My Moment?

this is badly written.. but i needed to get it out there, and off my chest:

Service has been a roller coaster of emotions lately.

I work at All Bengal Women’s Union; which houses women and girls who were subjected to various forms of cruelty. They house older women whose family refuses to support them (in India, the son is supposed to take full responsibility of his mother when his father dies. Traditionally, a man is always in care of the woman; from her father, to her husband, to her son.) They house young girls in three homes; one for 6-18 years old then housing girls older than 18. There is also the midway home; where new girls are separated from older girls. The new girls arrive with “bad habits” sometimes, and they do not want the older, stable girls to pick up on those bad habits. The organization also offers counseling and psychiatric care to help the girls adjust from their violent past lives. The programme also sends the girls to their private school within their fortress to gain a basic education. They fully believe that simply supporting the girls will not allow them to get onto their own two feet once the support is finished. Some girls are too old to be sent to school, so they are sent to skills education, where they learn to sew and ink print on cloth – something they can take away with when they leave and earn a living.

All Bengal Women’s Union has a very honest policy with their girls; their needs, their talents, their capabilities and their inabilities. If a girl needs one on one, they give it to her; but a lot of counseling sessions occur in group where they do art therapy and drama therapy (they are putting on a play within the month.) They know what a girl needs because they are honest about her situation and her abilities – meaning that if she is too old to go to school, they do not send her because that is what one ‘should’ do – they are realistic that she would not do well, so they decide the best path for her instead which is to learn skills.

My job is simple; I sometimes feel like an extra part in the working wheel, but most times I cannot ask for a better career for 3 months. Emily (D.C.), Gracie (Brooklyn) and myself (Loonville) arrive around 7:45 in the morning to head upstairs into the girls’ dormitory to help them get ready for school. They are in and out and all around; showering, sweeping, eating. There is a house mom (whose name always escapes me) who oversees their chores. Only more recently has she opened up and felt comfortable around us. There are over a dozen wooden beds in the main room we play in, the Midway Home. We spend two hours there and a lot can go on.
The house mom runs a tight shift, expecting the girls to have their beds made perfectly, clothes folded, and the floor swept and washed before non-formal school starts at 10. A different girl is expected each day to clean the floor while the rest shower. A lot of the younger girls have short hair so as not to get lice, but other than that they are very clean; always showering and putting cream on their body to keep their skin soft. (As an aside, I don’t think a day as passed that one girl didn’t grab my arm, point to my skin and say “beautiful” and point to their dark skin and shake their head in disgust. I have seen ads for skin whitener. But remember, we try to make ourselves orange so do not judge.) As I said in an earlier entry – the girls are brimming with affection since our first day. Some new girls take time to warm up to us, and by time I mean an hour. Our nicknames are ‘Auntie’ but we have been there long enough that they can say our names. (I am the oldest so I am AmandaDi – aka Amanda the Older Sister. It’s a sign of respect, dontcha know.) The girls want to sit with us, practice their English and sing songs.

This is what I love about Indian girls. I remember a theory from Dean Mike on Semester at Sea that talked about talents and skills of children compared to adults. When you go to a kindergarten classroom, and you ask “Who here can dance? Who here can draw? Who here can write?” – every child raises their hand and shouts with pride “Me! Me! Me!” Ask that of an adult, and they shy away. (I say they because I am not an adult, nor do I ever hope to be one. It’s the Holden Caulfield complex.) But, most adults can manage a decent and clear drawing, a lot of people love to dance, and each person has their own voice for writing – but there are such pressures of perfection that we place upon our writers, artists and dancers that if you are not super talented – that skill doesn’t exist. I think that’s sad. As for our girls at All Bengal, they do not have melodic voices, most have no dance training: but when you ask them to sing, they jump up immediately to sing and dance. Ask them to draw and you have some four petaled flowers penciled across a page. And this comes from the older girls too. I cannot imagine asking the average fifteen year old to dance on the spot for me – they’d give me the finger. These girls are so willing to share the little they have, whether it’s their warm love or unassuming talents. It something I am starting to feel is missing the world…

I digress. After the morning preparation, we head to non-formal school, where we are charged by small children in dirty uniforms screaming “Auntie!” and dragged around the premises, waving to kids in the formal school. I am still unclear as to the difference between the two but we have a meeting with the supervisor soon so I will update you with better information. Non-formal school for us consists of prayers and English games. The teachers just encourage us to talk in English around the kids just so they pick up on pronunciation. We sing “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” “Head, Shoulder, Knees and Toes,” “London Bridge,” “Duck, Duck, Goose” (but they say Floose! It’s too funny to correct them,) and “Auntie Says” replacing ‘Simon.’ It’s games, laughter and touching our childhood for that hour. At 11:00 their formal school begins, so we head downstairs to the nursery to do the same thing – talk to English in front of 4 year olds so they develop an ear for English. We do similar nursery rhymes, colours and embarrass ourselves with American dances which consist of “Little Teapot,” “The Hand Jive,” “Cotton-Eyed Joe,” and “The Macarena.” (Dear Vishnu we have pathetic American dances. Any ideas, please suggest them.) We spend some time there then head to the older women’s dormitory to sit with them, hold their hands and converse badly in Bangla.

