Let Freedom Ring...

“’Freedom’-we repeated to ourselves, and yet we could not grasp it. We had said this word so often during all the years we dreamed about it, that it had lost its meaning. Its reality did not penetrate into our consciousness; we could not grasp the fact that freedom was ours.”
- Austrian psychiatrist, Viktor Emil Frankl, on life after liberation from Auschwitz.



As I stepped out of our vehicle to greet the recently released bonded laborers in February, I was awed by the immediate recognition on their faces. Fifty individuals from our last two operations were before me, ready for their “Freedom Training”: three days of free medical care, educational sessions, and family bonding. Half of this particular group was from the operation I had the privilege of staffing in December. A picture from that day of one little girl I had especially bonded with serves as my screensaver at work; but I had never expected them to remember me. Even my three-year-old angel seemed to smile at me out of familiarity. The painfully early drive to this training facility, after a late night at the office, was quickly forgotten as a fourteen-year-old victim of bonded labor from the same family grabbed my hand to walk me into the nearby meeting hall.

This was Day 2 of the released laborers’ “Freedom Training.” Born of the desire to serve the families we work with better, this training was created to provide them with information found to be useful for a more successful transition from slavery to freedom. As the Frankl quote above describes, emerging from captivity is not as glorious as it may sound. This is just one more way we can offer support to our clients as they endure the challenges of rehabilitation.

Another benefit of the “Freedom Training” is that it offers an opportunity for our staff and the families to bond. Perhaps the most significant aspect of this experience, so far, is when the families have a chance to sit together and talk about their hopes and dreams for the future. All the families have responded well, so far, and comment on the fact that they wouldn’t take the time to do this on their own. The idea behind the first family session is to help them start planning, and seeing the bigger picture, rather than the day-to-day. It leads up to later sessions on, say, savings or substance abuse, which has then led to conversations about how money spent nightly on alcohol, for example, can eat away at one’s dream of starting a tea shop or building a house. Many will hear their children’s dreams of becoming teachers or policemen for the first time, and better understand the importance of allowing their children to pursue an education.

Day 1 starts here in the city, with general medical check-ups at a local hospital, followed by eye exams, and a screening for HIV/AIDS. Days 2 and 3 are spent at a rural conference center, where educational sessions are conducted. Topics include: their legal rights and helpful government grants (“schemes”), health, hygiene, nutrition, domestic violence, substance abuse, child abuse/sexual abuse, savings and self-help groups, as well as laying some ground work for the emotional healing that may need to take place. While the kids receive a number of these sessions, there is plenty of time for games and other fun. Lodging, food, and transportation are provided for the families throughout their stay. Family-oriented activities are planned for every evening.

The three days offer an opportunity for our staff to really get to know the dynamics of the families we work with, and to gain a more well-rounded perspective on how to properly serve the families. At our most recent training, just this last week, it became especially clear that the three-days offer our staff the chance to really gain the trust of the families. Our most recent operation was quite unusual-and came to fruition rather quickly. While this was a HUGE blessing, it gave the families little, if any, reason to trust us as we ushered them to what we knew to be safety. On the last day of their Freedom Training, the families shared that when we arrived, the owner of the facility (i.e. the perpetrator of crimes against them) had told them to hide because we were bad and would put them in jail. As a result, five families who had hidden deep in the rock quarry were still living in bondage. The training participants insisted we go back and help release these others. Oh, yeah. Trust had been gained.

It’s a huge event for the department and involves a LOT of bodies and time to prepare. My role has mainly been to create tools to help the planning go more smoothly (my mom is probably laughing at the thought of me trying to keep things organized; aren’t you, Mom?), gather materials, create some curriculum, be a photographer, and, as always, entertain the babies. Since November, we have had four of these trainings; and we continue to refine its content and execution. Luckily, the feedback from the families has been extremely positive, so we are encouraged to continue and to grow the program.

So, back to the February training: The picture on my screen at work of the little girl on the day of release shows her wearing a dingy, grease-stained, brown boy’s shirt as her only item of clothing. In fact, I’m pretty sure I thought she was a boy for the first few hours. I remember watching as she had tried, repeatedly, to eat food (that had seemingly dried on it at a much earlier date) off of that shirt. A month and a half after that day, there she was again. But this time, she was fully clothed in a frilly, bright orange dress and had her hair done up in a neat, half ponytail. The sight nearly brought tears to my eyes.

