Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts

Thursday, April 15

Tangail's Brothel and Sex Work: The "At Least" Sydrome

Black and red smeared eyes peered out between the curtains of their rooms. Some women’s faces were painted white as a Geisha, dressed in vibrant, sparkly skirts. We didn’t know if their make-up was to appear more enticing to customers, or to disguise who they are under a mask.

Despite all the color and glamour, this was a dark place.

Diya and I took a trip through Bangladesh’s oldest brothel in Tangail. Walking through the small alleys, it was similar to a dirty, slum. The ground is the wastebasket and everything reeks of various human fluids. Houses (single room shacks) are practically on top of one another, sharing walls as apartment buildings. There’s no privacy with curtains for doors and outdoor bathrooms. The narrow alleys are filled with sex workers waiting for clients—and clients just dawdling, chatting with shopkeepers selling soda and chips, watching with televisions. It’s own self-sustaining community with food, shelter and water pumps. People could stay inside for weeks without needing to go outside the brothel. Diya turned to me at one point: “This is the strangest place I’ve ever been.”

It was only so uncomfortable knowing what goes on behind these billowing curtains. Shirtless men peered out from the beds, staring at us foreigners unashamed. Honestly, I couldn’t even look at the men. To the women, I tried to smile but I felt intrusive walking in on their work and home space. I didn't take photos for that reasons. And it was mid-day.

It was additionally heartbreaking after hearing the personal stories of the women. I don’t want to sensationalize their lives in this blog, but I do want to create awareness. Some women cried to us during their interviews, sharing how their parents abandoned them or they were sold into the brothel. One woman was so small, ten years old, that she wasn’t even menstruating when she was forced to have sex. Her body was so young and fragile her hip broke when one man was penetrating her. Some girls look (and are) so young that some madams (women pimps) inject hormones used to fatten cows. (Thanks for the link, Neelofer!)

Often, young girls and women are chukri, bonded prostitutes. A relative or the trafficker have a large debt that is endowed to the young woman. They work under a madam until it is paid. With extremely high and unfair interest, women have no other livelihood or skill by the time the debt is settled. Some continue with sex work or become madam, continuing the cycle. Often times, they make more money selling sex than any other job, but the cost of living in this brothel is much higher than living outside of it. Their earnings rarely stay in their hands.

We learned that most of the violence doesn’t come from customers, but from police and shopkeepers. Sex workers are constantly chastised and beaten when they step outside the brothel. Clearly these men don’t think that it’s their brother or neighbor who is buying sex services, perpetuating the demand for female sex workers.

The organization we went with gives trainings to the women on how to not appear like a prostitute outside the brothel. Their explanation was: “Sex workers are treated as their work all the time. A businessman can leave his business and be a father or brother. Sex workers are beaten when they aren’t working because people can tell what their work is by the way they walk and dress. We give them training on how look more respectable in the public eye.”

At first, I was disappointed by this training’s approach. The problem lies in the idea that men think that women’s bodies are dangerous and must be hidden. Telling sex workers to change their appearance is reiterating that sex work is immoral and should be kept out of the public view. But violence is occurring—what can be done to stop it now? By helping these women change their dress, they can at least be safe on the street.

“At least”—that term was ringing in our heads throughout the entire trip. So much violence is happening: physical, emotional, structural. There’s no way to change every thing at once. With small steps, though not perfect, women “at least” are moving forward on the long road to equality and empowerment. “At least” it’s better, not perfect, but better.

We witnessed the NGO workers holding hands and gossiping with some sex workers as if they are normal women (because, shocker, they are normal women). The staff was really sweet and non-judgmental. Diya asked the women about the organization’s work and it’s impact on the brothel community. Women responded that it was truly helpful. They are helping release bonded prostitutes from their debts and instructing condom use. The organization has this really innovative approach to providing services to women who are traumatized: a workbook that uses symbols for women to draw their experiences and express their needs (see left).

One woman responded that if the organization wasn’t there supporting the sex workers, some company would have torn down the brothel and built a factory. Without this community and space, sex work would be much more difficult, and dangerous.

