Suffering is found everywhere there is some one to observe it. I was such an observer of such sorrow last Christmas when I visited India. It is supposed to be a moving experience when visiting a foreign country—especially one as poor as India. “Moving” is hardly a word to describe the emotions that I experienced on my journey through northern India. I took a particularly touching rickshaw ride with my mother one evening through the heart of Delhi. What I saw, heard, and smelled are conditions that no one should experience, nonetheless be forced to live with. Unfortunately for India, the wealth is not distributed as it should be, and the great majority of people are forced into a state of slavery, or so it feels to them. Many must work 16 hour days in order so that their families may be allowed the chance to eat. There is a socioeconomic glass ceiling that prevails over most of the country, prohibiting its citizens from making the most out of their lives. I used to not care about such issues and simply allowed apathy to dominate my spare time, but what I saw inspired me. Hence I made a vow to myself to always help other people when in times of need, to always have a straightforward goal set for myself, and to always strive for success in attempting to achieve my goals.
As the developing world grows, so does poverty, hunger, and misery. I am staying in a Sheraton hotel in Delhi, and outside of the wall bordering the grounds are people sleeping in tents. They are dirty, bearded, and have various disabilities that do not require closer inspection to distinguish. I walk out through the large glass doors of the hotel, held open by bellman. There is a line of rickshaws waiting to accommodate our party of almost 25. Our guide pays and tells the first driver that our destination is the Ganges River, and that he will be tipped upon arrival. The guide proceeds to pay each of the rickshaw drivers—all 13—after which our party, now in pairs, climbs into the dilapidated, wooden carts known as “rickshaws.” The drivers demand payment upfront because they cannot afford to be stood up for cash when, usually, their rickshaw mortgage payment depends on even these few rupees. Held together by a few meager steel nails, and supported by three bicycle tires, our rickshaw driver climbs on and begins to pedal. However, I cannot help but notice how undernourished this skinny guy is, and how he holds his head low and portrays a seemingly depressed attitude.
I soon realized that unless you give someone money, you cannot expect to see a smile on the streets of Delhi. The depression I can see in everyone’s face as we slowly trot through the city is one that speaks for the city as a whole. The streets are mostly dark except for the light that shopkeepers disseminate along them, attempting to attract customers. Our bumpy ride along a dirt road with foot-wide potholes continues, when two legs, too atrophied for walking, are my next sight. A disabled man is sitting near the edge of the dirt road we are riding on, begging for spare change. I try not to stare, but this is one of those things that a person cannot help themselves but look at. He is hardly clothed, and appears to possess a seemingly incurable illness. Widespread medical care is available only to the fairly well to do, and even then only in major urban centers such as Delhi. India contains over half a million villages, therefore any attempt at a decent system of medical care is essentially out of the question. I will one day come back for the man who cannot walk; this I silently promise him.
Our rickshaw ride continues through an even worse part of the city, where we find that every other building has experienced some form of structural damage. Many have fallen victim to fire and poor craftsmanship. Entire lots are either empty, or full of ash and char. We come across another lot that has become a landfill, but that also has a dozen pigs on it, eating refuse as it is deposited. The smell I encounter at this point is not just of rotting garbage, but also of human and animal waste as well. It is repulsing almost to the extent that I am unable to keep my stomach. However, this is not the only instance of terrible smells. The entire ride has been filled with a mix between great food and animal waste, the latter left behind by the pigs and cattle that claim free roam to the streets.
By now, I have seen enough people to be able to judge the public’s overall mood. It is one of despair and desperation. Despair over what they are forced to live with—the sights and smells—and desperation for what they do not have but wish so much for. Empty tobacco packets, colorful and numerous as they are, litter the ground in this heart of India. The proletariat work hard and save the few rupees they can, only to spend them on things like tobacco. It seems almost as though such a simple thing as chewing tobacco is enough to keep people working hard, knowing what they will be able to reward themselves with at the end of the day. These simple pleasures, not aspirations to gain wealth or fame, or hope for a promotion of some kind, are what these unfortunate people look forward to at the end of each day. Whatever my life goals ultimately become, I will aim high in striving to succeed in them, and not settle for spit tobacco or a tent to sleep in.
For the next twenty minutes we continue in this manner, yet nothing changes. The scenery and smells seem to be constant throughout the entire city. A feeling of want and envy is seen in every set of eyes I pass. All I see is poverty, death, devastation, birth defects, desperation, homelessness, insanity, and brutality, in everything that this rickshaw ride takes me through. Before I know it, our ride has found its end. We are surrounded by beggars and merchants as we attempt to climb off our rickshaws and head for the river. There is such a mob mentality surrounding us, that it is hard to keep our large group together. The progression through alleyways toward the river is arduous, but I begin to notice soot on everything around me. Our guide points to his left, seemingly at a wall, but explains that nearby is the city’s crematorium. Apparently everybody that dies within the city is cremated at this location, and that the “soot” that I am in fact touching is actually charred human remains. I don’t know what to think, other than “this place is so depressing.” The look I see as each face passes me by makes it all too clear: these people have no purpose for living other than to do just that. Most will not be able to become a beneficial part of society; individually they just do not matter. They work in order to consume food and other products, which are made by other people. This process repeats indefinitely. There is no money, there are no goals, and there are no aspirations. Hopes and dreams, of course, exist; however this is the extent to which the people I see feel a reason for living. Suffering is found everywhere there is someone to observe it. This time I am the observer, however I will not stay idle when I have the power to incite change.
As is far too common, the people of developing countries don’t have the opportunity to move up in corporate ranks, or exploit a gift they might possess. They are left as paupers or servants with the hope of merely surviving. There is no room to be lazy; this would mean you don’t eat. In America, the opposite is true to far too great an extent. Living assistance programs like welfare make it easy for many Americans to take their comfortable way of life for granted. For an Indian peasant worker, a monthly check of a few hundred dollars would be a dream come true. During the past summer I worked at a health clinic full-time for five dollars per hour. I learned not to complain about my below minimum wage salary, because with respect to someplace like India, five dollars is more what one might hope to make in a day. Those that are fortunate enough to make this much money do not live in tents, but instead are able to return in the evening to their very own huts! These are constructed usually from cow patties, mud, and various grasses. I refuse to live in hopes of winning the welfare “lottery,” or with a goal of one day owning my very own rickshaw/car equivalent. I will strive for success in everything I do, never giving up in the face of adversity, and I will not take “no” for an answer.I describe India with a single word: dichotomy. India is diversified with wealth in some areas, and poverty in others. What is not so common though, is that which lies in the middle of this. Some people are moved enough by their visit to India to inspire change in their own communities, but most see the despair and then continue to live the rest of their lives the same, with just a memory of what they hope never to have to face. I felt inspired. I felt more compassionate, more down-to-earth, and more powerful, but yet more fragile than ever. I could be in the same position as any of these people right now, hence the state of fragility, but I also have the ability to provoke change endlessly in a country that badly needs it. I began my attempts at making change by sponsoring a letter writing campaign for Amnesty International within my high school. Students signed my letters requesting action by the government of Nigeria with regard to the passage of a legislative bill that would guarantee basic human rights for women and punish those who did not respect such a law. Since that time my political action has been limited to writing papers on issues that concern me, and then sharing them with my community, family, and friends. I feel as though I’m getting the message out, and people are beginning to take less for granted what they are so fortunate to have already. My new life goal, since visiting India, has become aiding the well-being of others, and stopping at nothing to do just that.
No comments:
Post a Comment