It seems wherever I go something tragic happens concerning the government. Although Argentina is not on the brink of a civil war like Thailand, the death of their ex- president has caused some tension amongst the people. The current president, who is the wife of the ex- president, was seen in many people's opinions as a puppet for her husband's political agenda. While not everyone of course was happy with the course of the country, many people have seen him as a balance between the right and left that have created a theme of polarization throughout central/ south america.
A few weeks ago,I watched on television the funeral of the ex-president. Hugo Chavez greeted the president as she stood beside her husband's coffin, the eclectic group of south american presidents symbolized some kind of superficial attempt for unity during this sorrowful time.
One of my assignments during this time is studying the history of governments for the last 50 years and how the church has responded. I think what is difficult is learning that the previous black and white dichotomy in my mind associating good/bad with certain political ideologies was very detached from the reality of what has happened in these country.
Although many groups start off with what seem to be admirable ideals, the reality of human nature always corrupts and blurs what seemed to be such clear visions. Honestly, the real difficulty is pressing on. Many people see the relativity of government, therefore, completely disassociate themselves with what is happening around them.
This translates into the same problem I have found myself in having worked with an organization that serves the poor. In the past, I have taken a lot of pride in serving the poor and have struggled with resentment towards the excessive American lifestyle. But recently, I cant help but be overwhelmed with the relativity of poverty. For instance, (i have to warm you-im an over analyzer, and although this may seem like im going a little too far, I think it is something to legitimately think about.) It is common to see people selling jewelry, sweaters, and other objects they have usually made by hand. In the past, I would take pride in purchasing these goods; afterall, I knew that the money was going back into the community and the person was not being exploited in any manner to make it. But the reality is, and of course this is a generalization, many of those people do paco. This drug, which is a cocaine paste, has become very popular in Argentina. This isnt an assumption I am making just because these people are poor; it is common knowledge.
But what if I go into a store, buy something that was made out of the country, know that the money is mainly flowing out of the country, but I am supporting the man who works at the counter and needs to support his family? My point is not that helping the poor only extends their misery, or that the inability for small local businesses to start because they cant even to begin with larger foreign corporations is justified, my point is to show you the relativity of the system. It is a fact I think is important to acknowledge.
This unfortunately brings me back to my days studying philosophy in college. How can we not collapse into complete relativism concerning our involvement in serving locally and also politically? Are we simply fueled by our own interests? Is everything a power game masked in rhetoric that makes us feel justified for claiming what we want?
This is my conclusion: I must acknowledge that there is a sense of relativity to things. I think this is important to in order to rid ourselves of self- righteousness. So that I do not think I am better for everyone else for working with prostitutes- so that others do not think they are justified in not helping others because they are entitled to what they have.
But it is in this realization that we can find freedom.
After concluding that the world is in a state of entropy,and that for many people life is only a power-play, we can come to terms with our humanity in the best possible way.
Humans, like one writer has put it, are neither angels nor animals. I think that fighting this realivity is what not only being human, but even moreso being a christian, is about.
Because Christ encompasses every ideal that separates us from the barbarism of animals, how true is it that our only salvation lies in living in his footprints.
One of the bests gifts we have been given is the gift of communion. How I ponder over the brilliance and beauty of this holy communion of the human with the divine.
We must not evade the reality of the brokenness of the world, we must not become discouraged when things no longer seem so black and white, because it is this acknowledgment that should make us run even quicker to the cross which embodies the only salvation we can receive from this world.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
unsent letter: to the little boy of bangkok
This is a letter I am having published in the winter issue of "mission magazine." This letter was not written for shock value- this letter was written to share someone's story.
I will never forget the first night we met. I remember the suffocating humidity the notorious summer heat brought with it, like the pit of a furnace that was inescapable. I hope you did not think I was rude for staring at you when we first met. Friend, you were standing on the street of a red- light district and I had never seen a young boy like you before. Remember how I stood before you frozen? I can not help but think how silly this American girl was. I will never forget your frail body, the purple bruises on your arms, and the look of absolute desperation on your face. Someone had dressed you up in a tight pink dress and stilettos. I walked away the first time because I didn’t know what to do. I don’t think you realized I was standing across the street watching you dance. Dear friend, why was someone making you dress like that? You told me they were making you do it so you would have food to eat. But your body was so emancipated; I have wondered if they ever fed you. They drugged you didn’t they? I could see it in your eyes.
I was supposed to be stoic. “Stay calm and discrete” I told myself when I saw what they were doing to you. But as I noticed you sit down, curling your knees into your chest, and the stream of tears that smeared the hot pink make-up someone had painted on your face, I could no longer restrain myself from coming to you. When I sat beside you and put my arms around your tiny waist, I did not mean to cause such a scene by crying. I remember the warmth of your body as you learned into me, like a cub seeking refuge in its mother’s protection. I held you so tightly like I was never going to let go. Do you recall how the tourists lined down the street, gathered around, and watch me hold you? Why did that woman take a picture of us? That look in your eyes pierced my heart, when you looked up at me and didn’t know why I was crying. I spoke words rapidly over you as I cradled your grotesque body on display for the world. I was praying to God that He would take your life or deliver you from this place.
Young boy, this is why I was crying with you: because in realizing your suffering, part of me came alive. As the death of winter yields the lilies of spring, so in your brokenness I saw the true face of humanity. Unlike other boys who are consumed with their little league games, you little boy only worried about surviving through the night. Like the lamb before the slaughter, you were the innocence of this world spit upon. It was in your eyes that I saw the depravity of mankind. In the middle of a street where thousands of women sell their bodies, I was crying for the world.