I still toss around my opinion on legalizing sex work. One of the world’s oldest professions, it’s not disappearing. It’s impossible, and unsafe, to try to erase it. People will find a way so we should 'at least' protect them. But legalization does not suddenly transform how most sex workers don’t necessarily have much of a choice in picking that profession; nor does it erase the bullshit patriarchal notions behind sex work: that a man has such ‘unruly’ hormones that he can’t control his sex drive and need to use a woman’s body to fulfill this uncontrollable desire. Therefore, she is turned into a slut, something worthless. I will accept it’s legalization with maybe the following conditions: sex work is consented by the worker and client together, there are scholarships and services for workers who want to leave the profession, psycho-social therapy services as well as amazing health care (like athletes), anti-discrimination laws... and there are just as many male sex workers as female with just as many females clients as male. And let’s forget heteronormative sex. It’s confining and boring.

UPDATE: Thought-provoking article on laws against sex work in the UK.

Sunday, January 17

STUCK Part II: Drowning in boiling water

Work at the training center is going well. My girls are used to me sitting with them, watching over their shoulder, taking notes. There hasn’t been any emergencies since Shona’s accident, gratefully, so days go by with ease.

Shona hasn’t been in to the center since her accident, and didn’t attend her certificate ceremony. Tuesday morning, I ask the girls how she is doing.

“Oh, Shona is better, but her daughter is hurt—a pot of boiling rice water fell on her.”

Minutes later, I’m back on a rickshaw with one other girl and a staff worker, heading to Shona’s house. Driving through the morning fog, we are back at the same slum. I feel less jerks bouncing around the roughly paved roads, going with the flow of the devastating surroundings. As we climb through the entrance of the cluster of homes where she lives, the curious crowd of 20 people follows.

Shona begins to cry as we enter the small one-room, dirt floor hut that she calls a home. Sitting on her bed with her feet flat under her, her little daughter sits on her left hip, donned in a ski cap and wrapped in a shawl. The first and last time I met this beautiful, long-lashed baby girl, she looked at me and crawled into my lap as if we were old friends. Many children stare at me in wonder, and my auntie’s nephew cries every time he sees me. But this little one isn’t afraid or intensely curious of my eyes or skin, and just relaxes.

Now I see her, sitting on her mother who holds the baby’s right arm out and away from the shawl. Her neck is covered in round, tender bubbles where her skin boiled from the water, down her shoulder. On her arm is 6-inch burn, her skin yellow and shiny. Dried blood surrounds her wrist and elbow. Biting back my own tears, I wipe away Shona’s as her pressed her daughter’s head into her breast.

We chat with her a bit, looking at the medicines the doctor gave her and allow her to vent to us. With the door crowded, the staff worker shoos them away to give them some space and privacy (not a common habit in Bangladesh.) One little girl stayed, hanging around the door, inching closer over the visit until she was sitting on my knee.

I gave Shona a small Christmas gift, as I did with the rest of the girls, and she wore her new earrings right away. As I hugged her to leave, I slipped her some more taka. With neighbors still watching, I didn’t want to be obvious. And I couldn’t help but look to the skies and say, “She just healed herself, and now her daughter is in pain. All their money is being spent on medicines because of accidents. She can't work because she's taking care of her baby, and her husband's a deadbeat. How can this happen twice to the same family in one month?”

It was an easier visit than the first, I suppose the misery is becoming routine to me too. Bouncing back in the rickshaw, holding the other woman’s hand, I wondered if it was harmful or helpful to become numb to grief out of survival. I arrived at the center with no answer.

Friday, December 4

Supporting a Cause: The Case of Organ-Grinding Charities

I love Barbara Ehrenreich: "Slap On a Pink Ribbon and Call It a Day"

What I love about her article is discussing how easy it can be to get people to follow you on a cause. Non-profit marketing are like advertisements: just buy into what we're showing you. No one asks whether or not the Dove shampoo destroys forests in Indonesia for it's chemicals (which it does, by the way) because "their ads are for real women!" And no one is asking whether or not a charity organization is actually doing good, sustainable work, because "my aunt had breast cancer, I want to support the cause." Please, I encourage you to support your aunt's disease, but we need to be asking better questions, as Ehrenreich said. Our support is meaningless if the organization is not doing real good work.

