The End, Part 1

Tomorrow, I pack to leave Chennai.
The last time I packed my bag I was at home surrounded by my friends and family, preparing to go to a foreign country, no idea what to expect.  I had just a few belongings in my bag, but more importantly I had so many hopes and dreams for the work I would be doing, the people I'd be helping, the lives I'd be changing.  That night seems so long ago and those dreams seem so distant.  Since being here, every expectation I did have for this country has been completely wrong or underestimated.  Except for the heat, I expected Hades and got pretty close.  My optimism is fleeting, my spirits have been tested more than they ever have been.  I want to remember this country and experience through the eyes I had when I first got here, but I've gained a different sight and perspective that blurs my original vision.

It's a bittersweet goodbye.  As much as I'm ready to leave Chennai and its ultra-patriarchal society behind, I know I'm going to miss so much about it.  Yes, we have had our fair share of run-ins with less than respectable me, but we have also had the blessing of being in a community wit so many many that always look out for us, not just look at us.  Our waiters at two local restaurants, Hotel Ganga and Dolphin, where we became regulars.  Always remembering who doesn't like onions or prefers the less spicy option. And always remembers to bring me two extra chutneys with my masala dosai.  The security guard outside the ATMwho smiles with a "Good Morning!" no matter the time of day.  Mr Moothy, our watchman at MCCSS, who we never could understand except for "tomorrow" but we have learned he loved us by his big smile every time we walked in the gate.  And what would a watchman be without his trusty watchdog.  Tsunami is by far the most respectable and loving man I have had the pleasure of getting to know since my time in India.  I'm going to miss him along with the others who have helped me have faith that all Indian men are not that bad.

I'm going to miss the staff at MCCSS.  Although stressful at times with their Indian sense (or lack of) time, they have taught me to not rush and worry so much but to have a little faith and things will miraculously work out.

I'm going to miss the family I've made.  Mary, who made us breakfast every morning at the canteen, who tore up our chapatti into small pieces so we wouldn't burn our fingers, and who cooled our tea before serving us.  Who one morning pointed at us and said "daughters," then pointed at herself, "mother."  And of course my Canadian sister, Irish sister, and Australian sister. Or should I say "akkas."

But more than anything, I'm going to miss the children.  Although I haven't seen them as much for working in the office, they have impacted me most of all.  Whenever I start to get the slightest bit homesick the boys will stampede on the roof with their kites and "Hello Sister!" that I remember I am home.  Whenever the patriarchal oppression of women begins to weigh on me, I find strength in the young women at the protection home who have lived here their entire lives, but find joy and freedom in each other.

I thought I would be doing more, but instead I found that sometimes the most beneficial thing to do is to sit back in learn.  My idea of the trafficked victims and human trafficking within India was totally skewed from a western perspective.  I pictured these women being depressed and in dire need of saving, and that the sex trafficking network would have more chains and torture.  The most shocking thing I learned was that these women are some of the stronger women within this culture.  Every situation is different as to how a girl entered into the sex industry, but whatever the case may be, the ones that are in our home are survivors.  They are on the outskirts of society as they are viewed to have no family and a tainted past.  This makes them undesirable for marriage or leaves little opportunity to support themselves.  However, through the help of MCCSS and Isabel's guidance, they have been able to find ways to make money, attend school, and become part of an ever growing family.

Although I may complain about how hard it has been being a woman in India and the incidents we have had because of it, I know that my situation is nothing in comparison.  Because not all women have the same opportunities as men, if they do not follow a narrow path of lifestyle they can face severe discrimination and hardship from their society.  In the case of sex work, it was shocking to find out that not all women are tricked or kidnapped into slavery.  Many women have decided on their own to enter the field as a sex worker.  While those at home might scoff and say, "Ok well then she's just a prostitute and that's her own poor judgement." look at it this way.  If you were a woman who's family did not allow you to go to school, so as you grow up you have no opportunity to ever support yourself.  Instead of being a burden to your family you only have a few options.  1) Your family can arrange a marriage for you, often at a young age to a much older man that you barely know, where you will then have the potential of experiencing spousal rape, physical, and verbal abuse for the rest of the marriage. 2) You can run away from home to avoid marriage, with no education and no opportunity for a job and must then beg/live on the streets. Or 3) You can make the decision to become a sex worker where you can make your own money, have the freedom to come and go as you please, have a home and protection, and have an independence that living with your family or being married does not offer.  Which would you choose?

Sadly, this is the case for many impoverished women in India, in other developing countries, and even in the western developed world.  I may say that not all women are tricked or coerced into sex work, however, they are all forced.  Either by their parents, partner, or by their society who has not given them the freedom or chance for any other option.  Prostitution itself is not illegal in Chennai, just organized sex work that takes place in brothels.  This might be in order to allow those who choose sex work as a way of making means, but to protect those who are being held against their will.  It's a very interesting and different way of looking at it than what I originally thought before coming here.  So while I thought I was coming here to rescue and save these girls from the bondage that has plagued them their entire lives, I was in fact saved from my incorrect views on the industry, not just within India but even sex workers in America.  It may be considered a choice, but if not provided with alternatives, in a way they're still forced.