I was supposed to come to Nana that night dispensing hope to those I encountered. I was supposed to be the light in the dark; I was supposed to be the stereotypical American who fixes the world. How ignorant I was. But you my boy were the Christ; you were the innocence ravaged and degraded. Your body was scarred with the desires of man’s flesh, and your eyes spoke of the raw wounds where salt was rubbed into in an attempt to break your strong spirit. I knew though that you had not been defeated.
Do you want to know what is wrong with people? No answer I give can justify what has happened to you. The best explanation I can give is that we all long to have the heart of a child. There is something beautiful about the undefiled perspective that is so fascinated by the world. But the world is not what it seems, something we all discover. It is the absence of innocence that drives some to rob it from others.
You didn’t want me to leave that night. I remember you called me “mother.” I had to leave I told myself that night. I thought I would be putting you life in greater risk if I stayed. I still tell myself that before I go to sleep now and see your face. I felt dirty that night I went home. It was as if I for a moment was able to carry your brokenness. I could not cleanse my body of it. I still haven’t.
And it is for this that I must apologize. I was so angry at what those people did to you; but now I wonder if I was just as guilty for walking away from you that night. Beautiful boy, like Pontius Pilot, do I also carry blood on my hands for deserting you? Maybe the problem with the world is not only the cruelty that drives some to rape an innocent child, but also the apathetic that do nothing. Maybe the problem with the world is that too many people overlook the importance of improving the quality of one life.
Beautiful boy:
In the darkness of death, my heart has been resurrected. Your pain will be my fire in which your story will be retold. In what seemed to be the silence of God, your voice will be echoed eternally.
Caroline
wordmadeflesh.org
nightlightinternational.com
I will never forget the first night we met. I remember the suffocating humidity the notorious summer heat brought with it, like the pit of a furnace that was inescapable. I hope you did not think I was rude for staring at you when we first met. Friend, you were standing on the street of a red- light district and I had never seen a young boy like you before. Remember how I stood before you frozen? I can not help but think how silly this American girl was. I will never forget your frail body, the purple bruises on your arms, and the look of absolute desperation on your face. Someone had dressed you up in a tight pink dress and stilettos. I walked away the first time because I didn’t know what to do. I don’t think you realized I was standing across the street watching you dance. Dear friend, why was someone making you dress like that? You told me they were making you do it so you would have food to eat. But your body was so emancipated; I have wondered if they ever fed you. They drugged you didn’t they? I could see it in your eyes.
I was supposed to be stoic. “Stay calm and discrete” I told myself when I saw what they were doing to you. But as I noticed you sit down, curling your knees into your chest, and the stream of tears that smeared the hot pink make-up someone had painted on your face, I could no longer restrain myself from coming to you. When I sat beside you and put my arms around your tiny waist, I did not mean to cause such a scene by crying. I remember the warmth of your body as you learned into me, like a cub seeking refuge in its mother’s protection. I held you so tightly like I was never going to let go. Do you recall how the tourists lined down the street, gathered around, and watch me hold you? Why did that woman take a picture of us? That look in your eyes pierced my heart, when you looked up at me and didn’t know why I was crying. I spoke words rapidly over you as I cradled your grotesque body on display for the world. I was praying to God that He would take your life or deliver you from this place.
Young boy, this is why I was crying with you: because in realizing your suffering, part of me came alive. As the death of winter yields the lilies of spring, so in your brokenness I saw the true face of humanity. Unlike other boys who are consumed with their little league games, you little boy only worried about surviving through the night. Like the lamb before the slaughter, you were the innocence of this world spit upon. It was in your eyes that I saw the depravity of mankind. In the middle of a street where thousands of women sell their bodies, I was crying for the world.
I was supposed to come to Nana that night dispensing hope to those I encountered. I was supposed to be the light in the dark; I was supposed to be the stereotypical American who fixes the world. How ignorant I was. But you my boy were the Christ; you were the innocence ravaged and degraded. Your body was scarred with the desires of man’s flesh, and your eyes spoke of the raw wounds where salt was rubbed into in an attempt to break your strong spirit. I knew though that you had not been defeated.
Do you want to know what is wrong with people? No answer I give can justify what has happened to you. The best explanation I can give is that we all long to have the heart of a child. There is something beautiful about the undefiled perspective that is so fascinated by the world. But the world is not what it seems, something we all discover. It is the absence of innocence that drives some to rob it from others.
You didn’t want me to leave that night. I remember you called me “mother.” I had to leave I told myself that night. I thought I would be putting you life in greater risk if I stayed. I still tell myself that before I go to sleep now and see your face. I felt dirty that night I went home. It was as if I for a moment was able to carry your brokenness. I could not cleanse my body of it. I still haven’t.
And it is for this that I must apologize. I was so angry at what those people did to you; but now I wonder if I was just as guilty for walking away from you that night. Beautiful boy, like Pontius Pilot, do I also carry blood on my hands for deserting you? Maybe the problem with the world is not only the cruelty that drives some to rape an innocent child, but also the apathetic that do nothing. Maybe the problem with the world is that too many people overlook the importance of improving the quality of one life.
Beautiful boy:
In the darkness of death, my heart has been resurrected. Your pain will be my fire in which your story will be retold. In what seemed to be the silence of God, your voice will be echoed eternally.
Caroline
wordmadeflesh.org
nightlightinternational.com
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