For a few years now, my heart has been particularly burdened for victims of injustice of any kind all over the world. Via the media, I've watched helplessly as thousands upon thousands of my fellow humans have been enslaved or killed at the hands of merciless men and it has turned my stomach and started the flow of tears every time. And now I live in a part of the world where enormous injustices happen around me daily. I see handicapped men crawling down the road to the cardboard box they will sleep in. I see children sewing cargo shorts in a congested shop and stifling heat for $1 a day. I see fathers pimping out their five year old daughters from their taxis. I see atrocities that I don't want to talk about. And I wonder where God is in the midst of these things. I struggle to understand what my role is in following the God of justice. God loves these children, so I must love these children. Every day, men and women around me are being oppressed by communism, buddhism, poverty, horrid water conditions, rivers of sewage, relentless civil war. And I believe God hates it. So we must hate it. And we must do something about it. I must do something about it.
I spent the last two weeks trying to see firsthand what is being done to prevent or end the trafficking of children and women in Southeast Asia for sexual exploitation. After spending a few days in Dirty Town, I traveled eight hours with my team to Border Town. My understanding was that it is the place for seeing the truth about trafficking. What I found there broke my heart. There are a number of NGOs and even Christian organizations working there - encouraging. There are some really great projects going on to educate communities about traffickers' schemes and how to report suspected traffickers - encouraging. There are schools being built to keep border kids from going across into Other Country for work, making them more vulnerable to being trafficked - encouraging. But there was only one organization in the city that was working directly at protecting or rescuing girls - distressing. How can these organizations see and feel the evil that is apparent from the main street to the Red Light District and not do anything to help? My heart broke.
As we met with people from different organizations, hoping to find someone to partner with in the future, we continued to hear the same things: "Well, we don't really have anything to do with trafficking per se..." or "Yeah, that's a really big problem here." We even heard someone from Prestigious Worldwide Christian Organization say, "Well, once they get here there's not really anything you can do anyway." Broken heart. Enraged heart! Where is their rage?? Where is their disgust?? Where is their contempt for these villains who steal lives for profit?? I do not understand. It's remarkable to me that anyone in Border Town can sleep, let alone function, apart from trying to get help for these victims. The evil is tangible there, hanging like a shroud, ready to choke at any minute. I walked 200 meteres down the street alone and was so overwhelmed by the oppression and what I can only imagine were propositions spewing from mouths of drunken men that I hailed the first motorbike taxi I found and returned to the safety of my team.
Trafficking and prostitution are just parts of life here. It is completely acceptable for men in many parts of Asia to have extramarital affairs with prostitutes - the younger the better for most. Virginity is sold at exorbitant rates and girls are sewn up and forced to have sex again before their wounds heal so that the bleeding makes their fake virginity seem real. Children as young as 5 stand in rooms crowded with their peers and battle to perform oral sex on customers at $5 a piece. Men from every corner of the Western world travel to Southeast Asia to have sex with young boys - the sex tourism industry flourishes as the demand grows daily. The sex trade provides revenues of $42 billion annually some reports say. It's so much a part of life that girls who are freed return because of the lack of opportunity or acceptance of what they see as their fate.
It's disgusting. When I'm not wanting to throw up, all I want to do is cry. But my tears won't change anything here My concern does little for the 2-4 million people trafficked annually worldwide. My interest in the issue is of little concern to the trafficker who laughs all the way to the bank. I can pray all day and I can give all the money I have and both of those things are great. But I keep thinking that my action has to matter. My action has to matter. My action matters.
ACTION: the fact or process of doing something, typically to achieve an aim; a thing done, an act.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
My bug.
Since we returned from Christmas, we're pretty sure our house is bugged. No, not beetles or roaches or ants, though any of those would be better. Bugged as in "are you freaking kidding me someone's listening to our conversations??" bugged. Wire taps. Not having any of the required electronic detection equipment to check for said bugs, I have thoroughly inspected my bedroom and the living room with my headlamp and have found nothing. I've considered screaming at the top of my lungs continuously for a few hours in the hopes of either breaking the devices or driving the listener to the hospital with a busted eardrum. I'll do it. But wait, there's more.
