A Constant Question

What is a Missionary?

This week marks the end of the Ramadan fast. “The Hindu” newspaper describes in its October 24, 2006 issue the significance of the fast as bridging “the gulf between the rich and poor. As the rich experience the pangs of hunger, their thoughts go to the poor and the deprived, developing a sense of brotherhood.” To me this is significant in terms of my expanding definition of missionary for a few reasons: 1) Through the words of another religion, sometimes one views humanity in a newly accepting manner. Respect for another’s faith tradition should be a vital aspect of missionary-hood. 2) It describes faith in action. 3) It demonstrates accompaniment. 4) It leaves more to be done.

I arrived expecting to be challenged in my faith, and I am during reunions with Achen and the volunteers, but at home in Mavelikara ones faith seems to be defined by hymns memorized, prayers recited and being “best-friends” with Jesus. I do not memorize hymns. I prefer solitary, thoughtful prayer to the rapid-speed, group prayers done at 6PM each night at the hostel. Jesus is not my buddy; He is Jesus. As I struggle with this, I find myself reading Isaiah 42:3-4 (I’ve never been much of a Bible reader before, this has been a refreshing change for me), which to me is a great example of faith in ACTION--what I find most lacking. From Campus Crusades India to Mar Thomas conventions, I have praised and sang (even once appearing on PowerVision, the religious T.V. channel, yikes) but I feel disappointed by the lack of action to match their “zeal.”

When I first described the details of this program to one of my good friends, whose opinion I trust and care about, she gently expressed her reservation about calling me a missionary though I could tell inside there was much more hidden frustration. To me, it is an important part of my reason to be here. I find myself returning to my faith to help process what I am doing and opening the Bible more than I ever have in my life. It is important to acknowledge the evolution of the word “missionary” in our vocabulary. The Oxford English dictionary defines missionary as: “a person sent to teach others about Christianity.” Eeek. Maybe to me, “a Christian sent to accompany and learn from the lives of others” seems more appropriate.

In a service-learning class after reading a piece called “On Beggars” which redefines “beggars” though a non-Western cultural lens as those who make a choice to live without wasting, we were asked to make a vow about how we will react when faced with beggars. Acts 3:4 describes my vow and helps me to define “missionary.” Peter said, “Look at us,” a simple sentence that means so much. I vowed to acknowledge the humanity of those who approach me. Look a person in the eyes, with respect. Acknowledge that they are suffering. Understand that I cannot truly understand.

In India, I am doing my best to take that much deeper. To find Christ in everyone makes acknowledging ones humanity a bit more serious. To open myself to vulnerability by allowing myself to be taught by those I may consider “in need.” I find it necessary to seek out further opportunities to serve, and opportunities have arisen. I spend time at a school for kids with mental disabilities. I hope to soon join a group who provides food for those in in-patient care at a government hospital and another group to visit a local leprosy sanitorium.

Again, I’m overwhelmed by the need in comparison to the lack of action. I feel lucky to be here, learning about Christianity in this context. It inspires me to “act justly, love tenderly and walk humbly with God,” using the words of my Global Missions mentor. There is more to be done; I will probably feel that way in every chapter of my life. What a great inspiration and education to learn how to best effect change!

Thunder Storms and Sambar

I am sitting in a wicker chair in my room reading, “Globalization and its Discontents” and listening to the thunder of an impending storm. The rain will arrive, the power will go out, and people will either grow quiet and studious or become goofy and rambunctious. After the storm, the climate will cool, the still wet laundry in our rooms will smell mildewy and the power will return. The unpredictability of the storms lately fits well the mood of the last two weeks: tumultuous.

It started with a Students Federation of India (SFI), the communist political group, strike on-campus on the same day I had scheduled to interview the SFI leaders. The interview was cancelled; I knew when I heard flag-bearing SFI members chanting in a protest around campus. I saw a few SFI leaders take a padlock and lock the gate of the campus (the main and sole entrance and exit). I heard rumors of a “list of demands” and a “meeting with the principal.” Lunchtime arrived and the gate remained locked. I refused to miss my rice and sambar, so I marched myself to the gate. A familiar SFI face quickly opened the gate and let the American girl leave.

The next day I got the details. SFI demanded around twenty changes from the principal, most of which were reasonable and granted on the spot (a source of fresh water for students to drink on campus, for example). The gate was locked until the meeting adjourned around 2:30. The same day a teacher attempted suicide by drinking poison from one of the labs (not at all connected to SFI actions, it was a personal matter). The campus was buzzing.

