My head spent the night spinning as much as my ceiling fan. What would Kalighat House be like? Would I be able to deal with it? The last thing I wanted was to be shocked and horrified to the extent that I was more of a hindrance than a help. I eventually overcame this concern by reminding myself that my emotional reactions were still within my power to control, despite occasional lapses. Then there was the dilemma of whether I was volunteering for the right reasons? There is a fine line between helping to help, and helping to help ones self, and this is a point that requires continuous introspection. Besides, is being a so called crisis junkie a problem if it also benefits others? The term “poverty tourist” akin to “war tourist” is also a dangerous position to slide into. The Mother House of the Mission of Mother Theresa is after all one of the most famous missions in the world, and 'volunteering' even has its own section in the Indian Lonely Planet. This brings up a whole range of ethical and political developmental dilemma's. For example, are volunteers are taking jobs from the local people? In answer to this specific question it could be argued that without a basic knowledge of Bengali it is hard to replace the local worker with the temporary volunteer. Sudder Street, also supports a monsoon inclusive thriving network of guesthouses, restaurants, tea shops and internet and telephone services. And unlike many other Aid workers, they do not receive a salary and are therefore not creating the double false economy which is present in other major aid centers such as Kosovo and Dar es Salam, amongst many others. Ultimately the reality is, if they did not help the Mission, there would be far fewer caring hands.
The next political dilemma is whether a massive industry of non-governmental organisations actually works to release the government from its own social responsibilities? In the 2007/8 Human Development Index India was listed 128 out of the 177 recognised nations. I am still searching for published statistics, but local NGOs insist that within India the city has one of the highest levels of poverty and an ever increasing poverty gap between the rich and the poor. Over half of the estimated 16-18 million population live in officially recognised slums. And this still leaves an estimated ten percent of the population who live in ‘unrecognised settlements,’ including a large refugee population from the north. At a time when India is trying very hard to portray an image of technological development and social cohesion. It is easier for the government to ignore the poverty of the slums by not recognising them, and the plight of the dalits and tribals by arguing that the caste system has long since been abolished. Besides, the scale of Indian poverty would need a budget the same size as the US military's to be erased, and although the average Indian GDP is increasing, it is doing so slowly and in the mean time the young, old and all ages in between need nourishment, medical treatment and shelter now and not in some predicted time in the undisclosed future. Ultimately, if there were no charities – there would be no alternative.
The final obstacle to my sleep were specific to the Mother House, as I recalled accusations by Germaine Greer amongst others, who accused it as being a hub of religious imperialism. There have also been long standing concerns over the sources of its funding. The fact is that such concerns are of little importance to the sick and terminally ill being cared for by the Sisters. The sick and ill are left on the doorstep of the Mission Houses and not at the city hospital for a reason – and when I asked a volunteer nurse what that reason was, he stared directly into my eyes and trying to keep the calmness in his voice replied, “because without them they would die”. The hospitals are overcrowded and corrupt and for the poor there is no social safeguard; without the Mission Houses “there are no alternatives.” However, it is important to remember that the Mission is not a hospital it is a care centre, providing food, shelter and basic first aid and medicines. Whether Buddhist, Hindu, Muslim, Christian or Agnostic the Mother House of the Mission of Mother Theresa will welcome anyone through its doors, and does so unconditionally. Unlike the local hospitals.
Four hours later and my alarm clock rattled off the table, landed on the floor and – Crack! - I woke up. Long pants and kuta were thrown on, water bottle grabbed, padlock and key lost and then found again, and after a rushed “Nameste” to the security guards, my journey to the Mother House began. At 6.45am the streets of Kolkata are literally just waking up. Men stood up on top of flat roofs, pillow and blanket in hand, as others formed a queue to wash by the water pump, or to fill up pig legs. Lines of yellow taxis stand stationary for the only time during the day, being washed, scrubbed and polished by teams of men. Boys crouched to pee into the gutters, one with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and a cup of chai in his hand. On every corner pots of steaming masala chai was thrown between pans and juggled and sent to the air to cool before deposited into waiting hands. The aromas of spice mixed with the smell of gasoline. Ice blocks were placed in mobile cart, ready to be mixed with crushed lime or sugar cane, to quench the thirst t thhe days heat was sure to bring. Straw brushes sweeping across the cement, preparing the pavements below for the morning's collection of discarded clay cups. Potters in India must be extremely busy.
The Mother House was no exception to India's love affair with tea. I walked into the main courtyard to find it filled with volunteers congregating for breakfast. All ages and nationalities sat side by side squeezed onto wooden benches or sitting on the stone floor. A free simple breakfast welcomed us and I shared the last cup of sweet chai with a volunteer I had met at the registration. Eaten rather than drank, with the help of a large doorstep of white bread, the chai had the dual effect of dampening my nerves and waking me up. I saw familiar faces all around – the Sisters, my friend of a friend, and even the wild haired Japanese guy from the airport, who greeted me with a beeming smile, insisted on giving me a contribution for yesterdays taxi and promised to take me for the "best yogurt lassi in Kolkata". The number of volunteers briefly injected my subconscious with a dose of humanity and they included travellers and those travelling specifically to help. Without a doubt the company was energising and the energy already addictive.