I've been looking at a multitude of development organizations here in Bangladesh. Something similar that has been gnawing at me is how organizations 'pimp out' their constitutes. In order to get money from donors or gain support from the international community, charities or NGO/FBOs show off 'good cases.' In Dhaka, organizations touring the slums take foreigners with their digital cameras, photograph smiling slum kids, show them the shitholes they live in--and leave. It's all a performance, to shock the money out of you. Where does that money go, and how much actually reaches the ground? The worst is for victims of sexual violence: "Look at her--she was raped by her uncle then sold to a brothel in Bombay. But we saved her, sheltered her and now she has a sewing machine to start a business! Now donate us money to do this for the next girl..."

This woman is humiliated as you are now privy to her saddest secret, and was she ever asked if she wants to sew? To me, it seems as if they are treated as stage monkeys, paraded around on a street, dancing to the organ: a way to get your attention and make money.

I place some blame on donors, both corporate and individuals alike, who are fickle and impatient as hell. Change, especially on the grassroots level, takes years; therefore investments and donations should be promised for years. Most grants don't cover for more than 3 years. So, charities wind up develop program budgets based around what donors want to see and not always what the constitutes need.

Just because you have a pocket of money and are full of good intentions doesn't mean that real change will happen. Development work takes a strong critical eye, uninterrupted efforts and extensive knowledge in local culture. It takes good training. I am even seeing that my work for one year is not enough time.

Tuesday, November 10

STUCK: between a rock and a hard place--or a car and a rickshaw..

I arrived at the center today to hear that Shona* was home sick. I imagined a cold or cramps. The story unfolds that a few days earlier she went to the market and was smashed in between a rickshaw and a CNG, penetrating her stomach.

With one other girl from the center Lila*, myself and three aid workers head to Shona’s house. Weaving through the cool morning on a rickshaw, one aid worker Rahim* shares Shona’s story. Her parents are not around and she is married to a man who “is not bad, but not good.” She was a sex worker for a few years when she had no other livelihood available. Finding the organization, she has been working for them doing crafts and making a steady income. Her husband doesn’t work and relies on Shona to support him and their two year-old daughter. The other aid workers gush about Shona, saying that she never argues with the other girls and always helps them when they need it. I see it in her: she is a complete doll. She and I have dance sessions to entertain everyone at the center. It’s uncommon for a Bangla woman to laugh as loud as she does, and I mirror it with my own.

It starts getting quiet as we get farther away from city’s business center and the sun stronger as the buildings shrink from 5 stories to at most 2 levels. The roads increasingly dirtier, bumpier, at parts non-existent or slanted from earthquakes. Getting off the rickshaw in an alley that can fit only three persons, Lila leads us through the garbage filled ditches rotting in the sun. A constant cloud of flies swarm around my feet as we step into a cluster of tin homes, each perhaps three times the size of my clothes closet on Long Island. Seeing aid workers and a bideshi (foreigner), adults and children start popping out of everywhere to follow us. Shona’s name is whispered amongst the indistinct Bangla around me when we enter her home.

She was lying on a bed lined with a plastic table cloth with one sheet covering her. The bed took up one third of the entire house (one room) with tin walls and ceiling. Her husband stood in the corner, watching us pile in with the curious entourage behind us. The rest of the room had one chair and shelves with clothes, pots and plastic bags with personal belongings.

Shona was moaning in pain, holding her stomach. Seeing us, she began to cry and grasped onto my arm, mumbling in Bangla. I covered her forehead with kisses. She lifted up her sheet and revealed the wound. I looked away, I couldn’t see it. Her daughter came around the corner with the biggest eyes and sweetest cheeks, happily placing herself in my lap as she watched her mother breath heavy. Bangla was thrown around the tiny hut too fast for me to understand. Just as I felt that I was going to hit someone if I wasn’t informed as to what was happening, Rahim finally explained: the doctor saw her for a few minutes, gave her 2-weeks worth of antibiotics cost 1000tk and Shona’s husband took out a loan of 500tk to pay for the visit but now have no money to pay for food. That’s about 20 dollars. I handled the money situation but I was so concerned about what she was feeling now. Ambulances don’t really exist, no car or even bicycle could make it to her slum door: so she must walk with this pain to the street, get on a rickshaw and bounce her way through the slum then through traffic to the hospital.