My head started to hurt and my back ached, but there was so much to do! I left college early to meet one of the members of South East Asia Missions to help with the “Manna Mission,” which provides food for the people who can’t afford food during in-patient stays at a local government hospital. I arrived at the hostel and I was “five minutes too late,” Ammamma said. I was disappointed and frustrated. If I had arrived early, I would not have missed his phone call asking if I was still planning to come. I arrived on time, but by that time he assumed I was not coming. My head really began to hurt. I checked and realized I had a low fever, so I cancelled my afternoon activities and rested. By nightfall my fever was 101 degrees. The next morning it was 102.6 degrees. Off to the doctor I went, in a bumpy rickshaw no less. “Too much sun, “ some said, “too much walking,” others reprimanded. I think I was just sick and stressed. I received some magical medicines and returned to the doctor the next day feeling much better.

The next day, however, by night fall my head was in a bucket and my headache had returned full force. It was a mind-splitting, lights off, whispers only headache. Back to the doctor. “Too much sun,” “too much walking,” Ammamma and the students said. “Migraine,” I cried. “Gastrointestinal problems due to mango juice,” said the doctor. More medicine and my first buttocks injection.

Today I felt better. My headache is present and I am watching my food. The rice and sambar I had to escape to eat a few days ago doesn’t sound so good now. All of these events fall around Deepavali, the Festival of Lights. Somehow I was able to convince Ammamma to get fire-crackers and sparklers, a special treat for us at the hostel to celebrate. And even more miraculous, I was feeling fine on the night we set them off! My tumultuous two weeks, cushioned on both ends by a headache, fire-crackers in the center, ends with a thunderstorm.

The Simple Act of a Smile

I step out of the hostel’s black iron gate, the latch just within my short wing-span, and I imagine a joust beginning with a high pitched screech, “On Guard!” as I make my way cautiously. Dodging is an art form. The street may be empty when I step onto it, but within seconds two busses careening from either direction will come screaming towards me and I’m left in a ditch or a puddle. I’m an amateur. James Cameron in “An Indian Summer” describes a pro, “The solitary cyclist wobbling dreamily on the crown of the road 400 yards ahead, aroused by the horn, will falter and swerve for half a minute, undecided until the last second whether to weave wildly to the left or the right.” I remain baffled and impressed by anyone who can reach a state of “wobbling dreamily” on the roads of Mavelikara, but they do and they are the pros.

On my walk to the college I pass a neighbor’s house and wave wildly to an adorable little girl who seems to perpetually be waiting at her door for that moment, at least I like to think so. I cross the junction; the three intersecting roads are a danger zone to navigate. To the left is a bookstore, run by Vinasharam Sir, an ex-teacher of Hindi at the college. He speaks beautiful English but uses our few moments chatting to teach me Malayalam words. As I walk, gaggles of children clump together and giggle until someone says, “Hello Miss!” My response elicits shrieks of laughter and mini-tickle fests as they grope for each other’s hands. At first it was overwhelming, now it is fun. When else will I be able to so easily make people smile (even if it is at my expense)?

One afternoon I strolled past a temple on the way to the post office, pausing to listen to the women pray, and was approached by a woman who offered an explanation and walked with me for a bit. Our conversation was brief and conducted in choppy Malayalam, “What is your name?” I pronounced incorrectly. When I asked where she lives I very well may have asked how many monkeys live in Malaysia, but she understood and pointed, possibly to Malaysia. Further along I passed a small shack; puppies following their mother, a fire in the front area burning trash, two quasi-naked children chatting in Kidspeak (universal language) until they saw me and pointed in surprise. An ancient woman dressed in white smiled in response to my greeting, her only two teeth jutting out of her mouth precariously. She grabbed my arm and, gesturing emphatically, she explained the physics of flying and why the sky is blue, at least that is what I imagined. I simply pointed at the sky and said, “mazha” (rain) and she patted my arm with seeming pity. “Nadakunu” (walking) I said and she shrugged her shoulders as if to ask why. I returned the shrug, hoping to convey “why not?” and continued on my way with a smile and a “naani” (thank you). She laughed.

In the distance I heard evidence of a temple within reach. Drums and melody emanated from a speaker system, though from a distance it sounded like a lively band. I walked on and eventually passed a woman with a broom standing outside a house. She stared and I smiled, asking “Pali evide?” (Where’s the church?) She pointed, walked me to a path and waved goodbye. Another “naani” and a big smile. I followed the weaving path, surrounded on one side by smoking piles of burning trash and on the other a field of rubber trees being tapped. I never found the temple. My time ran out and I returned to the hostel before my curfew of 6:00PM, when the iron-gate with its barely reachable latch is locked.

