springy spirits
"Alright, everybody get into position the show starts in two minutes!"
"What?! The show?! But we've only had one rehearsal! I have no idea what my lines are!"
The next thing I knew I was sitting in the back of the auditorium watching my fellow cast perform a cheesy dance number that could have been straight from the musical "Mamma Mia!" I quickly jumped back on stage for the closing number to find that our last song was Sade's debut song from the album Lover's Rock. The show came to an end and none other than my former high school musical director stepped out on stage to give a final thank you....wait somethings not right....wake-up!! I opened my eyes to find m yself not in that long forgotten Saline auditorium, but in my firm but comfortable bed in Dhaka.
"Whoa, talk about disorrienting" I thought. "What induced that dream?"
It was most likely the news that Tim, my fellow traveller, had imparted to me the other day.
"You dated Meagan Bigulki?! ...ha...what a coincidence I went to high school with her."
This dream hasn't been the first of its kind though. I have had many dreams in the last two weeks in which I have visited places and moments in time that I have not thought about in years. This must be my subconscious working to find the familiar, the normalcy in my presently not so normal life.
I, coincidentally enough, found to my suprise this morning that home was following me in other ways. I reached into my drawer to retrive my father's video camera to find that my entire family had decided to come along for the ride in a tiny 2" by 2" cassette; in my opinoin, a not so comfortable way to trave, but it seemed to work for them. Everyone seemed happy.
This morning Tim and I did not head styraight for BRAC headquarters, but instead travelled accross the bridge with its mass of overhanging wires, down a muddy and relatively uncrowded street to road 27, house 12 to ASF, Acid Survivors Foundation. Here we were to begin our research.
"Oh god...that poor woman's face" I thought. I nodded my head and gave a smile.
"Salaam."
Our correspondant was more helpful than I could have hoped for. She was warm, kind, not afraid to tell us what she really thought abuot the government, politics. My understanding of the Bangladeshi justice system was definitely enhanced. My conclusion: terribly corrupt. Murder, bribary, corrupt judges, police, lawyers, everyone has a price. Our ASF correspondant's sister was just murderd six months ago by her husband and brother-in-law. She worked for Canada's equivalent of U.S.A.I.D. She was a human rights activist. There were more equally atrocious stories. Acid throwers buying the courts, women whose husband's threw acid in their faces and left them for dead, a man who refused to marry a woman who then threw acid on him and is now attempting to try him for attempted asult. The stories were never ending, but not all were so bleak. Many women and men had found community and peace of mind at ASF and some perpetrators were tried and convicted. Our friend and correspondant also stated that ASF provides (free) facial reconstruction to victims, even when surgery is needed multiple times.
She had much to relay (a huge folder, dvd, and a handbooks worth), but the biggest message I received from her was that nothing comes without a price, her's: a painful, constant reminder for a cause.
"No judgement. No justice."
She managed to keep smiling, although she had no qualms addmitting that the subject often aroused her emotions.
We signed out at the gate, p[arted past the guard, and stepped into the scorching heat on the pothole, trash covered, dirt trodden road. The sun and heat stiffled my senses, but the palm trees and foliage provided some shade to think.
"Wow...Tim....if we research this issue well, we could possibly do some good...(possibly?) and BRACs so huge and widespread...think of all good it could do!"
We couldn't help but walk down road 27 , past the CNGs and rickshaws, past the convience shacks, past the mosque and the men in punjabis, with an elated look on our faces not because we thought that we were especially smart, or that we had thought of somehting never thought of before, but bc we realized the privledged position given to us in part by BRAC, the color of our skin, our nationality (it is not somethning to be proud of but simply the reality). We thin k Kumkum realized too, and now so did we. Hopefully we'll be able to play a valuable roll. We'll see.
"What?! The show?! But we've only had one rehearsal! I have no idea what my lines are!"
The next thing I knew I was sitting in the back of the auditorium watching my fellow cast perform a cheesy dance number that could have been straight from the musical "Mamma Mia!" I quickly jumped back on stage for the closing number to find that our last song was Sade's debut song from the album Lover's Rock. The show came to an end and none other than my former high school musical director stepped out on stage to give a final thank you....wait somethings not right....wake-up!! I opened my eyes to find m yself not in that long forgotten Saline auditorium, but in my firm but comfortable bed in Dhaka.
"Whoa, talk about disorrienting" I thought. "What induced that dream?"
It was most likely the news that Tim, my fellow traveller, had imparted to me the other day.
"You dated Meagan Bigulki?! ...ha...what a coincidence I went to high school with her."
This dream hasn't been the first of its kind though. I have had many dreams in the last two weeks in which I have visited places and moments in time that I have not thought about in years. This must be my subconscious working to find the familiar, the normalcy in my presently not so normal life.
I, coincidentally enough, found to my suprise this morning that home was following me in other ways. I reached into my drawer to retrive my father's video camera to find that my entire family had decided to come along for the ride in a tiny 2" by 2" cassette; in my opinoin, a not so comfortable way to trave, but it seemed to work for them. Everyone seemed happy.
This morning Tim and I did not head styraight for BRAC headquarters, but instead travelled accross the bridge with its mass of overhanging wires, down a muddy and relatively uncrowded street to road 27, house 12 to ASF, Acid Survivors Foundation. Here we were to begin our research.
"Oh god...that poor woman's face" I thought. I nodded my head and gave a smile.
"Salaam."
Our correspondant was more helpful than I could have hoped for. She was warm, kind, not afraid to tell us what she really thought abuot the government, politics. My understanding of the Bangladeshi justice system was definitely enhanced. My conclusion: terribly corrupt. Murder, bribary, corrupt judges, police, lawyers, everyone has a price. Our ASF correspondant's sister was just murderd six months ago by her husband and brother-in-law. She worked for Canada's equivalent of U.S.A.I.D. She was a human rights activist. There were more equally atrocious stories. Acid throwers buying the courts, women whose husband's threw acid in their faces and left them for dead, a man who refused to marry a woman who then threw acid on him and is now attempting to try him for attempted asult. The stories were never ending, but not all were so bleak. Many women and men had found community and peace of mind at ASF and some perpetrators were tried and convicted. Our friend and correspondant also stated that ASF provides (free) facial reconstruction to victims, even when surgery is needed multiple times.
She had much to relay (a huge folder, dvd, and a handbooks worth), but the biggest message I received from her was that nothing comes without a price, her's: a painful, constant reminder for a cause.
"No judgement. No justice."
She managed to keep smiling, although she had no qualms addmitting that the subject often aroused her emotions.
We signed out at the gate, p[arted past the guard, and stepped into the scorching heat on the pothole, trash covered, dirt trodden road. The sun and heat stiffled my senses, but the palm trees and foliage provided some shade to think.
"Wow...Tim....if we research this issue well, we could possibly do some good...(possibly?) and BRACs so huge and widespread...think of all good it could do!"
We couldn't help but walk down road 27 , past the CNGs and rickshaws, past the convience shacks, past the mosque and the men in punjabis, with an elated look on our faces not because we thought that we were especially smart, or that we had thought of somehting never thought of before, but bc we realized the privledged position given to us in part by BRAC, the color of our skin, our nationality (it is not somethning to be proud of but simply the reality). We thin k Kumkum realized too, and now so did we. Hopefully we'll be able to play a valuable roll. We'll see.
posted by rach at 7:18 AM
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