I can't say being here has been easy.  There's been countless times where I thought I couldn't take it anymore and would be on the next flight home.  A part of me does regret leaving the agency early.  I feel like I didn't accomplish everything I set out to do, like I'm giving.  Like I'm failing.  But I that my time has come to leave and that staying in longer might permanently taint my memory of this place.  At this moment, I can honestly say that I will be back despite how eager I am to leave.

I'm looking forward to my travels starting tomorrow.  Another intern, Carmen, and I will be traveling for two weeks as we head north: Hampi, Arambol, Pushkar, Delhi, then ending in Dharamsala.  From there we will part ways as she stays with another agency for a month and I continue on to Kanda, Uttarakhand.  In Kanda, I will be working for a month with an organization Rural Organization for Social Elevation (ROSE).  This agency works at the grassroots level within rural communities to help them develop more sustainable ways of living that will empower their community.  Very different from the work in Chennai, but also very similar.  I hope that it will give me a more expanded view on Indian culture outside from city life.

You can check out more on this organization at www.rosekanda.info

I thank everyone who has supported me and continues to do so while I'm away.  I've really enjoyed hearing from you, and can't wait to see you when I return.  I'm not sure on my internet situation while traveling, but I will do my best to keep you updated on my trek.  Thanks for everything, and I hope I have made you all proud.

We'd been told of its vastness, the stench, the poverty surrounding.
Wed been warned about how they  keep photographers and journalists out.  The government trying to maintain some integrity.
We heard the facts, we acknowledged the warning.  These might as well could've fallen on deaf ears, for no words could have prepared us for the sight awaiting us.

Shielded behind the privacy of tinted windows, I along with the other overseas volunteers were allowed through the gates of Chennai's dumping grounds.  The smell had already reached our AC vents a few miles before, once inside it was almost smothering at first.  The scenery soon distracting our noses, the eyes struggling to process the image before us.

One hundred acres is the area that has been devoted to piling the waste created by 33 million people.  Mountains, valleys, and rivers of waste create this ever changing landscape.  Growing faster that mountains on  tectonic boundaries, each day truck load after truck load com in reshaping the mounds.  Followed behind them, the roves of rag pickers.  Spanning all age groups, these people come in daily to pick through the rubbish, trying to scavenge every piece of metal, plastic, or any salvageable material that they can then sell.

Many of our boys used to do this for a living alongside the rest of their family, only making Rs. 300 a day ($6) out in the sweltering heat.  One of them joined us on this trip.  Once outside of the MCCSS vehicle, he ran straight up on top of one of the mounds.  The rest of us stepping ever so carefully, cautious of the undistinguishable rubbish beneath us.

Yet it was hard to look at in disgust when knowing that this was once our boy's home, and still home to many others.  Isabel told us that many of the boys still possessed a love-hate relationship with the dumpyard.  The dumpyard gave them a freedom that civilized world can not.  You could see this freedom in the boy as he darted from our vehicle.  He had family there, friends; some of which we ran into during our short visit.  All of them looking no older than 13.

Eventually the guards found us and our cameras, forcing us back in the car with enough time to speed away.  These are the few photos I managed to get:

Letters,

We've reached an age where many classical art forms are dying at the hands of more convenient technological advances.  One of the biggest tragedies is the handwritten letter.  Phones and the internet have cut through distance, taking with it longing and the reliance on memory to make it through the days apart from loved ones.  Yet even as a sucker for snail mail, I don't know if I could give up the ease of technology, my memory at times fails me, my heart pains too much to bare.

But there are somethings that telephone wires and satellite signals can't transmit, somethings that we rely on the body to communicate.  How do we then say these things when bodies are a world apart?  I'm not saying that vocals aren't capable of communicating these things.  Some most certainly are.  I, however, was not gifted with the strength and eloquence found in spoken word.  There's a wall between my thoughts and my mouth, my tongue often fumbling with the air in place of where sound should be.  Yet the words possess no structural enigma.  No trickery about the flick of the tongue or shape of the lips to form these words:

I'm sorry.

I forgive you.

I miss you.

I love you.

I'm scared.

There's safety in writing procedure.  Always the thought.  First the creating of word with ink.  Only your eyes at first know they're existence. You can read. Reread. Scratch out, tear up, start over.  All are advantages only in writing, absent in speaking.  After the perfect combination of words and sentences are formulated, the option of exposure still remains.  They can remain privately yours.  Physical representations of thoughts and feelings significant to the time of creation.  You can carry the letter around with you, as I have done with many, waiting for the right moment or when you finally have the courage to send it.

Being away for so long has showed me the beauty of written word.  Found in the letters sent to me, and the few I've had the courage to send.  Yes, the option of picking up the phone always exists, but the timing is never right.  Time in distance is the one thing technology couldn't cut.

The letters I've sent were written with time.  Always a rough draft found in my journal.  An extra precaution.  My journal now becoming an accurate account of everything I've thought, felt, missed since being here.  Every letter and word, only a few having the privilege of being shared.