Saturday service is tough because they do not have school and these are the times I pity my father, for he was a jungle gym when we were younger and that is what we become to our girls on the weekend. Poppa, they give a whole new meaning to your endearing term ‘Clingons.’ This was the first Saturday in a while that we attended because we’ve had class or a holiday. The girls recognize us, becoming more familiar and less of a celebrity. There was no agenda for today so we bummed around and played with them.

I don’t like that I do this, but I’ll be honest about it; I have three favourites. Ripa, a 17 year old who looks 14 that will do nothing but to stare into my eyes and smile. Sabana, an 8 year old who has the cutest giggle with big brown eyes which give me double winks. And Bianca, the 9 year old who craves attention and love but hides it behind her many scars and brutal attitude. The other girls are so important to me and I give them all equal attention when I can – but if I could bring some girls back to America: these would be them.

To be honest, sometimes I do not know what to do with myself because they are simple tasks. Not even tasks, there is nothing that is concretely accomplished. Our job is to speak our native tongue (which we are doing okay in picking up some Bengali) and to give love and affection through dancing and hugs. Not that I am complaining, but I do question my effectiveness within their organization. I do remember though that sometimes more important than those basic needs of food – that being loved is so important to the development and life of a child, or anyone for that matter. We have been here a month and I’m really getting comfortable, personally knowing the girls and maybe my true beneficial service is revealing itself…

Throughout the week, Ripa kept telling me that she was going to court. The massive language barrier did not tell me why. Finally, on Saturday, she was getting dressed up and kept saying court. I waited for the house mom to ask why. Before I met with her, Bianca and Puja got into a fight, which happens frequently. We always baby Bianca because she is so tiny. The girls hit each other all the time, but they learned that violence from their abusive homes and even their house mom will sometimes hit them if they are misbehaving. After their verbal fight over Shiva knows what, Bianca threw a full water bottle at Puja. Two of the older girls then ganged up on Bianca, smacking her around. It is so hard for us to watch, especially when the girl is already covered in scars.

The house mom came in and Emily and I sat with her to practice her English. Soon, we brought up Brinca’s outburst, questioning why she is so angry and why the girls pick on her. She responded that the police brought her here because her parents abused her so much, explaining the scars. She brought a lot of bad habits, claims the house mom, and they do not know where her parents are. I pushed a little further and asked why Ripa was going to court. Through a long story short – she has to go to court to testify against the man who stole her from her home in Bangladesh to bring her to India as a prostitute.

These are my girls. My girls. They are so young. The things they have gone through I will never know. Nor could I understand. I hear these stories, I learn the statistics – but they are my girls. Know their faces. IAnd holy shit they are so beautiful. So gentle, and in need of… something. After she told us about the court, Ripa wandered over and the house mom told her that we understood what was going on. Her face turned to stone, realizing how real the situation was; now that these oblivious Aunties understand. All I could do, all I knew to do was to hug her and kiss her tears away. The Women’s Union is doing everything it can to give them the backbone they need to make it in the world, but the problem continues… young girls are being trafficked for sex.

It took me four days to write that one paragraph. I almost wish I could just film my streaming tears so you could see that I what I say is so strong, so deep, so immense and so – real. It is. It is so real. So is this it? Is this my moment? A lot of events in the last few years have pushed me in this direction of female sexual violence. Is this my moment of truth, love, devotion, strength – the moment that I will recognize as the moment that pushed me on this path? Is this the injustice that I am to try to being truth to in the world? Do I take it and run with it?

And how? How the fuck am I supposed to do this? There are so many factors and so many things to solve. And it is so hard to balance everything here: my classes, my life in India, my service, my future, my mental health, my social health. I feel so superficial for watching ‘Boondock Saints’ with my friends rather than doing research on grants for these girls I love. It’s a tired record: but what can one person do?

I know that answer. We all know that answer. It only takes one. And while I don’t feel that answer, I don’t feel it deep down in my soul that I can do something extraordinary – but… these are one of those moments; those prodigious moments that though it may seem insignificant to some, that change is slow and almost unnoticeable, that it will be challenging, that it will reap little reward, but that regardless of it all, it’s still change. And that’s all we need to do.