My Cyclone Relief Effort

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Initially, my plan for last weekend was to visit the Sundarbans and take a relaxing boat ride through the beautiful Bangladeshi jungle. But due to Cyclone Aila, which killed over 200 people and left thousands without homes or clean water, I knew I could not enjoy being a tourist amidst so much pain and destruction. Looking at the front page of the Bangladeshi newspaper, I grew frustrated that neither the government nor the private sector was doing much to help. Suffering has become such a daily reality for the people that the government no longer bothers declaring the country in a state of emergency. However, I suddenly realized that I was in a unique position to contribute to the relief effort. Rather than getting caught up in the bigger picture of conflict and poverty, I decided that individual level change is better than no action at all. From a hyperrealist standpoint, you could say my donations and effort will only benefit the villagers for a day or two, without tackling the root source of such devastating poverty. But being true to my nature, I took a more optimistic outlook and hoped that the fact that I traveled thousands of miles away from my home to help would mean something to the villagers.

I decided to first learn what actions Grameen was taking for the cyclone victims and then find out how I could most effectively contribute. After waiting for hours outside of the Grameen General Managers office, I finally gained admittance and expressed my desire to help. I proposed collecting money to purchase saline solution, water purification tablets and dried foods and told them I personally planned on distributing them. To my dismay, I was informed that sending me down south would be a security risk and not speaking the language would be a major hindrance. Furthermore, Grameen Bank’s philosophy is that borrowers help themselves and so they do not accept outside donations.

Still feeling passionate about contributing in some way, I tried to hold onto my motivation. When another intern informed me that Uddipan, a small micro finance NGO, was also doing work in the cyclone affected areas, we made a quick phone call and an hour later, five of us were headed down the dusty roads to meet with the organization. To my surprise, they were excited about the possibility of working with us. The willingness of this organization to accommodate us on such short notice speaks to the character of the company. Unlike Grameen, there was a less defined bureaucratic structure, which meant we could directly communicate with the enthusiastic staff and discover the most efficient way to channel our energy. We told them we would leave tomorrow.

The next day was a mad rush to prepare for our journey. My alarm went off at 7am and I immediately rushed down to the boat dock to purchase tickets for that night. After heading back to the host family’s house and frantically packing, I met up with the four other interns—two American girls and two Indian boys—and we pooled money to buy supplies. Three went off to buy food and water while Lisa and I started searching for the medical supplies. In simple English, we explained to the pharmacist that we were idealistic interns looking to help the children of the cyclone and with the help from the surrounding crowd, we somehow managed to communicate our purpose. We handed the man 6000 taka and asked how many boxes of saline and how many water purification packets we could purchase. Eventually, we negotiated three large boxes of saline totaling 1200 packets and 2200 water purification pills. Loading the boxes into my backpack, the top of the pack reached three feet above my head, and so slightly top-heavy, I walked the chaotic streets of Dhaka back to our meeting location. The five of us managed to pack into two small motor scooter taxis, with our packets of biscuits and crates of water bursting from the sides. Our taxi arrived first and once we loaded into the boat, we realized the boys were not close behind. We soon learned that their taxi had broken down, and they were one kilometer away (which in Dhaka traffic meant 15 minutes. The time was 5:20 and the boat left at 5:30). Erika frantically started looking for someone on the boat who spoke English in order to explain to the boat workers our predicament; but all who volunteered to translate could not actually communicate. I sprang into my frantic mode and yelling at the boys on the phone to hurry up at whatever cost, I jumped onto the boat plank as they started to pull it in and pleaded with them to wait. To my complete relief, the boys’ faces finally appeared in the crowd. The dock man who had sold me the tickets that morning spotted the boys’ taxi, grabbed their luggage and quickly guided them to the right ship. After a joyous reunion, the sweat soaked five of us found our place on the top deck.

Thus began our 21-hour boat journey.

A question myself as well as some of the other interns have been struggling with on this trip is whether our good fortune has been the result of pure coincidence or the fact that we are foreigners? I realize that if I had been a normal Bangladeshi woman, the boat would never have waited for the boys to arrive. White privilege is an uncomfortable reality here, and you see Bangladeshi women buying skin bleaching cream and the popular movie stars boasting western features. Constantly, the staff approached us on the boat, inquiring whether everything was all right. I realize that if the boat were to crash, we would be the first ones put on the lifeboat, and this position of privilege makes me extremely uncomfortable. I am also offended that others so blatantly lack a voice. A woman walked up to me on the boat and began stroking my hair and speaking to me in Bangla. Someone explained that she was asking if I was a millionaire. I could not help but laugh at her question. I had not showered nor brushed my teeth in two days but even so, in her standards I was a millionaire. Yet, there is some validity to her question. My American passport takes me far in this country, and there is no law in Bangladesh that cannot be broken for a few taka.

Stepping off the boat the next day, three Uddipan coordinators greeted us warmly and escorted us to the tum tum (AKA: “The glorified lawnmower”). On unpaved streets, we clunked along towards the children’s shelter where we would be staying for the next three days. After taking a refreshing shower, we grabbed our bags of food and headed to one of Uddipan’s “safe space” meetings, which were created in response to the dramatic effects of the weather in this area. Uddipan offers these children a safe place not destructible by cyclones or other forces where children can go after school so that they do not have to spend more time at home or in a potentially dangerous environment. This center provides additional instruction, games and psychosocial counseling for children that have been affected by cyclones. Leaving the safe center, we walked over to the adjacent orphanage to play some soccer in the mud. The boys sprinted circles around us but still politely passed me the ball, allowing me to get in a few goals. It still amazes me that children all over the world act so similarly and that you can form a bond without any verbal communication.