What else can we do, I keep pestering. A stretcher to the street and I'll get a taxi? Can we bring a doctor to her? I was met with nothing but blank stares. Nothing else could be done.

Rahim told me that Shona’s husband was going to take her to the hospital. Tomorrow we will see the outcome.

But that’s all I can do right now. I don’t know what else to do. Recalling the monring, it reads like any other humanitarian documentary covering a similar story. That’s what is so sad: there are so many stories like this: continuously and daily, too common that it’s cliché. But I cannot bellow loud enough or clearly enunciate how though it is prevalent, it is still continuously harrowing and crippling for them. Shona may not have experienced life outside of permanent devastation, but that doesn’t mean that she is ignorant that it should be better.

* Names have been changed.

Tuesday, November 3

My New Family

At breakfast on Halloween, I'm told that I am supposed to go to the first birthday party of my mother's nephew. Instead of dressing up like Pat Benatar for a Halloween party, I dressed in a nice new salwar kameez and celebrated like a Bangladeshi. Shuyojit, my 'cousin's' first birthday was held at a restaurant around the corner from our house with about 40 friends and family. We took over the place--well, Shuyojit took over the place walking around and investigating the koi pond and other tables. With him was the entourage of 15 people wanting to coo over him, hold him and take a photo with him. He was well-behaved most of the night, which was surprising for me because the last few times I met him, he cried at the sight of me. "You have new face," says my mother Dipali.. The white devil, perhaps. But today, he blew me kisses so I was satisfied.

I liked living in Banani by myself, I liked my freedom--but this new place is too wonderful to go back. My mother Dipali is an excellent cook, even though we have power struggle over who will scoop my food: my independent, American little stomach vs. the massive scoops of a Bengali woman. And I love having someone to talk to, my 13 year-old sister Hia. She practices her English and I practice my Bangla. We are both dancers and goof around all the time (she knows salsa!)

Below are some photos of the birthday party, and Hia and myself being paagli together on my MacBook...





Most of the time I just stumble over my Bangla until I think my message gets across. They probably think I'm nuts, but I always give them a good laugh...

Example: it's normal for a mother to serve her whole family and guests first before serving herself. She scoops food onto Hia's plate, then goes to mine. Being the independent little woman I am, I insist on serving myself, in part because I fear the huuuge scoops she gives to me--it's hard staying fit on a diet that consists mainly of white rice! One day, she told Hia to scoop her food herself--but Hia couldn't hold the big spoon! She is so accustomed to having her mother do it that she spilt the food on the table. Dipali turned and said, "You're like your father--he can't scoop either." So I start crrryyyyyying from laughter with this image of my head. I take the spoon from Hia, turn it upside-down so the rounded side is up and try to scoop the lentils as if I've never seen a spoon and say in Bangla: "Why can't I eat? Why can't I eat?" as the lentils roll off the spoon back into the bowl..

I tell you, man, we cried for 10 minutes laughing our asses off. So simple but laughter is so beautiful.

Saturday, September 12

Nari Khomotaeon

This entry is long overdue but I had difficulty deciding what to say.  The title of this entry in Bangla means “women empowerment.”  It’s a topic often forgotten, usually lost and sometimes thought unnecessary and discriminatory.  It is too deep a topic to dive into for one journal entry – but it is my life’s work.  It is still an issue in every country, including America – but for now I will focus on Bangladesh.