Before we all dispersed to the different Houses, the Sisters gathered us together and began a small prayer. Now I haven't prayed for a decade and I didn't today but the words certainly helped to focus my mind. Courage, Love and Strength were asked for, and then the massive steel shutters were rolled up, light poured in and the volunteers poured out onto the streets of Kolkata. I followed the small group to Kalighat, who in turn was following an Indian volunteer. Paul is deaf and dumb, and incredibly friendly. He communicated with such enthusiasm that it was impossible not to understand him. Although, admittedly I have spent the past two years communicating through sign language – then again fish signs and “out of air” scenarios were not so relevant. A short bus ride and walk later, and I stood in the corner of the women's ward at Kalighat House.
The next political dilemma is whether a massive industry of non-governmental organisations actually works to release the government from its own social responsibilities? In the 2007/8 Human Development Index India was listed 128 out of the 177 recognised nations. I am still searching for published statistics, but local NGOs insist that within India the city has one of the highest levels of poverty and an ever increasing poverty gap between the rich and the poor. Over half of the estimated 16-18 million population live in officially recognised slums. And this still leaves an estimated ten percent of the population who live in ‘unrecognised settlements,’ including a large refugee population from the north. At a time when India is trying very hard to portray an image of technological development and social cohesion. It is easier for the government to ignore the poverty of the slums by not recognising them, and the plight of the dalits and tribals by arguing that the caste system has long since been abolished. Besides, the scale of Indian poverty would need a budget the same size as the US military's to be erased, and although the average Indian GDP is increasing, it is doing so slowly and in the mean time the young, old and all ages in between need nourishment, medical treatment and shelter now and not in some predicted time in the undisclosed future. Ultimately, if there were no charities – there would be no alternative.
The final obstacle to my sleep were specific to the Mother House, as I recalled accusations by Germaine Greer amongst others, who accused it as being a hub of religious imperialism. There have also been long standing concerns over the sources of its funding. The fact is that such concerns are of little importance to the sick and terminally ill being cared for by the Sisters. The sick and ill are left on the doorstep of the Mission Houses and not at the city hospital for a reason – and when I asked a volunteer nurse what that reason was, he stared directly into my eyes and trying to keep the calmness in his voice replied, “because without them they would die”. The hospitals are overcrowded and corrupt and for the poor there is no social safeguard; without the Mission Houses “there are no alternatives.” However, it is important to remember that the Mission is not a hospital it is a care centre, providing food, shelter and basic first aid and medicines. Whether Buddhist, Hindu, Muslim, Christian or Agnostic the Mother House of the Mission of Mother Theresa will welcome anyone through its doors, and does so unconditionally. Unlike the local hospitals.
Four hours later and my alarm clock rattled off the table, landed on the floor and – Crack! - I woke up. Long pants and kuta were thrown on, water bottle grabbed, padlock and key lost and then found again, and after a rushed “Nameste” to the security guards, my journey to the Mother House began. At 6.45am the streets of Kolkata are literally just waking up. Men stood up on top of flat roofs, pillow and blanket in hand, as others formed a queue to wash by the water pump, or to fill up pig legs. Lines of yellow taxis stand stationary for the only time during the day, being washed, scrubbed and polished by teams of men. Boys crouched to pee into the gutters, one with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and a cup of chai in his hand. On every corner pots of steaming masala chai was thrown between pans and juggled and sent to the air to cool before deposited into waiting hands. The aromas of spice mixed with the smell of gasoline. Ice blocks were placed in mobile cart, ready to be mixed with crushed lime or sugar cane, to quench the thirst t thhe days heat was sure to bring. Straw brushes sweeping across the cement, preparing the pavements below for the morning's collection of discarded clay cups. Potters in India must be extremely busy.
The Mother House was no exception to India's love affair with tea. I walked into the main courtyard to find it filled with volunteers congregating for breakfast. All ages and nationalities sat side by side squeezed onto wooden benches or sitting on the stone floor. A free simple breakfast welcomed us and I shared the last cup of sweet chai with a volunteer I had met at the registration. Eaten rather than drank, with the help of a large doorstep of white bread, the chai had the dual effect of dampening my nerves and waking me up. I saw familiar faces all around – the Sisters, my friend of a friend, and even the wild haired Japanese guy from the airport, who greeted me with a beeming smile, insisted on giving me a contribution for yesterdays taxi and promised to take me for the "best yogurt lassi in Kolkata". The number of volunteers briefly injected my subconscious with a dose of humanity and they included travellers and those travelling specifically to help. Without a doubt the company was energising and the energy already addictive.
Before we all dispersed to the different Houses, the Sisters gathered us together and began a small prayer. Now I haven't prayed for a decade and I didn't today but the words certainly helped to focus my mind. Courage, Love and Strength were asked for, and then the massive steel shutters were rolled up, light poured in and the volunteers poured out onto the streets of Kolkata. I followed the small group to Kalighat, who in turn was following an Indian volunteer. Paul is deaf and dumb, and incredibly friendly. He communicated with such enthusiasm that it was impossible not to understand him. Although, admittedly I have spent the past two years communicating through sign language – then again fish signs and “out of air” scenarios were not so relevant. A short bus ride and walk later, and I stood in the corner of the women's ward at Kalighat House.
2 comments:
Awesome blog Bex!!! Looking forward to the next chapter... have an awesome time. Peace x
I am looking forward to the stories from the rest of your days.
I am really enjoying the read :)
Post a Comment