Without these walks, I would never have discovered the small alleys that lead to beautiful rice-paddied country side. The village I call home quickly becomes flat and expansive; green palm trees and cinnamon soil glow in the heat and fade into deep orange with the suns disappearance. Dusk is glorious here. More importantly than missing a sun-drenched vista, I would have missed the conversations.

Father Chandler, the chaplain of the John Felice Rome Center where I worked the past two years said, probably while sharing with us a limoncello on the balcony, that life is made up of many meaningful conversations. At the end of the day it is not the work itself that was most important, it was the human interaction and the sense of community gained by sharing time with those around you; challenging each other and asking questions. “Look at us,” Peter says to the crippled beggar in Acts 3:4, a reminder to me of what I have in the past forgotten to do. It was easy for me to fall into a routine in Italy: study, work, eat, play, all the while forgetting to stop to talk to the man who fed the stray cats a can of tuna every day and the women who sang as they cleaned the building early every morning. I have been here only for a month and realized quickly that during my walks I return home content only if I have met new neighbors or recognized a smiling face. They acknowledged my presence and my humanity in that simple act of a smile. A powerful message and another "universal language."

This one is about my daily life...

“The here and now, the quotidian, was beginning to acquire substance” (Anita Brookner, Hotel du Lac).

I’m growing accustomed to questions about food, all of which I’ve eaten without a problem (minus yesterday’s green chili incident which was easily solved with a lopping ladle of rice and lots of explanations “That! Look! That is green chili. Spicy. Green chili!”). I am frequently put on the spot in front of audiences of classrooms, teachers and meetings. “This is Cate from America. She is here for one year. Introduce yourself Cate!” I repeat my mini-mantra, smile and throw in an attempt at pronouncing a word in Malayalam, which always induces appreciative laughter.

I live with two of the best tutors there could possibly be, Ammachi and Eeche, the cooks at the hostel. They spend their day in a massive, dirt-floored room, chopping vegetables with huge knives, stirring huge black pots over an open fire, and avoiding the mice that scamper from one burlap sack to the next. I sit on the end of a bench and ask questions, “endu etah?” (What’s that?), “Chaia kudicho?” (Have you had your tea?). They laugh at me and mock my pronunciation, all the while shoving pieces of unidentifiable food under my nose or into my mouth and watching my reaction. “Ishtamano?” (Do you like it?) They are sarcastic, insensitive and rough. But they are honest. Instead of, “No, Ma’am, wear what you prefer to our day trip to Trivandrum,” they motion wildly for me to put up my hair, with demanding expressions making me feel ridiculous for not having done so previously. When I forget a word I had previously learned, they quiz me until I say it. When I say “sukhamano,” my favorite word, they make a riddle of that being the only word I know. There are no formalities and no niceties. My pride is shot to pieces the minute I walk into their domain and I usually leave with a handful of food an only a few more words in my Malayalam notepad. Mainly it is a good reminder, in between engilsh classes, that I am not the teacher here.

I have yet to teach a full week of classes. Strikes are common (twice in three weeks), sometimes resulting in cancellation of classes but always complete with a protest. At around 10:00 one morning last week I heard the loud resonating chanting of a group of students, mainly men. I could hear them approaching and was, honestly, filled with a tinge of fear as they came closer to the English department. I joined three other teachers who stepped outside the office to watch. It was only six young men with two flags and very loud voices. I could not believe that such a small group of people warranted a strike. What are they striking against? I asked the teachers and students that day. None of them knew. They could tell me that the entire political party of which the young men were a part called a strike that day, which legally requires the principal to honor it.

The other night I stayed up late playing Ludo and Snakes & Ladders with Ammamma and Ambily. Ammamma cheats. She rolls the dice until she gets the number she wants or she gets caught in the act. After which she laughs and gives into our frustrated demands. “Hey! Ammamma rolled twice! I saw it!” Ambily, only partly as a result of Ammamma’s cheating, loves to control the game. For a few minutes I realized that Ammamma and I weren’t even touching our game pieces. We would roll the dice and she would count the spaces and move our pieces. Telling us whether we could “kill” the other persons piece or not. “Ohhh, Ammamma is cheating, kill her piece. You must watch her.”

That night sums it up for me right now. I feel comfortable in my surroundings but the challenges still exist. A game of Snakes and Ladders helped me realize that I have friends here, which is a wonderful feeling.

