I originally intended on doing one journal entry/ blog per day. However, unlike my trips to Haiti, I don't have a lot of people my age, from my culture, or even that can speak my language to talk to. So for tonight my journal and blog will be my outlet for a very frustrating encounter I had today.
This entry's title is a complete understatement really of how I truly feel about the situation: disgusted, so upset I felt sick enough to vomit, the list could go on and on.
This afternoon/ evening we were given the opportunity to visit the war memorial monument and garden in Savar. The whole area was very beautiful at first glance. We were able to take lots of pictures. We had even more Bangladeshi's taking pictures of us. Apparently our white skin stands out and its very popular to pretend that an American or European is your good friend by having a picture of them on your phone. (At least this means I will feel less bad about taking random pictures of all the Bangladeshi's I meet). It was quite a refreshing and odd experience to be the person on the other side of the camera during a trip like this one.
After successfully chasing off the slowly gathering mob of picture takers we began being followed by a little girl begging. She was just too adorable to say no to so my professor did finally cave and give her 2 taka (the equivalent to about 3 cents American). The little girl turned out to be only one of many children begging in the park. So quickly we had to assume our authoritative, stoic faces and with our hands held in a stop manner kept implying "No! Leave us alone!" As we left the garden we saw a boy, probably no older than 8 (although with prominent stunting here due to malnutrition it is very difficult to guess ages) lying on the ground begging for money. This beggar was unique and much more difficult to see than the rest. His legs were covered in burns and what appeared to be very serious contractures. Realizing that this boy needed and deserved medical attention I tried to stop Maureen (who too at first was very concerned), Maxine (the Belgian college student who had been living here for 4 months already), and Jeremy (the young french photographer). Maxine explained to Maureen (who relayed to me as Maxine quickly searched for a bus for all of us) that there was nothing we could do. In a not exactly polite tone I inquired "Well aren't we staying at a medical compound?!?" However, the underlying social issues surrounding this case were much more difficult to face than the nasty burns themselves. It turns out many of these children are not begging for themselves but are controlled and used as ploys to make more money to give to the adults that keep them enslaved in a hellish life of begging and poverty. The boy did not crawl to that spot and start begging after a freak moto or fire accident. No, he was purposefully (if one can even use that word for such horrible action) put there after being burned, injured, and scared on both his legs and head. He was placed on the main path leading into the monument's garden where many would see him and give him money out of pity. I was informed that even if we helped him this week it was very likely he would wind up getting re-injured and placed back in his exact same spot/ role.
I couldn't accept this child's fate passively. I was furious. A series of questions laden with some not so polite words were projected at Maureen (wonder if this will count as "speaking up" towards my class participation grade for my global health class... oh well I will suffer the consequences later). How could we just let him lay there and do NOTHING for him?!? The calm response about health disparities and the need for long term work/ change was the last thing I wanted to hear. I wanted to do something now. I felt like a hypocrite coming to Bangladesh for a celebration on public health and human rights and then passing over this boy. Deeming his situation too challenging and the social inequalities that created this horrible health outcome for an innocent child too deep. Looks like Slumdog Millionaire stories hold some truth to them.
What I hated most about the situation was that after some time pondering I realized in a way that Maureen was right. This was yet another acute on chronic problem (to use the words of Paul Farmer). And the acute issues would never be settled if the chronic part remains ignored.
The issues of child abuse are problematic in the US where we have extensive medical, social, and governmental services dedicated to trying to prevent and cure this filthy social disease. Gonoshathaya Kendra is an amazing facility that produces talented physicians, paramedics (the equivalent to our PA's), and community health workers. However, other NGO's quickly snag them because they can pay them more. Or some leave for more developed countries (known in the public health realm as the brain drain). So GK remains understaffed and underfunded to tackle all the problems of Bangladesh. The chronic problem does not receive enough resources. The acute problems remain left alone by foreigners only visiting for a week because they understand that long-term investment is needed to ensure these children don't wind back on the streets.
It breaks my heart to know that I did nothing for this boy. And that he is surrounded by a corrupt system that prevents me from doing so. I know I shouldn't blame myself because it's not my fault he was placed on that sidewalk but sometimes guilt is a hard emotion to push away. Some may blame my first sleepless night here on jet lag, others on the relentless mosquitoes. All I know is after a day like today I won't be getting much shut-eye tonight...
