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Published: March 2nd 2007
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Christina here:
So sorry for the communication lapse! We had an internet connection where we've been staying, but something has been wrong with it the last few days. Between that, frequent power outages, and use of the office computer (this one) by many others, it's been next to impossible to stay in touch. Sheryl is sitting next to me reading an ancient, hilarious version of a Telegu/English dictionary. She's always doing something like that--reading a local paper to learn about the area, reading a dictionary, of all things--something I would never think to do, but one that turns out to be entertaining and educational.
The day after "Girl Time" we were taken to a Tanner's village. The tanners are a tribe within the caste system. They, and their acestors for centuries, butcher animals and tan the hides for leather used in shoes, etc. This is considered a lower caste, as they deal with blood and death. Actually, this is the tribe that Joseph and Vicky's family were in before they became Christians and got out of the caste system altogether.
We have visited other villages, but this one proved to be different. At first everything looked the same: We
were brought into the standard church/community hall building: 20feet x 40 feet, seats 300 people (yes, I said 300. They sit shoulder-to-shoulder on the floor, with a low emphasis on personal space). We listened to some school children sing us some songs and recite lessons. But there the similarities ended.
I went outside to shoot some footage of the village, and was met with hostile stares and menacing body language that took my breath away. (not altogether a bad thing, as the smells of rotting meat and fresh sewage were making my eyes water.) I noticed the guys who drove us there were very wary, staying protectively close and glancing around like a team of bodyguards. I felt suddenly vulnerable, calculating how quickly I could be rendered physically powerless if attacked, planning how to protect my gear if someone tried to steal it. One of our guys came and whispered that I should be "careful, because some of these people are not wanting us to be here." No kidding.
The local pastor (the man in white in the picture) was incredibly gracious, bringing us some fresh fried beef snacks and smiling his welcome. But aside from him, the tension was palpable. It was just plain creepy-crawly. Not wanting to offend the pastor, I was constantly trying not to physically shudder. We didn't take many pictures or video at the village, leaving after a shorter-than-normal visit. Back in the car, I dismissed all guilty thoughts of being a white American snob, and grasped for the hand sanitizer in my bag. I scrubbed at my hands, wanting to take a bath in it, to clean the awful experience off of me. Then I was surprised when all the Indian guys with us seemed just as desperate to borrow some sanitizer and do the same. The car was quiet. In the gathering dusk, we stopped a while later on the road to get some footage of passing animals and people. Sheryl took this picture of the beautiful palms that dotted the area. It was so surreal--this place looks like a tropical paradise, but something is wrong.
For the next couple of days, I was weepy, emotional. I tried to make sense of the emotions that started at the village. I was not disturbed so much by the filth or poverty or sickness I saw, even though that was pretty remarkable: One woman brought her 2-year old daughter to me. She pulled up the filthy edge of the girl's dress to show her leg bulging at an angle with a broken bone that just barely stayed beneath the baby's skin. She put my hands on the little girl's leg, asking me to pray for her. The girl didn't cry much, as she's been crying for a couple of weeks. Her dull stare of pain was enough to break my heart. I can still feel it, still see her eyes that were so much older than a child's.
More than all of this, though, even more than the monstrous Despair that made the air thick to breathe, was the resentment, the anger and resistance to change. This resistance makes it all seem so hopeless. As we spoke with Vicky about this, he confirmed our feelings, filling in some details for us about the village. There is much resistance there. The children are enjoying the educational programs, learning to use good hygiene and good manners, but the adults, struggling to survive, are offended by the suggestion that their ways need changing. The pastor walks a delicate, dangerous balance. I wondered at him: Love and peace seemed to exude from his pores. How could someone voluntarily live in such a place? And if someone could live with it, how could the same person turn around and have enough belief, enough hope for these people to change? It doesn't fit in my head. Sheryl reminded me of Vicky's stories of other villages we had visited. Many of them used to be much worse. But after Vicky's family has worked there for a time, villages once famous for their contract killers are now known for their peaceful neighborhoods and fish-ponds or superior lentils. There is hope. There is HOPE. There IS hope.
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