A few weeks ago, Community Cop (of Comm Cop for short) showed up telling us that we hadn't registered our students as guests in our homes in a timely enough fashion and that the fine was roughly $300. Uh huh. The fine for people not registering their guests in a third world country is $300 - everyone can pay that, right? Interestingly, two months prior he had told us that he needed $300 to buy a laptop. We weren't really sure what to do and though $300 is a lot of money, $1200 is a whole lot more. ($300 x 4 students) We asked our friends, then did as they suggested and went to the main neighborhood station and registered with Big Dawg. Comm Cop was not pleased - we got him in trouble. While on our last trip, I received an email from our friend Teacher Man saying that he had been called into the police station four times in two weeks. He was first questioned as to our jobs, agendas, and motivations for being here and then questioned about his own job and other personal information. A few others have been questioned as well. And we've been told our rental agreement is void. And Shifty Motorbike Man was sitting outside our house this morning for an hour, not moving...just waiting. Waiting for what, you ask? I'm not sure but I don't like it.
We've heard stories from several foreigner friends of calls being monitored. Scottish Bloke was speaking to someone at the phone company and heard something in the background. When he stopped speaking, he realized that the voice he was hearing was his own - a conversation he had with the same office the week before. It had been recorded and accidentally played back. Perhaps Phone Call Monitor hit play instead of record? But one of our students complained today about the weird voices she could hear when she made a call earlier. Perhaps something similar?
I knew prior to moving here that the chances were good that I would be "monitored" but I'm sure in the back of my head I believed it wouldn't be true. Surely there are much more interesting people to monitor. Surely there are much bigger things going on than what happens in my house. But groups gathering "in private" (meaning anywhere) are assumed government conspirators. We gather daily in my house. All foreigners, particularly those of my nationality, are monitored, watched, followed, tracked, kept under surveillance. I wonder if I need to constantly be watching over my shoulder.
Though we believe that Comm Cop is doing all of this out of spite, it's possible they were on to us all along. Perhaps our days are numbered, perhaps we'll be around for years. Who knows. What I do know is that anyone with any kind of wiretap detection device should board a plane immediately, bound for Southeast Asia. But please, make sure you wrap it in socks, duct tap and plastic before shoving it to the bottom of your incredibly large hiking pack.
A few weeks ago, Community Cop (of Comm Cop for short) showed up telling us that we hadn't registered our students as guests in our homes in a timely enough fashion and that the fine was roughly $300. Uh huh. The fine for people not registering their guests in a third world country is $300 - everyone can pay that, right? Interestingly, two months prior he had told us that he needed $300 to buy a laptop. We weren't really sure what to do and though $300 is a lot of money, $1200 is a whole lot more. ($300 x 4 students) We asked our friends, then did as they suggested and went to the main neighborhood station and registered with Big Dawg. Comm Cop was not pleased - we got him in trouble. While on our last trip, I received an email from our friend Teacher Man saying that he had been called into the police station four times in two weeks. He was first questioned as to our jobs, agendas, and motivations for being here and then questioned about his own job and other personal information. A few others have been questioned as well. And we've been told our rental agreement is void. And Shifty Motorbike Man was sitting outside our house this morning for an hour, not moving...just waiting. Waiting for what, you ask? I'm not sure but I don't like it.
We've heard stories from several foreigner friends of calls being monitored. Scottish Bloke was speaking to someone at the phone company and heard something in the background. When he stopped speaking, he realized that the voice he was hearing was his own - a conversation he had with the same office the week before. It had been recorded and accidentally played back. Perhaps Phone Call Monitor hit play instead of record? But one of our students complained today about the weird voices she could hear when she made a call earlier. Perhaps something similar?
I knew prior to moving here that the chances were good that I would be "monitored" but I'm sure in the back of my head I believed it wouldn't be true. Surely there are much more interesting people to monitor. Surely there are much bigger things going on than what happens in my house. But groups gathering "in private" (meaning anywhere) are assumed government conspirators. We gather daily in my house. All foreigners, particularly those of my nationality, are monitored, watched, followed, tracked, kept under surveillance. I wonder if I need to constantly be watching over my shoulder.
Though we believe that Comm Cop is doing all of this out of spite, it's possible they were on to us all along. Perhaps our days are numbered, perhaps we'll be around for years. Who knows. What I do know is that anyone with any kind of wiretap detection device should board a plane immediately, bound for Southeast Asia. But please, make sure you wrap it in socks, duct tap and plastic before shoving it to the bottom of your incredibly large hiking pack.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
My explanation.
Why "daring love" you ask? I love the idea that "Life is a daring and bold adventure or nothing at all" - thank you Eleanor Roosevelt and Jerome. And I understand that. Daring + Bold + Life = Good. But add love into the mix and I'm thrown for a loop. We all want love and we should all give love but do we even really know what it means to love or be loved fully? Do we know how to accept it when it's offered and do we even recognize it when it's available? And even more, what do we do with it when we get it?