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Friday, February 24, 2012
Crazy (Day 1)
Possibly an odd first adjective to choose when describing the trip experience or Bangladesh in general. However, this word has passed through my mind quite a few times both leading up to the trip and during our travels and first day in Bangladesh.
A woman working in my lab used the word crazy to first describe me in fact when she heard I was coming here to Bangladesh only a month after traveling to Haiti. Yes, as an undergrad student trying to plan out where she will begin med school this fall, possibly I had too much going on in my busy American student style life to hit pause and escape for a week and a half to Bangladesh. I am sure for a woman who likes a routine work 9-5 Monday - Friday lifestyle a love for global health and a willingness to set aside a week and a half of one's "regular" "normal" life would seem a bit crazy.
Last night in the Abu Dhabi airport the word came up again. My professor (and only travel mate) made me pause and look around. She questioned: "Kristen, what do you notice that seems odd about this situation?" I couldn't put my finger on it at first. The security line ahead of us was rather short and the security guards didn't make us take off our shoes going through the screening (perhaps more a relief to them - who knows how bad our feet smelled at hour 20 of travel). Then the stares provided a helpful hint. The Bangladeshi men waiting in line with us weren't staring at us because we were the only Americans in the terminal. They were staring because we were the only women in the line. In fact, we were among only a handful of women on the entire flight (a very large international one). And we were most certainly the only women traveling without male accompaniment. This was due to our flight from Abu Dhabi to Dhaka being an overnight one. Women in this part of the world are not allowed to travel by themselves at night. The male dominated culture continued to grow more apparent as we filled out our customs forms. Directly below my name I had to list my father or husband's name. So once again - to the males sharing our flight and to probably most people in this region - my professor and I seemed crazy (or at least culturally very, very! different).
In the mad rush outside the airport my professor and I luckily found a cab driver who spoke English and knew somewhat where the GK medical center was in Savar. Or at least for 1,000 taka he pretended to (we only got lost twice). The horn-honking, accident-inevitable traffic that surrounded me on the ride to Gonoshasthaya Kendra was strangely calming. It gave me flashbacks to riding through the streets of Porte au Prince and served as a happy reminder that I was indeed far from the states and in an underdeveloped country - exactly where I wanted to be. The craziness of dodging Bangladeshi versions of tap taps, people darting across the street, people pedaling with enough wood on their rick shaws to practically build a small house - all of this seemed much more exciting and less stressful than the typical bumper to bumper traffic found in the states. (A word of advice to the Bangladeshi's though - No constantly honking your horn will not magically make the cars and trucks ahead of you suddenly disappear out of your way. And why spend money on traffic lights when nobody follows them anyways? Perhaps that money could be better spent on seat belts?) Sorry, back to my original thought process:
Finally after 45 minutes of well-embraced crazy driving and only getting lost twice (due to some translation error of course) we finally arrived to the beautiful GK compound. For my friends who have traveled to Haiti, GK compound is to Mahalia's compound and the Haitian countryside as Dhaka is to Porte au Prince. Needless to say my professor and I (especially our lungs) were quite excited to escape the burning garbage and crammed together buildings to come to this beautiful compound surrounded by tropical trees, rice paddy fields, and much easier to breathe air.
What's crazy about this compound is as I toured it this morning I couldn't help but think how such a large, organized infrastructure surrounded by beautiful land built to supply the group with the food they needed could exist just outside one of the most densely populated (and in my mind one of the most highly polluted) cities. Especially a compound partially run and founded by women in a region where women are typically seen as inferior and not allowed to travel by themselves.
So as I begin my little adventure in Bangladesh I am embracing the so-called "crazy." I feel very blessed to be able to go on these crazy global health adventures, and even more blessed to come from a place that allows me to travel half way across the world as a woman traveling with just one other woman. Already I have seen some of the same public health needs in Bangladesh that I saw on my trips to Haiti. I know in my heart that far fewer of these needs would exist if more people embraced the "craziness" of a passion for global health (or at least if more people understood that the right to health should be seen as a basic human right). So I hope that I never stop being "crazy." And I hope that the amazing Bangladeshi women who I have met at the GK compound never stop being "crazy" either. The world of public health and the world in general would thrive much better if there were just a few more "crazy" people willing to join us.