First, I want to share some statistics and stories of women’s reality here in Bangladesh:

- On the Gender Development Index, Bangladesh was ranked 120 out of 154 in 2007

-       BD is one of the top ranked countries that seclude and restrict its women (HRW)

-       The average age of marriage is younger 20 years, most likely not by choice but by parents, mainly father’s, choice ( )

-       50% of women have said they have experienced physical abuse by male partner.  In 2002, 68% of Bangladesh women never spoke to family or officials about their abuse (WHO, HRW, AI)  Only about 4,100 rapes are reported each year – this might be due to the silencing of women, as well as the fact that there is no law acknowledging marital rape. (WHO, UNIFEM)

-       Honor killings regularly occur, and 50% of all murders in Bangladesh are of women by their husbands (US Dept of Justice, HRW)

-       Because sons are still strongly preferred than daughters, 1.6 million girls are missing (missing means that by average, there would be more daughters in families if this discrimination didn’t exist.  Instead, they are missing, meaning killed, aborted, sold or not given proper medical attention or food.) (UN, US Census Bureau) 

-        85% of assembly line workers are women.  Factories demand unskilled labor at miniscule salaries – girls are less likely to have an education so they provide the unskilled labor for little pay.

-       More than 25% of young girls don’t finish their primary school education compared to the 10% of boys.   In universities, only about 35% of students are female.  And only 15% of primary school teachers are women. 59% of women are illiterate compared to men’s 46% (UNESCO)

-       Less than 5% of land owners are women due to widespread discrimination against women inheriting, owning or controlling property (ICRW)

Depressed enough?  Hold your hats, I haven’t even dove into the stats of trafficking yet.  But we’ll wait on that for another day.

In my two months here, I have met some amazing women.  When selling Iftar on the street, no exaggeration, 99% of the customers were men.  One women came to the table with a private car and beautiful purple sari.  Striking a conversation with her, she revealed to me that she had three jobs: professor of psychology at Dhaka University, private practice in psychology, and a writer for a children’s television program (the Bangla version of Sesame Street!).  I went to a lecture on Gender and Development at Dhaka University, the lecturer standing up there, confident and proud, arguing in favor of positive discrimination to a room full of men, with her daughter sitting on the side because no one was home to watch her.  Enormous strides have been made in women’s rights, including the passing of an act to reserve seats for women in Parliament, more women are attending school and working alongside their husbands.  Even one man proudly said, "Women can drive now!"

But, I have yet to see a woman driving here.  Laws are changing, but cultural practices are deeply embedded and are slow moving.  Empowerment is defined has the ability to make a choice, controlling life decisions and claiming rights.  By law, women are claiming more rights, but on the street and in the villages, too many social pressures exist that keep women inside, silenced and devalued.  Often, law enforcement official do not value or practice these laws.

But I will share one story that gave me hope:  at the lecture on Gender and Development, the woman lecturer was stating that positive discrimination was needed to raise women to the power level of men.  One example is on the crowded streets and buses that should reserve seats for women because men push women out of the way to get on the bus, and if she gets onto the bus, she is likely to be touched.  One man argued against this, saying, "Of course on a crowded bus you will be accidently bumped.  There's no need for special treatment."

Across the conference table, one of the 7 women in the room, wearing an hijab and quiet most of the night, leaned across the table and said, "I know the different between an accidental bump and a hand down my dress."

He shut up.

Women are speaking up.  Voice is the first step towards empowerment: vocalizing your situation, hearing stories to organize and create real change.  Just because Bangladesh has a woman Prime Minister, doesn't mean that governmental and structural changes reach the women who need it.  These cultural changes have to start with the women themselves.

Sunday, September 6

Quiet North Bengal


Hosted on YouTube here

Development In(-)Action: North Bengal Part II

“They hung their heads in shame as their mother stood behind them, the end of their sari wrapped around their head and mouth, listening to their children’s grades read aloud to the entire village…”

Last Saturday my friend Maude was gracious enough to let me tag along to watch her work with her NGO.  We hop on the back of her friend’s motorbike that takes us to the river.  Maude turns to me and said, “Today we are going to a char to do interviews.”  We climb onto this long wooden boat with a motor, bamboo roof and wicker mats to sit on.

“Oh, by the way, the trip is almost two hours.”

Staff from the NGO climb into the boat; one is able to speak English, Maude’s translator from the NGO.  They all play card games or nap the whole trip, while Maude and I speak with the translator about Bengal politics and finance.  At one point, the sun was hidden behind the clouds, so we head to the top of the boat.  Quietly we pray that the bamboo will hold us and the three other staff members sitting on the roof under umbrellas.  No worries – it did.  And how refreshing: cool breeze, clean air, no noise or staring.  Laying up there, I could breathe.

