Unexpected Kindness

Misery violently took over my night, pushed sleep aside and sent me rushing to the bathroom. The initial relief was short lived and I soon found myself fumbling in the darkness, desperate for the antibiotics the Traveler’s Clinic had sent with me. I gulped down the first giant tablet, determined to be ready for travel by morning. We had a full day planned, including a visit to a hostel for young girls, shopping and then dinner at a friend’s house before returning to our guest house in Dhaka. Yet, morning still found me pasted to my bed, stomach swirling in unreasonable circles. Relief that no one else had caught the same bug and the reality of our next day’s flight out of Dhaka propelled me out of bed, grateful for friends to help me pack up. This was not the way I wanted to say goodbye to Mymensingh, one of my favorite cities on earth, eyes squinted tightly shut to block out the light and hands grasping a plastic bag just in case. As we left the city behind and headed towards Dhaka, we canceled all other plans for the day and I laid back in my seat and willed myself to survive the journey.

It was awful, I’m not gonna lie. Many roads in this densely populated nation feel like a loop in Mario Cart, only there are a million other drivers racing down the same road and the precipices are real. Our driver, Ramjan, who had been nothing but a gentleman since we left Dhaka, was now doing his best to maneuver his way home. It wasn’t long before I found myself squatting on the side of the road, upheaving the remains of my stomach. Ramjan hovered beside me, full of concern, telling my friend to hold my hand and pull my hair back. He even took a long look at my vomit to try to figure out what I had eaten that was causing my insides to have such a mutiny. When I was finished, he motioned for me to hold out my hands so he could pour water into them. He showed me how to rinse out my mouth and wash my face. As I squatted in the dirt by the side of the road and cupped my hands to accept his gift of water, I felt the Divine tapping me on the shoulder and I knew I was taking in a holy sacrament. I saw my Creator mirrored so beautifully in the face of our Muslim driver who shared his water with this tired and sick American woman. Something inside came unglued and it’s a wonder I made it back into the van instead of catapulting down the embankment.

Here is the painful truth – if Ramjan were in my country, he would most likely be arrested or put on a watch list simply based on his appearance and yet he welcomed me,  the stranger. He played the role of protector and host. He was the one who gently taught the first time visitors in our group how to eat with their fingers. In a country where clean drinking water is a commodity, he shared his with me. Dang, he didn’t even avert his eyes from my vomit! It’s the Ramjans that make the world a better, kinder place. In my home country, we tend to judge people like him because of the way they look or the religion they follow. Instead of sharing our water, we build higher walls so those still desperate to come must cross in the desert south of the border, some dying of thirst on the way. We deny place to those who have lost everything because we are afraid they will take something from us. Yet, no matter how high or long we build our walls, how many refugees and asylum seekers we turn away under the pretext of our own safety, we are the ones who lose the most. By diminishing the created, we push away the Creator and Christ is turned away once again.

Photos courtesy of Adrienne Gerber Photography and Liga Mullins.

9 Words That Define Bangladesh

Tea Time on the RooftopOur hearts have been grieving the tragic hostage situation that occurred over the weekend in Bangladesh. While we are relieved that our family, friends, and all who work for Pebble are fine, we are deeply saddened by the loss of lives, both foreigners and Bangladeshis.

This is not the Bangladesh we know. Memories of years spent in this warm and hospitable nation come flooding back: Complete strangers inviting us over for tea. Beggars asking how our boys were doing. Shopkeepers calling out their greetings as we passed by. Standing on the rooftop with the neighbors at night to see if the moon would signal another day of Ramadan or if the month of fasting would be over and the Eid celebration would be the next day. Neighbors inviting us to celebrate with them. One year we had seven men from seven different households in our apartment building drop by to invite us to a meal or tea later that day. Our hearts were fuller than our bellies that night because we, strangers of a different race and religion, were given a place at their table and loved.

The actions of a few do not define the essence of the many. Six terrorists do not get to define what this beautiful nation of nearly 163 million people stand for.

Like a rose bush that comes back stronger every time it is cut back, Bangladesh for me will always stand for—

Hope.

Beauty.

Tolerance.

Love.

Kindness.

Strength.

Innovation.

Creativity.

Respect.

It was a bittersweet July 4th for me as I celebrated our Independence Day with family and friends. I wonder what our nation would be like if we were as welcoming and tolerant. If even half of us would start living out of love instead of fear. Perhaps we would have less hostage situations, less racism and less police brutality.

Fear is a powerful thing. BUT. LOVE. IS. STRONGER!

9/11 – Moving Beyond Fear

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I’ll never forget 9/11 for reasons of my own. Halfway around the world, in a Muslim country, Austin and I watched the towers fall. We sat in the living room of our neighbors, who had become dear friends of ours, and together we watched the events unfold, each of us wrapped in a cloak of horror and disbelief. I will never forget how they turned to us with genuine sorrow and apologized for the events that were unfolding, assuring us that this was not real Islam. As the night rolled on, knowing we had lived in New York, they made sure that our families and those we knew were okay. They cautioned us that this could stir up local extremists but, if it did, we would be safe with them. I had no doubt that they would have given their lives to protect us, if need be. That need never arose but their love and concern for our family was mirrored by many others in our circle of friends. Everywhere we went, they would ask us if our family was okay. Sorrow and compassion were everywhere.
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For nearly a decade, I was not “Marita”. I was “Bhabi” (sister-in-law) or “Sister” to pretty much everyone I met. “Auntie” to the little ones. My boys had hundreds of aunties and uncles. My husband had thousands of brothers. We were family within a much larger family.

We shared countless meals in Muslim homes, and I became chagrined to realize how paltry the best American hospitality is when held up to Muslim hospitality. The food. The love. The laughter. The respect in spite of our differences. And the food – did I already say that?!

Muslim hands held my babies when they were little and washed their dirty diapers without complaining. Muslim hands washed the filth off my son when he fell in the sewer even going so far as to recover his shoes with  bare hands. They pinched my boys’ cheeks and doted on them. They served us tea and showed us where to go. In countless ways, Muslims in Bangladesh loved us, served us and bent over backwards to ensure that we felt at home in their country. If Americans would show half of the hospitality and respect that the Muslims we met showed to us, our land would be a much better place.

And now, “Inshallah” (If God wills it) we may have the privilege to show love and hospitality to 10,000 of them or more. If that happens and you are given the opportunity to cross paths with one of them, don’t be afraid to love them, show hospitality, to serve them, to help them settle into this land, to become family. Don’t be afraid to wield the most powerful force on earth. Love.