A woman working in my lab used the word crazy to first describe me in fact when she heard I was coming here to Bangladesh only a month after traveling to Haiti. Yes, as an undergrad student trying to plan out where she will begin med school this fall, possibly I had too much going on in my busy American student style life to hit pause and escape for a week and a half to Bangladesh. I am sure for a woman who likes a routine work 9-5 Monday - Friday lifestyle a love for global health and a willingness to set aside a week and a half of one's "regular" "normal" life would seem a bit crazy.
Last night in the Abu Dhabi airport the word came up again. My professor (and only travel mate) made me pause and look around. She questioned: "Kristen, what do you notice that seems odd about this situation?" I couldn't put my finger on it at first. The security line ahead of us was rather short and the security guards didn't make us take off our shoes going through the screening (perhaps more a relief to them - who knows how bad our feet smelled at hour 20 of travel). Then the stares provided a helpful hint. The Bangladeshi men waiting in line with us weren't staring at us because we were the only Americans in the terminal. They were staring because we were the only women in the line. In fact, we were among only a handful of women on the entire flight (a very large international one). And we were most certainly the only women traveling without male accompaniment. This was due to our flight from Abu Dhabi to Dhaka being an overnight one. Women in this part of the world are not allowed to travel by themselves at night. The male dominated culture continued to grow more apparent as we filled out our customs forms. Directly below my name I had to list my father or husband's name. So once again - to the males sharing our flight and to probably most people in this region - my professor and I seemed crazy (or at least culturally very, very! different).
In the mad rush outside the airport my professor and I luckily found a cab driver who spoke English and knew somewhat where the GK medical center was in Savar. Or at least for 1,000 taka he pretended to (we only got lost twice). The horn-honking, accident-inevitable traffic that surrounded me on the ride to Gonoshasthaya Kendra was strangely calming. It gave me flashbacks to riding through the streets of Porte au Prince and served as a happy reminder that I was indeed far from the states and in an underdeveloped country - exactly where I wanted to be. The craziness of dodging Bangladeshi versions of tap taps, people darting across the street, people pedaling with enough wood on their rick shaws to practically build a small house - all of this seemed much more exciting and less stressful than the typical bumper to bumper traffic found in the states. (A word of advice to the Bangladeshi's though - No constantly honking your horn will not magically make the cars and trucks ahead of you suddenly disappear out of your way. And why spend money on traffic lights when nobody follows them anyways? Perhaps that money could be better spent on seat belts?) Sorry, back to my original thought process:
Finally after 45 minutes of well-embraced crazy driving and only getting lost twice (due to some translation error of course) we finally arrived to the beautiful GK compound. For my friends who have traveled to Haiti, GK compound is to Mahalia's compound and the Haitian countryside as Dhaka is to Porte au Prince. Needless to say my professor and I (especially our lungs) were quite excited to escape the burning garbage and crammed together buildings to come to this beautiful compound surrounded by tropical trees, rice paddy fields, and much easier to breathe air.
What's crazy about this compound is as I toured it this morning I couldn't help but think how such a large, organized infrastructure surrounded by beautiful land built to supply the group with the food they needed could exist just outside one of the most densely populated (and in my mind one of the most highly polluted) cities. Especially a compound partially run and founded by women in a region where women are typically seen as inferior and not allowed to travel by themselves.
So as I begin my little adventure in Bangladesh I am embracing the so-called "crazy." I feel very blessed to be able to go on these crazy global health adventures, and even more blessed to come from a place that allows me to travel half way across the world as a woman traveling with just one other woman. Already I have seen some of the same public health needs in Bangladesh that I saw on my trips to Haiti. I know in my heart that far fewer of these needs would exist if more people embraced the "craziness" of a passion for global health (or at least if more people understood that the right to health should be seen as a basic human right). So I hope that I never stop being "crazy." And I hope that the amazing Bangladeshi women who I have met at the GK compound never stop being "crazy" either. The world of public health and the world in general would thrive much better if there were just a few more "crazy" people willing to join us.
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