We drop off other staff members at different chars and we ended up at Sidai.  The reason for Maude’s visit was to interview teachers and students about a ‘student-friend’ program the NGO started.  A student from the school must tutor a child who doesn’t have the chance to go to school.  Tutoring them enough should bring them up to speed to join school the following year.  Maude needed to see how effective this initiative was by talking to teachers, students and the principal.

As we get off the boat, we must walk through mud barefoot, into shallow, murky water that almost reached my knees.   The bottom the river was super slippery with mud and I kept slippin’ and slidin’ all over.  We get on land, albeit not dry, but solid was all I could ask for.  Walking through this little forest of skinny trees, the ground became less muddy the farther we got from the river.

Then the parade of children began to grow behind us the closer we became to the village.  A couple, a few, several, a dozen, a few dozen…  The children at least keep a safe distance from you.  When we walk through, it’s like the parting of the Red Sea, opening in front and closing behind.  But it’s a sea of little black and dusty faces.

“What is your name?” they ask.  After my response, in their little accented voices, ‘Amanda’ is echoed back a few hundred times.  Maude is speaking with the different staff about the project for the day, while I try to play with the children.  Try’ being the operative word because it’s so hot I can barely breathe.  Plus, I don’t want to drink water in front of a crowd of people who 1) can’t keep their eyes off of me and 2) are fasting.  Ramadan rules my life.

Maude invites me to sit in on her interview with a teacher about the “student-friend” program.  A vital part of interviewing is having a good translator: who understands what you are trying to accomplish, and does not have anything invested in the project.  Maude’s translator was sweet, but because he works for the NGO, he often answered the questions himself without asking the interviewee.  At one point, a question was asked to the principal who responded, “jani na” – I don’t know.  The translator turned to Maude and answered the question himself.  Maude knew enough Bangla to know the response was “I don’t know.”  She said to me, “How am I supposed to help them improve the program if they won’t tell me the truth about how it works?  If they don’t know an answer or are frustrated with something, I need to know so we can fix it.”

Bangladesh is one of, if not the, center of development.  There is a mammoth amount of foreign aid pouring into the country as well as development projects and programs.  The biggest NGO in the world is Bangladeshi: BRAC.  And from my experience, Bangladeshis are very nationalistic, very proud of their culture and country, regardless of its shortcomings (like poverty and corruption).  I found that talking to Bangladeshis here, they only share what they love about Bangladesh, rarely what they dislike.  Other countries I’ve been to like India, Japan, Italy; the citizens will give a well-rounded view of their country – the pluses and minuses.  But as a foreigner here, I am only lectured on the golden qualities of Bangladesh.

I wonder if this overwhelming pride is shared with me because most people assume (rightly so) that I, a foreigner, am here working on a development project.  So many foreigners are coming in to discuss all the problems and things wrong with Bangladesh, trying to ‘fix’ her: from labor rights to how they should kill their chickens.  Constantly they are put on the defense about their culture (especially their religion) attempting to shed a good light to people who often see the dark side.  Their patriotism is reasonable.

But from a development perspective, NGOs seek the terrible stories in order to develop.  The reality and truth must be shared, no matter how embarrassing or tragic it is.  For Maude, it was vital for her to hear the reality of the program: what worked and what didn’t.  Money is hard to come by for NGOs and it’s better to know that it’s being spent on effective, positive and well-liked projects than a project that is dispensable.  Tough choices have to be made.  She also understood that it is difficult to come to a char for the first time demanding answers.  It’s intimidating.  As someone working to create change, you have to know the people, have them trust you – so you can trust them that they will give helpful, truthful responses.

It’s slow, which is frustrating because funders want results – fast.  Destruction is easy, development is slow.