Enormous Elephant Ears

Upon my graduation from college I received many gifts. Cards, money, a party and a diploma that means more to me now than it did then. I also received a letter from my mother which, at the time, frustrated me in its formality. She congratulated me on my accomplishment and my young-womanhood and pronounced me independent financially. Today I was contemplating womanhood while shooting hoops on the hostels surprisingly impressive but sadly unused basketball court. I recalled receiving that letter and how I felt miffed at the necessity to declare me independent and the formality in which it was relayed, but I realized today that I feel lucky to have been granted that liberty. My mother never stopped supporting me emotionally, with indubitable patience considering how I scooted out of the country after graduation and have not yet officially returned. I do not feel completely independent; she offers more financial help than I expected and I am chagrined to admit that I have yet to do my own taxes. But that letter is physical evidence of the independence I have that the Indian women I have met do not.

On Saturday, September 23 the hostel hosted a special “Career-Counseling” Seminar. I sat in the front, feeling moderately self-conscious knowing that the seminar was in Malayalam and the lecturer was aware of my ignorance of the language. I soon realized that “Career-Counseling,” meant something quite different from what I expected. I will not recapitulate his entire lecture. Rather, I will tell you the responses of students when I asked later that evening after dinner, “What did you like best about the seminar today?”

Well, he explained to us that men stare at women because they have tunnel vision whereas we have peripheral vision, therefore they need to look longer at everything they see. He used sketches of the brain and the theory of an American doctor to show us that men think most about sex whereas women think about many other things, but he reiterated that sex is important in a marriage and a women should give up her body to her husband. He explained that the vast difference between men and women lies in women being relationship focused while men are achievement focused. He reminded us that women cannot be best friends with other women because women gossip and are jealous. American doctors have proven that if men shop for more than twenty minutes, they are likely to suffer a brain hemorrhage whereas women can shop for hours, this being proof of our patience. Women also talk more than men (“Consider it a positive thing,” he reassured the students). In fact, studies show that when men say 2,000 words, women say 7,000 (no specific time frame provided that of which I am aware). The young women laughed at his jokes and antics, they nodded at his theories and gulped up each graph he showed.

After reading authors like Silvia Plath, Susan Faludi and Bell Hooks, I wonder how to fit this experience into my growing understanding of womanhood in the year 2006. I struggled during that seminar, at points almost in tears of rage as he showed graphs and knowledgably quoted American doctors. All the while wondering, how dare I attempt to place my feminist beliefs in this cultural context? Yet how do I digest what I am experiencing now without comparison? How will I approach these young women, who will inevitably ask for my opinion?

I deflected.

“It was powerful. What did you think?” In asking that question I learned things that would have never come up in casual conversation with these young women. They admitted to feelings of fear about the future, fears that made me understand better why the lecturer’s words resonated for them. My opinion does not matter here (I will write them in my journal and close it at the end of the day). I allowed myself to ask two very specific and, admittedly, personal and difficult questions. “Does the idea of ‘giving your body to your husband’ upon marriage frighten you?” The young women said that they must trust their parents to find a good husband. They said that many women are married to men who treat them well and care for them. They did not necessarily feel frightened about that in particular, it is their duty. My second question was, “I heard you say you cannot go out after 6PM for fear of what men may do to you or what people will say about you walking around at night. If your safety relies on the actions of men, do you ask men to change?” The answer to this was jumbled. It reiterated what I have heard resoundingly from young women so far, “People might talk.” They seemed to feel that men cannot change, that it is better for women to stay inside for fear of their safety.

Coincidentally, a few days before this seminar, I had finished Elizabeth Bumiller’s “May You Be the Mother of a Hundred Sons,” a book published in 1990 that reflects on her interviews with hundreds of women in India during a stay of three years. In the last chapter, Bumiller writes, “I have learned that to write about women in India is to write about their problems of work, marriage, children, poverty and aging—problems that are not unique to India but are rooted in any society’s definition of womanhood…This book was my mission—to inform, to enlighten, and to prove that the women of India are more like us than they are not.”

Something I learned from performing in the The Vagina Monologues, from reading novels and the newspaper and from the OnCall program at Loyola is the importance of each person’s story. Maybe my feminist-self is best positioned with a closed yapper and elephant ears (which are enormous, I know this now!). I have the opportunity to get to know a cross-section of India’s women here in my new hostel of a home. Young women from all castes, educational backgrounds and financial situations are my neighbors. From them I can better understand the situation of India’s women, and even more importantly I will learn about their passions, visions and fears for the future.

I let my opinions rest in one statement at the end of our conversation, “I hope for each of you a loving husband who respects you.” The young women in the hostel will probably not receive from their parents the gift that I did, of independence, and my frustration for their situation will probably not cease. In the end, I think I understand better the idea of “accompaniment” now.