Everything about the group I had met the day they were released from slavery seemed drastically altered-for the positive. Of course, each family in the group is still dealing with issues that could take years to work through; but they will do so on their terms. A sign of positive change was apparent in the patriarch of the group. His stoic silence on operation day had not betrayed any emotion. The lifelessness of his stare had worried me: he seemed utterly lost, as the only way of life he’d known for thirty-years had suddenly ended. As I watched him at the Freedom Training, I had the joy of observing him smile and laugh. He still looked slightly lost; he was, after all, taking in a whole lot of new information. But, now, there was life in his eyes. And that fills me with hope.

California....knows how to party

Dr. Dre and Tupac’s “California Love” was certainly on the playlist last night for all the hip mosquitoes living it up on my feet. Oh yes, the place was packed as the Beach Boys’ “California Girls” and Chuck Berry’s “Promised Land” beckoned one and all…



Okay, I can only take that so far… If you weren’t amused by this post, don’t worry-neither was I! Now my feet must be pumping out Augustana’s “California’s Burning”…

More where that came from...

Two weekends ago, some friends and I traveled via train to a neighboring state for a wedding. Here are some of the sights we experienced:

Please Mr. Postman

President’s Day Weekend has always been a special weekend for my family. Growing up, we would leave school right after the classroom Valentine’s Day party and drive to Yosemite National Park for a long weekend with my Dad’s side of the family. I remember piling into the mini-van with my bag, or “mailbox,” full of Valentine’s and candy from my classmates as we drove into that snowy wonderland in the shadows of Half Dome.

As per tradition, my family is there this weekend, making this one of those times when homesickness settles in. When that happens, of course, even the little things here irk me to no end. Hence, my latest rant: the postal service.

On Friday, I received a Valentine’s package from my uber generous mother. She went to all the trouble of selecting special treats to send, wrapping them in two plastic bags, and shelling out a fortune to ship here. And yet, the postal service here decided that all her efforts were for their enjoyment.

This is a common practice, of course, so I’m not fully surprised. Every box I’ve received has had an end sliced open and any loose items (mainly candy) have been slyly shaken free of their boxed internment. The state of my package on Friday, however, was utterly ridiculous: The entire box had been ripped open and tied back together again with rope; all the items had been removed from my Momma’s packaging; and the remnants of the “samples” taken would have gone unnoticed, except for the fact that they left the spoils in with the rest of the items.

And, here is where my homesickness pushed me over the edge. Out of two bags of Valentine M&Ms, the kind post office left me a quarter of one very torn bag and another open bag held a majority of the heavenly chocolate-disks-covered-by-a-thin-candy-shell remaining…But, seriously, would you partake when you had no idea what had touched your food?…In exasperation, I asked my flat-mates “why bother?! Why leave anything behind?!” Why not just take the entire bag, so that the possibility of getting to indulge in chocolate could have slipped past my attention, unnoticed? Instead, I had to dump the remains of my soiled taste of home. Grrr…

Ha, it’s really one of those “you-just-have-to-laugh” moments; a truly petty thing for me to be upset about (well, minus all the trouble my poor Momma went through to send me some lovin’)…unfortunately it caught me in a bad space.

So, Mr. Postman (and your cronies)-next time you “examine” my mail: please, just go ahead and keep whatever you decide needs further inspection. It’s all yours. Truly. No need to suddenly feel guilty and leave me the remnants. I won’t mind…honest.

Demoted

As if my walks about town were not hazardous enough already, I’ve decided to add another challenge into the mix. For the last month or so, I have been considering buying a bicycle. I have had enough with the bartering game where it relates to mobility. This would make me, however, the lowest common denominator on the street.

Buses and trucks, being the biggest and, therefore, most able to obliterate all others, have priority on these streets. Oh, wait…excuse me, CATTLE have priority: buses will screech to a halt for those sacred (and grande) animals. I have yet to decipher if it’s based on beliefs, or rather the understanding that the cow could do a whole lot more damage to the vehicle. Buses are good to steer clear of unless you are jumping onto one as it pulls away from the curb: people indiscriminately spit out the windows. I pity the non-helmet-wearing scooter driver caught next to one in rush hour! And trucks are so colorfully decorated that, at first glance, one may think she is witnessing several dedicated parade floats, that couldn’t stand to miss taking part in festivities, despite the loads of rocks to be delivered. Just yesterday, I noticed a solid looking diesel truck. I knew it was diesel thanks to the intricately scripted word “diesel” bordered by lovely, pink, chalk flowers. I love it!

