Struggles (and delights) at the end of a Comfort Zone

Its been two weeks since my arrival in Dhaka (sorry it has taken so long to post-the internet is hard to come by) and I will admit that it certainly feels more like four weeks, not necessarily because of homesickness or even jetlag (although there has also been nights with a good amount of that) but because there is so much to take in every second of each day that each day seems to be filled with multiple days, sometimes seemingly occurring in different locations.

I am still coming up short on the words to fully describe my experience or what I have seen thus far, but I think the most accurate description of the past week has been "dual". Dhaka is a place of many dualities (all my post-modern theorists out there are cringing but please read on). Last friday was a perfect example of this. Friday is a holy day in Dhaka so we don't have class. A good friend and fellow CLS'er, Andrew, who came last year and speaks beautiful Bangla and can hail a rickshaw and talk up a cha stand like nobody's business, knew of a church in Gulshan Dui (a nearby neighborhood) where an English-speaking service was being held. So I went with Andrew and two other wonderful friends in my program, Tara and Maggie (we call her Margot here because Maggie in Bangla is a less than flattering slang for a "certain" type of woman), who are astoundingly beautiful people that I hope to share more about in the future. On the way there we got caught in a Dhaka rainstorm and found cover in the first tiny shop stall in the bazar outside of our neighborhood, which, to Tara's patient disgust (she’s a long-time vegetarian) was a chicken butcher. She got stuck next to the pan of uncooked chicken livers, which made her laugh hysterically (Tara is a wonderful source of positive enthusiasm; just today she came back from the Dhaka post office with stamps in hand and was literally more excited about the stamps than most people are after a child is born). After trekking through the bazar, a place sometimes beautiful and sometimes, well, difficult to navigate as an uninformed bideshi (foreigner) we met up with Andrew’s Bangladeshi friend named Dali; she is an incredible woman about whom I know I will have many more stories to tell. We all hailed rickshaws and headed up to church. But this was no local Bangladeshi church and it wasn’t to be held in a local facility.

This church was held at the Westin Hotel in downtown Dhaka. The Westin is literally the nicest hotel in the entire country, and it is a country all to its own. I have heard tale that an occupant (the rooms run around $300 a night which is well over most Bangladeshi’s salary/pay for a few months) may procure anything he or she delights within the confines of the hotel. It is essentially designed for business travelers to do their business meetings without ever needing to step outside and really be in Dhaka at all. Needless to say it is like stepping into another world; as I walked through the Westin doors, I felt like I had been transported to America, but not in a good way- in a “shit this is opulent and totally disconnected from the world outside” kind of way.

Yet, despite the location’s disconnectedness from the real Dhaka, the service was really beautiful. It was filled with foreigners, many of them missionaries, who seemed to care deeply about Bangladesh and the social and political problems it faces. There were many prayers prayed for Bangladesh and its people, not for their “salvation”, but for their survival: bellies to be filled, jobs to be well-paid and water to be clean. Last Friday we celebrated Pentecost and, for me, it was a very necessary and beautiful day to remember that God sends God’s spirit down to give us courage, to protect us and to show us the path for “Kingdom come”.

I needed to remember that this spirit is available because, I will be honest, I have rough days in Bangladesh and its hard to be courageous, to get out there and really experience this place and really open yourself up to the people you frantically encounter on the busy street or in the shop or in the elevator at school, or as you walk from the local grocery store. It feels safer to stay inside, eat canned soup, watch some YouTube and do your Bangla homework without stepping foot outside after class. And, trust me, some days the culture shock has made me do just that. My very good friend (and Friend-mate, as Claire might say), Annie, has more aptly noted that culture shock in Bangladesh is more like “poverty shock”-seeing the kind of poverty that wouldn’t exist if the “First World” (a world I benefit from and take part in every day) did not inequitably control so much of the world’s financial and environmental resources. It is the shock of realizing how global inequalities for which I am in responsible effect that majority of the world. It’s a documentary film on poverty that you can’t turn off…but that’s what everyone should see.

This kind of culture shock is especially available just outside of the Westin. Gulshan Dui is a busy place- imagine a much smaller version of Times Square, but with all the energy, stores, diversity of people, traffic, smells and sounds. And it’s a place quite iconic of Dhaka in general because you can have extreme wealth that is surrounded by extreme poverty. Because it is a locale for shopping and eating, it is also a very good place to ask for money to eat. So, Gulshan is often filled with moms with hungry kids on their hip, children and many others begging for money to eat. I don’t want to paint an ugly picture of Bangladesh, or insinuate that there isn’t similar poverty in America, but I will say that seeing extreme poverty is a reality of everyday here and there is a danger in ignoring and in normalizing it; its certainly what feels most comfortable, at least in comparison to recognizing its prevalence, my own privileges, and the manner in which my American lifestyle has contributed to such poverty. It can be a hard pill to swallow to consider all of the glasses of clean water I have thrown out in America because they sat out over night in my bedroom when clean drinking water is such a precious commodity here-the same for food. I still have days when I shut myself off- to everything, not just poverty. But, I am finding, with the Holy Sprit’s help, some teeny tiny ways of opening myself to really interacting with Bangladeshis and their world…there’s more to come on this note…my language partner, Monica, a very sassy Bangla gal will be the topic of my next post so stayed tuned (she’s amazing).