The next day we woke up a 7am and packed our bags with the saline packs and water purification pills. We rode the tum tum as far as the roads would allow us, taking the rest of the journey by foot. We visited another “safe space,” and this time try to teach the children “duck-duck-goose” (or “hash-hash-rajahash”). At first they acted shyly towards us but soon warmed up and were singing, dancing and putting on a theatrical performances. For our part, we sang “You are my sunshine” and tried to show them some hand clapping games popular when we were kids. In the end, we left the teacher with 200 packets of saline to disburse and continued on our way as the crowd of children excitedly waved goodbye.

The next part of the day proved emotionally challenging. The villagers’ houses consisted of some stacked up wood with a USAID tarp over it. Children slept in ankle deep mud and drank the contaminated rainwater. I realized how insignificant my donation actually was. We are simply engaging in a vertical intervention, which will last them only a few days until the next storm hits. One of the interns asked, “Why don’t they move if they know a slight rise of the water level will destroy their home?” and the answer is they have no other choice. It is not like the rich Californians building mansions on the eroding coast. These people have no money to relocate, for no one else wants the land they live on.
The more I want to help, the more I realize I cannot. They need infrastructure and water purification facilities, but it is difficult to build a new house or treatment plant knowing it will soon be destroyed. For instance, Oxfam constructed a sturdy bridge connecting 500 homes to the main land, but Aila effortlessly destroyed this new bridge and now villagers crawl across a piece of bamboo in order to get to the other side. A woman approached me and asked if I could build her a new home. The feeling of helplessness overwhelmed me. It is hard knowing you have so much but can only give so little.

Furthermore, I also felt uneasy passing out food and supplies, because it created an uncomfortable power dynamic. I did not want our efforts to be misread as the white man sweeping in to save the defenseless villager. I wonder to what degree my presence is appreciated and to what degree I am resented. Yet, I also realize I may be over thinking the situation. Living on the edge is a daily reality for these people, and their capacity to survive astounds me. I watched as a man jumped into the river and emerged with a fish in hand. When their clothes develop holes, they patch them up and when their houses are blown apart, they know their neighbors will open their doors to them.

The next day we visited one of Uddipan’s borrowers’ meeting. It was located in one of the woman’s houses, and I could not disguise my look of horror when stepping inside. The mud floor had been washed away leaving a few wooden plants to walk across. I had to use the bathroom and this woman whose eyes I will never forget, helped me balance as I walked along the thin beam to get to the other side. Reaching thick mud, it was impossible not to slide, so she gripped my arm and led me patiently to the outside squat toilet.

I felt like a thousand words passed between us in those few intimate seconds. I told her “Aapni chub bahlo” or “You are very kind” and it was as if she understood my mixed feelings of guilt, sadness, helplessness and admiration. This woman is a survivor, and I do not know if I could ever face such conditions as calmly and with such determination.

There was a small calendar nailed to the wall, and the phrase “Everything has its beauty but not everyone sees it” caught my attention. This quote seemed to speak to some of the questions I had been grappling with, and I was finally able to meet the women and children’s faces again and give them their due smile.

I asked the group if they hoped for a day where they no longer needed Uddipan’s services and a woman replied, “We have a lot of hope, but our hope has no value. Every time we rebuild the rains destroy it all.” All the women in the room had their houses ruined by Aila and before that Cyclone Sidr. Most had taken out multiple loans from the different microfinance institutions (Uddipan, Grameen, BRAC, ASA etc), so essentially they paid one loan with another. Therefore, while it seems like these micro-credit organizations have near perfect repayment rates, many borrowers are simply further entrenched in debt and struggling daily to meet the demands. There needs to be greater communication between the various NGOs. Bangladesh hosts 5000 different NGOs, each with their separate but similar agenda and more communication would mean less redundancy. As it stands now, these women are not escaping the cycle of poverty.

The government of Bangladesh is completely inadequate. Wherever I hear the word “government” attached to any program, I know it means disaster. For instance, I decided to visit the local government hospital, and it was as if I had stepped into a Polish ghetto. There was a small room crowded with numerous sick patients, each with a separate disease. The cots had brown and red stains all over and the IV stand was rusted over. A small nurse approached us. She explained that this was her 23rd year of work and that supposedly, a new hospital facility was going to be built. There was no medicine in the building and if a patient needed treatment, he had to journey to the nearest pharmacy. If surgery was required, he would have to undergo the 20 hour boat ride to Dhaka. Basically, this was a place where people went to rot. No lights, limited clean water, and looks of exhaustion in the faces of the patients proved difficult to calmly accept.

The government houses are in no better condition. They build right next to the water so the rising tides prove a constant threat, and in Dhaka, pipes run throughout the city dumping sand in the marshes in order to create more land to build houses. However, once the rains come, the base of the house collapses leaving the poor with a pile of muddy sticks. It is a hopeless situation. One solution would be to build dams to divert the flooding but this is the approach India already utilizes and is one reason why Bangladesh continually floods. There is no infrastructure and even if there were funds, the work is in vain as nature continues to destroy all progress. It is a vicious cycle and global warming further contributes to their woes. All I can do is offer them a few packets of saline and commend them for their ability to survive.

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