Then, in the chain of command, come all cars. Now, by all cars, I am only speaking of a small, select few. For instance, when hiring a car for a weekend trek, one can choose by size. There is no range of economy, compact, mid-size, standard, or full size to order from; we go with big or small. And depending on the request, an Indica or a Tavera will show up. For REALLY large groups, one may hire a Tempo Traveller...These are the makes of the cars (not another language for small, medium, or large) one sees most regularly on the road. There are also the occasional (I have now seen two) Mercedes, which I find truly laughable. Why any sane person would think bringing a Mercedes onto these streets is a good idea is beyond my mostly-sane mind…it would take all of 30 seconds off the lot, if the owner is lucky, before the car acquired a scratch or dent in it. I had friends visiting this week, and everyday they would come home with stories of how many “accidents” their driver was in that day alone.

Next, come those popular two-wheelers: These are the “big kid” kind, with motors and everything! “Bikes” (motorbikes) or “scooters” are the preferred mode of transportation. If one owns a vehicle, it is most likely a two-wheeler (because who can afford a car??). Families make the two-wheeler work for them because the idea of upgrading to a minivan is preposterous. I imagine my poor father, the insurance agent, passing out at the regularity with which I see a father driving a bike with his wife sitting side-saddle behind him holding their baby or toddler on her lap. There are the occasional families of four, where, if you look closely, you see another small child wedged tightly between the two adults on the seat (“Oh, look! There IS another one!”). Or, my favorite: a fifth child balancing between the drivers legs. The most impressive load I’ve witnessed firsthand was five adults squished onto a scooter. I don’t know how they do it! Oh, Daddy, perhaps you shouldn’t visit…

Below the two-wheelers, in the hierarchy of the streets, come autos, our formidable three-wheeled taxi. The motor-run rickshaw is how we are ripped off daily, as it is our primary mode of transportation. In the grand scheme of things, we pay very little for our ride. It is the fact that because we are unmistakably not locals we are, therefore, fair game for being coerced into paying for all kinds of extra fees. For instance, “today there is much traffic!” = add $$. “But sir, everyday there is traffic” means nothing. OR, “the petrol bunkers are on strike; you pay me more” (okay, please note, the fees for petrol did NOT rise). OR, my friends’ driver who pulled into a gas station and told them to pay 2 times what they’d agreed upon for his gas…because he did not have anymore. Oh, the games are endless. In every other major city, we have been assured, the autos use their meters. Not here. Oh, no. That would be too easy.

Sometimes I have fun with my drivers. “Oh, sir. That is not a fair price. We go this way every day; it is less than 2 kilometers,” I will say, as I point at the fare painted on the side of the vehicle! The good-natured driver will laugh as he realizes I know the scam, and shoo me into the vehicle. There are others who find it fun to argue for a time before giving in, and I have been assured that this is preferred by many (which I just don’t get). I’ve learned a lot of patience, however, and am able to remain calm-even when one driver was so appalled by my only paying slightly more than fair price (he was asking for about 5 times the regular amount) that he told me the police would come and arrest me. When he refused to laugh with me, I waited calmly, asking him to verify how many kilometers we had gone, so I could be sure to give him the fair price. He refused to answer, until he finally accepted my fare 5 minutes later. Oi, vey.

And finally, pedestrians do not have the right of way. If one is foolish enough not to move when a vehicle alerts him/her of its presence, no pity shall be bestowed upon the resulting broken foot. A benefit of being “unmistakably not local” is that I am more easily seen by moving vehicles; and as people generally seem curious about my presence, traffic frequently slows down, offering me a chance to dash across a crowded street unscathed. An example of this from the other day was when two of my flatmates were crossing a road, one as white as me reminded the other, of Sri Lankan birth (though she would call New Zealand home), to stick close to her “because they won’t stop for you, but they will notice me.” My Kiwi flat-mate, realizing the truth of that statement, readily complied.

More typically, however, pedestrians are fair game for any moving object…except for the bicycle. The bicycle is expected to swerve or stop for all else to pass. There is just no respect given there. The lowly “cycle” is tooted and beeped out of the way of everyone. Yes, I did say “tooted”-the autos have these enormous clown horns that still make me giggle. These horns are most often fist-sized blue bulbs that are squeezed by the driver and make a high-pitched, almost nasally/hiccup sound….it’s very hard to describe. It’s more something that just needs to be experienced.

Bartering for price aside, I have regularly been with auto drivers who were completely high (reaction time is KEY on these roads, so we have learned to keep walking when these drivers approach) and those who “bump” into other moving vehicles/people resulting in fights. The final straw was my driver a few weekends ago, who knocked a man head first off his motorcycle…and kept driving (we quickly jumped out at the next light-the motorcycle rider was fine, though his bike was not).