Pardon that longwinded side-note/tangent. We were at the Westin. Let’s return.

So from the Westin, Tara, Margot and I headed out with Dali. I had mentioned that I needed a Shalowar Kameez (the traditional dress for women in Bangladesh) because I was scrounging together appropriate clothing. Dali said she knew a good place and she took us there. Then, she began to exemplify two incredible attributes that I have found many Bangladeshis to be rich in: boundless hospitality, and incomparable bargaining skills. Dali went to six stores bargaining for me. I had just met her, but she insisted that she help. In the end she helped me get my first shalowar kameez (a green and orange one). We went to get groceries next and she, of course, insisted on carrying my heavy bag. Hospitality and bending over backwards to help another appears to be the norm here…well…unless you are selling something, but, hey, the dokans have to eat and this privileged American is not hurting for taka so I don’t blame them.

Then we all piled into rickshaws and headed to Dali’s house. She showed us more hospitality, offering us food the instant we walked inside. We also got to meet her sister and niece. Her husband was also kind enough to stay in the sitting room and chat, even though he was only in his underwear. He kindly covered himself with his newspaper so as not to leave the guests unattended but also to spare them the sight of his less than formal appearance. Dali was so gracious and generous, but its not too surprising. She actually runs a non-profit out of her home called the Rosie Foundation. She employs, and for about 5 women also houses, a handful of women. They make and sell handicrafts together so they can feed their families, but Dali also provides them with a small education. She showed us the very meager, but beautiful facilities and I was just filled to the brim with love (a definite Pentecost moment). I am hoping to return to the foundation when the women are there and try talking to them (although right now my vocab is limited to food, family, and work…but that covers a lot I suppose). Dali’s home offered us a picture of what most middle class/lower middle class households look like and I will just say that the middle class American home looks like an ostentatious monument to the materialism compared to her place and the areas that her workers lived. I don’t mean to overstate the difference between the common Bangladeshi lifestyle and American affluence- there are plenty of affluent Bangladeshis and PLENTY of Americans in need of clean water and a place to sleep. I guess I am just pointing to a more common experience I have found in Bangladesh in which I am reminded that I simply have too much and for people who have so comparatively little, they give with a beautiful lack of restraint. Dali’s house was like walking into a world in a completely different universe of experience than what was found at the Westin hotel.

But we had one more dimension to pass through. We all decided we should actually get some school work done so we met up with a few other friends from the program and walked to a coffeeshop we had heard about that apparently roasted their own coffee. We were mostly just going for the internet, but I had one of the greatest cups of coffee I have ever had. That’s not really why I mention this place, but Sean would appreciate the coffee I drank so I just had to mention that part. Now I will, with obvious irony, mention my shock and discomfort with how nice the place was. It was, like the Westin, like leaving Bangladesh and entering a bideshi’s anti-Bangladesh escape, so much so that the owner had installed fogged windows and decorated with many of the same IKEA furniture pieces I have in my home. You could sit in this place and literally not know you were in Dhaka. Accordingly, pretty much everyone in the place was a bideshi.- lots of European folks. I began to get this overwhelming feeling (again) of the inner struggle within myself- the feeling of desiring comfort and seeking its completion in the escape from dirt, grim and reality AND desiring a knowledge of a place as it was. I am still battling, but I certainly never imagined such starkly different landscapes, each of which appealed to the opposing desire, to be found in one city all in one day.

Thus, as I explained at the beginning of the post, Dhaka appears in many ways, and in my own struggles and experiences, to be one of (gasp!) dualities, but, of course, in such an incredibly diverse and shifting location, you’ll find lots of in between. I suppose I myself am toolin’ around in that in-between and trying to figure out just how to live in this new place in such a way that I see God in Dhaka and really experience and embrace God here, which can only really be done when you talk to Bangladeshis and attempt to form relationships. But I am getting a little bit,better each day at picking up this skill and at having the courage and faith to step into a new, admittedly uncomfortable and sometimes scary world, in order to see God moving in it and through the people I meet within.

The internet has been spotty (not complaining, just a fact) so I haven’t been posting as often as I would like. I do have some good stories saved up to share and plan to post next time about my daily life here so as to paint a better picture of the city and my life here. So keep tuned. Thank you all for your prayers, well-wishes and thoughts. I feel them moving in me and holding me together everyday. I will keep you all posted….

With all my love from the city of mosques,

ashlee