, thirdly nothing is accomplished without prayer, and fourthly we serve a God of justice, which means if you are to serve God you must participate in bringing about justice (both locally and globally). If you would like ideas on how to promote justice in your individual life and in your community just ask. I think about these things often.

All this is to say: ask and you shall receive.

Yours Truly,

Kristy  

Saw This on BuzzFeed Today . . . YES!

Good Conversations and Horses

UPDATE on AFTER HOURS


After Hours hit the streets of Los Angeles once again on Friday in an effort to spread God’s love to the men and women in the prostitute industry. Instead of meeting at a church we typically meet at, we met at a gas station outside our favorite taco truck. The moment we stepped out of our cars, some in our group were overwhelmed with the sounds surrounding us: the car engines, the honking, people talking, and just the hustle and bustle of LA life. It was the sound of God’s people. It was the sound of hope.

After we prayed together, we hopped into two different cars. But the night was not about us. It was about the work God did in the hearts of the women we met.

One particular girl stood out the minute we approached her. Her name was A. She was open to prayer and looked us in the eye, which was shocking because normally girls fidget after 30 seconds, telling you her time is up for socializing.  Knowing God was present in this conversation we took a chance and asked A what she knew about Jesus. She hinted at answers like pray and go to church. So one of our team members Tommy shared a bit of the gospel with her, telling A that Jesus died for her, he wanted to forgive her and have a relationship with her; it wasn’t just a checklist. A’s eyes widened and we saw hope grow. We got to ask her what held her back from leaving prostitution and she admitted she liked the money and the lifestyle that provided but she knew she should stop. After a few more minutes of conversation about her life and ambitions our time was up. The fidgeting started and her eyes began to wander.  We told her to call the number in her gift bag if she ever needed help or wanted someone to talk to – and that was that. We walked back to the car, praying with every step. The Holy Spirit was present. And even though we left A on that street corner, Jesus did not. A is in good hands.

We ask that you keep praying for A and the other girls on the streets. A was just one of a couple dozen girls we met Friday night. They need prayer and we need your support. There is hope. The Holy Spirit is working and God has not abandoned the streets of Los Angeles.

BONUS STORY:

As we were driving down the track, we saw an unusual sight. If I gave you 100 guesses as to what we saw that night I would bet you’d never even come close to guessing.

Close you eyes and imagine two cops “pulling over” three South LA guys… on horses. Yup, they were just galloping down the main track, talking on their cell phones. That’s not something we see every Friday night!

(PS sorry for the lame photo... it was the best I could do from the middle seat) 

Mistakes

Recently I have been thinking about grace, especially in the work place. In so many instances one mistake results in complete distrust.  As an intern you are already running an up hill battle. You are worthless until proven worth it. You are an amateur until someone deems you as legitimate.

Basically, I believe everything in this world is about perception.

But what happens when you mess-up and your perception is tainted?

What happens when you do something really stupid, that you cant explain away. You can't save face. All you can do is shrug and say... 'I have no idea what went wrong.'

To the rest of the world that is unacceptable. A boss will start checking your work and pretty soon you are back to being an intern. A professor will ride you off as hopeless. A friend may not want to associate with you.

Why is that? We all mess up. But when someone else screws up, it is fatal. You think to yourself , 'at least its not me'

But God.... God forgets about it and when you repent he elevates you higher in his family.

I am sick of this world and how we treat each other. If God can move on, then so can we. 

Men's Magazines??

I was studying in Starbucks when a guy friend from the fraternity next door came up to say hi. We struck up a conversation and eventually found ourselves talking about the future. It turns out he had been offered the position of Art Director at Playboy Magazine.

After having a good laugh about it, he got serious, wanting to know my legitimate opinion. He is not ‘that kind of guy’ and was really worried about working in such an environment. Naturally, to help him decide, we did some research and I ended up browsing the Playboy site for longer than I should have.

Of course there were pictures of women everywhere – that I expected – although I will admit, I was surprised to find an interview with a well-known economist and piece on biopolitics. But I did not find a single article on art or even men’s fashion.

Our findings resulted in an interesting conversation about gender roles and males tendency toward self-asserted leadership. Men today want to be leaders because they were told they ought to be, but there is no longer a sense of earning it or deserving it. Leadership is awarded to the worthy, meaning not everyone can or should lead. But men are told if they are not this masculine type that likes motorcycles and hordes of women, they are weak, not fit to lead. Just as women are told they must fit a certain body type in order to feel desired.

I know not all men’s magazines are as ridiculous as Playboy, but it is an interesting thing to remember. Men face very similar pressures women do, a lot of which stem from gender-segregated magazines. For some reason, gender magazines feel the need to either enforce or defame gender roles; but either way it is still all about gender roles.