Oh, India...

Let’s talk for a hot sec about the ridiculous whirlwind which has been the past several days.

On our day off, another counselor and I went to see the Ghandi Ashram. I never realized how much Ghandi was against Indians learning the English language (he wanted to preserve and lift up India as a powerful culture for peace in its own right, not because of Westernization). The house is on the river, which is mostly dry at this point. The make-shift dwellings of Ahmedabad’s poorest citizens line the banks; a combination of clothing and tattered blankets provide a patch of shade from the sun, which beats down through the thick smog. The smell of burning wood hangs in the air constantly, and a sudden shift in the wind can easily whip you in the face with sand and ash. Ghandi dreamed of his country leading the world by constantly demonstrating peace. He is to many the father of India. But even Ghandi knew that he was but one man, and the wounds within India itself were far from being healed in his lifetime.

What constantly strikes me about this country is its perplexing social stratification. India is considered to be a developing country. We run our camp from one of India’s most prestigious universities, but just outside the gates people are sleeping on carts or on the sidewalk itself. They hang their few possessions, usually a change of clothes and a blanket, on strings strung on the walls of the university itself. Naked children crouch in the shade while their older siblings are sent as beggars to the nearby shops. As the only people with white skin for miles around, we are an immediate spectacle. Locals take pictures of us (and ask to take pictures with us, too, sometimes handing us their children to hold in the process). The beggar children pick us as easy targets. They come and hold trinkets and key chains in our faces, hoping for a little cash. But we have been strictly warned to not give anything to these children. To give them anything will probably put them in danger as the other children will likely fight over anything valuable. If you give one child anything, twenty more of them will surround you within seconds. What’s more is that any money you may give a child will not even go to help that child – it goes straight back to their parents. So we must turn a blind eye to them, something which is certainly not in my nature. Every child I see I want to scoop up and take home with me… I want to be able to give them clothes and a decent place to sleep and medicine – things which they see every day in Ahmedabad and have no way of getting.

This kind of poverty is not relegated to any section of town. It stares right into the faces of some of India’s wealthiest people every single day. It sleeps outside mansions, renowned medical facilities, and luxury spas. The blatant disparity remains this way much in part because of the lingering attitudes of the caste system. Such a social system does not exist on paper, but is very much still alive in India. The shade of your skin, your family, and your connections (all demonstrative of caste) are everything. In the Sunday newspaper is a “Matrimonials” section, which primarily contains ads for “Wanted Brides” and “Wanted Grooms.” The ads are divided by caste, community, nationality, religion and language.

Even within our small operation of 95 students we see incredible disparity of wealth. About 20 of our students come to us from Foundation schools (schools which have taken children from the street to give them an education, food, and shelter) and are fully sponsored to attend this program. The rest of the students come to us from India’s most privileged families. So far there have been very few if any real problems because of this disparity, but the difference between the general attitudes and behaviors of the haves and have-nots are obvious.

I had the unique cultural experience of rushing one of our students to the hospital via rickshaw after she had a heat stroke. She stayed for two days, and the counselors took turns keeping our girl company. Unfortunately, very few people at the hospital spoke English. Our patient had less idea what was going on around her than we did, as she only spoke three languages from her state in another part of the country (here they speak Hindi and Gujurati). Hospital staff flurried around us, placing IVs and administering shots and speaking to us as if we could understand what in the world was happening. They took our girl to the ICU (which seemed a little overdramatic). It is custom to take one’s shoes off before entering hospital rooms, so I sat with her, barefoot and mildly terrified for several hours. If I ever get sick enough for a hospital visit, fly me home or over to Sweden.

Today is Sunday, and the kids go home on Saturday. The staff as a whole is pretty burned out (especially the people whose bodies have not taken well to the food – I haven’t had any issues with that so far). You should see the way we all react to McDonald’s French fries or peanut butter. Working this program in India has been a wild rollercoaster, and often it feels like our train car has been flying through the air without rails. I will continue to enjoy my time here, but will be very happy to have my feet find the ground again. One more week!