I've always loved the idea of love. But simultaneously, I think I've been terrified to fully allow myself to have or hold onto it, with few exceptions - my family, my First Love in college, Best Friend and the more recent Incomprehensible Mystery.* I feel like a lover and I want to be known as a lover, but I'm not entirely sure I can do that unless I really grab hold of love in its fullness. I want to know and give and feel that kind of love from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I want to revel in it, wallow in it, and bask in it. But if I'm honest, I'm terrified of it. I want to be known and loved, but am also scared to fully be known and loved. What if I fail? What if I hurt someone or worse, lose it? It's easier not to try, right? The answer must unequivocally be "NO!" But why is it so hard?
All of us are surrounded by people day in and day out that are longing for love, aching for it. I want to love them in a daring way! I want to love them bold and hard and full. I want to love the poor and oppressed, the corrupt and the scandalous. I want to love the unlovable and the forgotten and to do this, I'm going to have to be daring. There's no way around it. If I'm going to be fully loved by people, it's going to take some daring there's no doubt. If I'm going to even presume to understand the sacrifice of love that was made for me, I'm going to have to be daring in my faith. Daring love. I want it. I need it. I want to give it and live it. Perhaps what Eleanor meant was "Love is a daring and bold adventure or nothing at all."
*Names have been changed to protect the innocent or guilty, as the case may be.
I've always loved the idea of love. But simultaneously, I think I've been terrified to fully allow myself to have or hold onto it, with few exceptions - my family, my First Love in college, Best Friend and the more recent Incomprehensible Mystery.* I feel like a lover and I want to be known as a lover, but I'm not entirely sure I can do that unless I really grab hold of love in its fullness. I want to know and give and feel that kind of love from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I want to revel in it, wallow in it, and bask in it. But if I'm honest, I'm terrified of it. I want to be known and loved, but am also scared to fully be known and loved. What if I fail? What if I hurt someone or worse, lose it? It's easier not to try, right? The answer must unequivocally be "NO!" But why is it so hard?
All of us are surrounded by people day in and day out that are longing for love, aching for it. I want to love them in a daring way! I want to love them bold and hard and full. I want to love the poor and oppressed, the corrupt and the scandalous. I want to love the unlovable and the forgotten and to do this, I'm going to have to be daring. There's no way around it. If I'm going to be fully loved by people, it's going to take some daring there's no doubt. If I'm going to even presume to understand the sacrifice of love that was made for me, I'm going to have to be daring in my faith. Daring love. I want it. I need it. I want to give it and live it. Perhaps what Eleanor meant was "Love is a daring and bold adventure or nothing at all."
*Names have been changed to protect the innocent or guilty, as the case may be.
My promise.
Though most people that know me would probably argue the point, I've never felt like I had enough to say to actually have my own blog. And though I've traveled extensively and lived outside the US for the past four years, I've never felt interesting enough to blog. Don't get me wrong, I like blogs. I'm addicted to a few and even have a daily craving for some of the laugh-out-loud stories and unfathomable intelligence behind their observations of life, but I'm so boring. What on earth would I talk about? How would I ever live up to the incredible pressure of having something witty and/or poignant to say on a regular basis? Could I possibly have anything of value to impart to my fellow sojourners? Would I ever be disciplined enough to be a faithful blogger? Would anyone want to read it anyway? And truly, I don't know.
I'm only confident in one thing at this point in my life and it's that I have no idea. I don't know if I'll be a good blogger. I certainly can't promise I'll write about big, life-changing revelations or dazzle you with my comedic genius. I'm sure I won't. You'll probably laugh more at me than with me. There will be days that you'll roll your eyes and days you'll question my sanity. You will want to argue with me and I'll like that. I will very likely go for weeks at a time not posting anything, followed by several weeks of three posts a day - I'm a journaling binge and purger. But I promise you this: for better or for worse, you'll get me - my thoughts, my frustrations, my perspective, my experiences, my joys, my struggle to understand the world around me. I don't know what else it will be, but it will absolutely be me - messy, vulnerable, and honest. That I can promise.
I'm only confident in one thing at this point in my life and it's that I have no idea. I don't know if I'll be a good blogger. I certainly can't promise I'll write about big, life-changing revelations or dazzle you with my comedic genius. I'm sure I won't. You'll probably laugh more at me than with me. There will be days that you'll roll your eyes and days you'll question my sanity. You will want to argue with me and I'll like that. I will very likely go for weeks at a time not posting anything, followed by several weeks of three posts a day - I'm a journaling binge and purger. But I promise you this: for better or for worse, you'll get me - my thoughts, my frustrations, my perspective, my experiences, my joys, my struggle to understand the world around me. I don't know what else it will be, but it will absolutely be me - messy, vulnerable, and honest. That I can promise.
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