Later, we had the chance to sit in on a parent-teacher conference.  And by parent-teacher conference, I mean a conference with most of the parents and all of the students, and a few of the teachers.  The leaders of the NGO read all grades aloud to everyone.  Everyone clapped for the students who received 100s across the board.  One NGO leader turned to me a few times when some boys were called, saying “There goes the next President Obama!”  I know it was said in pride of the student, certainly, of course - but no girl was remarked as being the ‘next Hilary Clinton’ or even their own Prime Minister, Sheikh Hasina.  Girls are still devalued, but that's my next entry...

The student who failed and were lowered in rank – they hung their heads in shame as their mother stood behind them, the end of their sari wrapped around their head and mouth, listening to their child’s shortcomings said aloud to the entire village.  The leaders of the NGO end with: “You should pay more attention to your child and their school activities.”

I sat there in the heat, burning at this NGO.  I don’t think competition is ever a good way to teach children.  Instead of competing with other students in the village, the child should work and be pushed to the best of his abilities.  Unfortunately, it is about 99% sure that these children aren’t going to grow up to be the next Prime Minister, or even a political leader.  They live in a village surrounded by water with little electricity and a school that just arrived three years ago.  It’s not negative -- it’s reality.  Instead of them competing for first rank and grades, they should just be learning to improve their quality of life by reading and writing.  The first place to start is by not announcing grades aloud, because both the children and parents were humiliated in front of their friends and neighbors.  One-on-one meetings are much more effective: the teacher, who knows the student, can talk to the parents about their child’s progress: both positives and negatives; not a NGO leader who stops by a few times a month.

Also, the NGO was telling parents, “pay more attention to your children.”  Let’s think about this: do you honestly think that the parents, after sitting in a hot room for two hours, half of them embarrassed that their child did poorly, will actually go home to ask their children about their day, because some man told them to in a lecture?

One-on-one meetings again are effective, because the teacher can sit down with the parents and find out how their home situation is.  Maybe little Ahmed is sleeping in class and failing because his father lost his job so little Ahmed works after school while his parents scramble to find work at night, leaving little Ahmed to watch two other siblings because his mother can’t afford birth control.  A large meeting could not discover this – you must be one-on-one with a person to understand their needs, the reason for their needs and the capacity they have to do something about it, and what role you can play.

I can’t blame the NGO for these shortcomings.  Too often do development programs fail not because they were ineffective, or they had bad leadership – but because funding is lacking.  A lack of funding leads to a lack of capacity so unfortunately, it might not be feasible for this NGO to perform one-on-one meetings because they can't afford to pay overtime to the staff that might be overworked.

What's shameful: I hear that because there is not much structure here in Bangladesh and no follow-up or registration, some NGOs exist for profit with a façade of charity.  Maude told me that one NGO built a well right next to another well in one village just to state on their Annual Report that they ‘provided a new clean well for a village up north.’  It was a façade to boast for funding, but utterly useless to the village who already had a well.

It’s a tricky business, which is unpromising because so much good could be accomplished with development research and studies -- it shouldn’t have to be a business. 

Tuesday, August 18

The Greatest Acting Feat

She touches me, splintering the armor
That keeps me strong.
The little ones follow me, standing by my side
As if we are friends.
He stands there, painfully staring at me
As I stare into detached space.

They say, don’t give money,
It will circle into criminal pockets.
They say, don’t give food,
Creating dependence is ineffective.
They say, look away,
Act indifferent to detach yourself.

This dogma is preached from the community,
Built into a towering effigy of casual words;
Harsh stature, made of unmoving stone.

They say, maph korun -- forgive me.

Forgive me!
Forgive me, brother, as you sit on a scooter, legless, 
Rolling between cars with a sandal laced through your fingers.
 
Forgive me!
Forgive me, nana, in your beaten leather skin,
With a wrist that cannot rotate towards prayer or alms.

Forgive me!
Forgive me, dada, with your white beard and taqiyah,
Grasping your bamboo walking stick, and your breath in hope.

Forgive me!
Forgive me, sister, breast revealed in a holey sari,
With your exposed child listening to your heart beat faster.

Forgive me!
Forgive me, my children, as you call me ‘a beautiful madam,’
And shake your heads, placing your fingers to your mouth,
Masterfully in unison, as a row of puppets.

Forgive me, for I know not if this is right
-- it is what I’m told.