Basically, while I have acquired a new level of composure with the auto drivers (they are simply trying to earn a living), I’ve grown weary of the energy I expend to, say, get to the closest grocery store. It will not be possible to avoid taking autos (and I would feel like I was missing out-the drivers have been great teachers of both language skills and local culture), but ideally, I will have more patience to negotiate when necessary. Plus, I will not stay home simply because I do not have the correct change (that is another scam to be aware of: “no change, madam”) or because I am not exactly sure how best to direct my driver to a location. Though it is not necessarily safer, my hope is to regain an ounce of freedom by owning a bicycle.

Wish me luck!

Operation

As a child, my family owned a game that would stress me out to no end. A man’s fleshy outline splayed on the top of a red box, littered by little holes lined with metal. Each hole was in the shape of the slightly smaller, plastic body part it contained. The object of the game was to extract as many of the plastic pieces as possible, using metal tweezers. If the tweezers were to connect with an edge, there would be a loud buzz and it would feel as though the player had been shocked. Hence, an immense amount of anxiety resulted from what was supposed to be an enjoyable past time.

An “operation” for us here is the actual extraction of families from bonded labour, with the hope of acquiring official release certificates, which then make the individuals and their families eligible for particular benefits from the government. In early December, I was able to participate in my first Operation. Handheld radio with earpiece and all!

[Note: this is NOT an action shot! We're not as slick as we'd like to think we are-it was taken purely to have a photo that could be approved!]

Interesting how, while a stretch, working on one of our “operations” is much like playing the game Operation: There was the nervousness of trying to remove the parts (Game: "Don't let me get buzzed! Don't let me get buzzed! ;" Reality: "Will everyone get out of the facility safely? Don't let the owner stop anyone!"); the waiting (Game: "Will they get the piece I plan to take??;" Reality: "Will they receive their release certificates??"); and the elation felt after a successful extraction (Game: "HA! Eat my dust, suckers!"-for the highly competitive 7-year-old; Reality: "HA! Eat my…" just kidding-it was more like "YES! Praise God!!!"). While the game should really only last an hour (if the nervousness truly takes hold), the reality was that it was almost a 23-hour work day, from the time I left my house to meet the team until the time I entered my apartment again the following day. The amazing part was that it didn't feel that long.

Okay, so really, they aren't even close to the same. Sorry. But, getting to spend the majority of my time with the families, fending off reporters (don't get me started-the freedom of the press here is revolting when it comes to human rights), and laminating the 19 (woohoo!!) official release certificates, when we'd hoped for at least 15, was enough to energize me throughout that long day. The highlight for me was the opportunity to bond with the families in a way that would not be possible in an afternoon of home visits. I found my own piece of heaven when a small child reached for me through her tired tears, and stopped crying as soon as she was in my arms (sigh).*

Despite work seeming to fly by for me, the day could not have felt longer for some of those rescued. The 2 patriarchs, of the 8 families released, and their wives had been bonded since their youth. Now, as much older men and women, to step into a new life must be terrifying. They remained stoic throughout the ordeal: silent, contemplative. What I wouldn't give to have been able to hear their thoughts! For them to trust us with the fate of their lives was a testament to how bad life in the mill must have been. As they waited for their official papers, they must have been wondering "what next?" They had no guarantee their homes would still be in their villages, that their neighbors would embrace them, that they would be able to find jobs…that is our role in Aftercare: to assist with the next steps. But these men and women were purely taking our word on faith, they had no way to know we would follow through with our end of the bargain.

The faith of these individuals is truly admirable. Their grandchildren, who joyfully played with us throughout that day, trusted us; but they have their entire lives ahead of them: their youth, their strength. For the elders in the group, they were taking a huge risk for the sake of the younger generations. I see their leap of faith as a sacrifice made so that their grandchildren could know more than the walls of that rice mill, could know what an education means, could know what it is to make decisions, and could hopefully see justice come to their abusers.

While there are moments when what we do here does not quite feel real, the reality is, we are playing a huge role in the lives of these oppressed individuals. We are encouraged to do our job well from day one, because people entrust their lives to us. Praise God that it is not solely up to us. That we are not extracting the pieces on our own: Praise God for the team- the entire staff, our families, and other incredible supporters back home. For those who keep us accountable, and remind us that our work, our decisions impact much more than what we see on a daily, weekly, or even monthly basis: thanks for playing well!

*A. whispered, "We will be delousing you when you get home, by-the-way"- Luckily, so far, no lice to be seen! Phew! Even if I did have to deal with lice later, it would have been worth every minute...