A very delayed update: the end and the tour...

First of all, I apologize for the delay in updating my blog. At the end of February and in early March, I traveled to Sri Lanka because I had to exit the country after six months and re-enter (a common visa procedure when you remain a country for over six months). Thus, I had a week long vacation and enjoyed the opportunity to kick back for a bit with my other fellow volunteers.

When I returned back to my school, the majority of my students had their bags packed, and their parents were picking them up because their exams were over. The school year was finished! Unfortunately, no one informed me about the exact date of when the school was over, and I was unprepared to quickly say good-bye or did not even have a chance to say good-bye in some cases. For me, the lack of closure was devastating because I will not see most of these girls ever again. Thus, I had very little to do during the month of March because the older students--the 10th-12th grade students--had examinations throughout the month, and I only had my lower primary students (grades 1-4) to teach on two days a week. Sometimes, living and serving abroad is a lot of waiting and sitting, and I struggle with that because I have way too much time to sit alone with my thoughts. During March, I did visit a few of the older teachers' homes, and it was nice to meet their families. My last official day at my school was March 31st, and a mixture of emotions flooded my system. I am still processing everything and will probably write about some of it later.

For the month of April, we have--my volunteer group--been traveling around northern India and are experiencing the diversity of India. The country is similar to a giant patchwork quilt of little coutnries because each state often has its own culture, languages, dress, diet, etc. For example, Keralites have a rice based diet and eat with their hands. Many of the states which we have visited have a more wheat-based diet and do not eat with their hands. I think that I could spend a lifetime trying to become intimately acquainted with this country.

So far, we've experienced Delhi, Agra (Taj Mahal), Musoorie (Himalayan foothills), Dharmsala (more Himalayan foothills and home of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan goverment in exilte), the Golden Temple in Amistar, the Indo-Pakistan border, and a little more Delhi. Currently, I am in Delhi and had the glorious opportunity of Delhi-Belly (some sort of stomach flu-ish thing from some unknown culprit).

Although traveling is a wonderful thing, I must confess that I am a bad tourist. Often, I grow upset when we pack up and leave a place after two to four days because I wanted to understand more about the culture, the people, the history, and the landscape of the places which I visit. I want to build relationships and desire to be viewed as more than a client or a source of income to guest houses, vendors, and tourist attractions. Hopping around from place to place makes me feel discombobulated. After traveling a lot during the past year , I have realized that you cannot escape yourself despite a change in location and that almost anything can be memorable, wonderful, or breath-taking as long as you have good company.

A few strange things happened in Dharmsala. One day, David, Becca, and I were wandering around the narrow streets, and Becca stopped at a stand to peruse some moccasin-like slippers. The merchant told us that his selection was better upstairs in his shop, and we trampled upstairs. Although he approached the sale in a somewhat normal manner, the merchant’s eyes looked distraught yet glazed over. For some reason or other, he began explaining that he was having an extremely bad day, and then a story about his brother’s visa refusal came from his lips. From what I understood, he told us that his younger brother’s visa application was rejected—the rejection was stamped in his passport—and that his brother wanted to go to France to be with his girlfriend. “He is a nice boy! There is nothing wrong with him. That f**king embassy…we’re Muslim, and they think that we’re terrorists. I’m so angry that I could want to kill someone—it does not matter who…He is a nice boy. His happiness is my happiness, and his pain is my pain. The government gives visas to the Tibetans all the time. What about us? Do you think that it is fair?” He was nearly crying, and the pain in his eyes and the tremor in his voice was palpable. None of us knew exactly what to say, and we let him say whatever he needed or wanted to let out. Becca eventually purchased her shoes, and we left. Then this gentleman started bawling in his shop, and we wanted to comfort but knew that nothing that we could do would help other than listening.

After walking out of that shop and for the rest of the afternoon, I felt like weeping for that man, his brother, his family, and the brokenness of our world. Since I am an American, I can get a visa quite easily: no one inquires about my bank account balance or suspects a 22 year old, white female of anything. No one assumes that I am terrorist due to my religious affiliation. Can the world--the U.S., Europe, and even India as well--stop viewing every single Muslim as a security threat and instead, view him or her as a person with needs, thoughts, feelings, and a family? It breaks my heart to see people suffer, and I can only hope that humanity could treat each other with more justice, compassion and dignity. For me, I see Jesus as that model of love and compassion, and I pray and hope that you can summon some sort of love and respect from any source in order to make the world a more loving place. Can we—both personally and institutionally—treat people with more dignity, equality, and respect so we do not create terrorists through our apathy and denial of opportunities? If you’ve read Three Cups of Tea, the authors pose this question as well, and I read this book a few days ago. Coincidence? I think not.

The next day in Dharmsala, Becca, David, and I had some extra time in the afternoon and could not figure out what to do. Becca suggested that we go to this conversational English class for Tibetan refugees that we saw on a flyer on the previous day. However, we did not have the flyer anymore and stopped in a small coffee shop/community space, Rogpa, and this British woman happened to be going to the same class and said that she’d walk with us there. I had no idea what to expect by doing a drop-in class.

We approached the Tibet Hope Center, and a slew of people were gathered around a ping-pong table. Eventually, the organizer divided the students among the volunteers. I then found myself in a small classroom with four Tibetan young men and had no idea of where to begin. Their English compentency varied greatly, and I started asking questions about their homes, hobbies, and families. Little did I know that these questions were quite loaded because I was talking to refugees. All four had fled Tibet within the past five years, and I was shocked to hear about the recentness of their exile. Our “class” really turned into a strange form of group therapy, and they shared their stories about how the Chinese government stormed their homes, how their families were separated, their struggles with language and culture, the uncertainity of their situations, and their dreams and hope for Tibet. The afternoon moved me, and I did not expect such candid, thoughtful, and honest responses from them. I only felt bad that I was not able to come back again for another class.

How can we actively love our neighbors? Do we only express love to those we know? When will we finally move to action in order to make the world a better place? Lip service is never enough, and take time to listen and find a way to help someone who may never reciprocate the action.