reynoldsadmin: March 2011 Archives

By Hannah Oppenheimer

At 10:30 am on a Saturday morning in large Latin American city, I was sitting with a group of American students as we waited for a bus that would take us 40 minutes away to volunteer. I was curious to meet the kids we would be playing with that day. We were only told one thing about them--that they lived in severe poverty. Our job was simply to play with them--soccer, arts and crafts, board games. Despite the obvious language difference, I imagined it would be a lot similar to some of my teaching and babysitting jobs.

And in fact, it was. Just like my jobs in the US, the kids couldn't seem to keep the paint from spilling all over their clothes or the picnic tables. The boys were competing for who knew the most bad words and the girls were trying to lie about how many refills they'd already had of fruit punch. There was one adorable quiet boy, as there always is. But he warmed up to me, as they always do. And as usual, I had fun escaping the adult world to sit with young friends, who told me their dreams while I braided their hair or asked them to tell me the stories behind their drawings.

The only difference between this and my other jobs was the camera flashing. At the beginning of the day, while we were waiting for the bus, another American volunteer turned to me and said, "I just can't wait to take photos with the kids today. We will look so cute in the pictures! And we'll look really helpful, too!" For those who aren't fluent in modern American dialect, that translates to, "Putting this on Facebook will make me look like such a good person!"

But she wasn't out of the ordinary. In fact, the organization in charge of the event held an informal orientation on the bus ride, in which they literally told us it was okay to take a few "Facebook photos." They said, "We're all guilty of wanting our photo taken with poor kids." The volunteers were not, however, permitted to take photos of the neighborhood because they said, "This isn't a zoo."

I don't know if it was a zoo or not. But poverty certainly seems to be the most fashionable tourist attraction for travel abroad. And anyway, how is taking a bunch of Americans on a bus to play with poor foreign kids any different than taking them to a petting zoo? It's mutually beneficial, sure. The animals get their feed, the people get their photo. Not only do they feel good, but they look good, too.

But sustainable? There certainly are plenty of volunteer abroad programs that work. But I always worry more specifically about the child-centered volunteer programs that run on a flow of international volunteers. It's a great experience for everyone involved to be exposed to global cultures. But in some cases, a global mindset isn't in the bare necessities for the children actually receiving the services. Kids are complex and soak in everything, so they need neighborhood role models who consistently show up, who build relationships, who fuel local empowerment--not just kind-hearted foreigners with good intentions, in and out in a flash of the camera. 

Hannah Oppenheimer is a 2010 Reynolds Scholar at NYU's College of Arts & Science.  She is currently studying abroad in Buenos Aires.

by Annie Escobar 

This past summer, as part of our Reynolds Program Internship program, Patricia Schneidewind (a fellow Reynolds scholar) and I traveled to Bangladesh for nine weeks to document BRAC, the world's largest development organization's social justice initiatives.  Today, on the 100^th anniversary of International Women's Day we are launching Courage in the Heart, an online storytelling platform featuring the stories of 12 women who are radically changing the consensus about the value of women by organizing to demand their rights. Visit the site here: www.brac.net/courageintheheart

Mussamat struck us with her beauty from the moment we saw her. She greeted us with a brilliant smile, making me second guess if she was the woman we would be interviewing. I didn't expect someone who had acid thrown on her face (by her husband after he insisted her family pay a higher dowry) to be so full of life.  BRAC is now fighting her case in court to bring the perpetrators to justice.

Her interview was like many others. After convincing the inevitable crowd of interested neighbors to give us some space, we sat, just the three of us, in her courtyard. Ruhul, our good friend and translator, gave basic instructions about what our project was and then basically just told her to talk and then left (the women felt more at ease without the male presence).

Mussamat began speaking. She spoke quietly at first and then her voice developed a strength and a rhythm.  For long moments she stared into the distance, letting a loud heaviness settle into the spaces between her words. My limited Bangla meant that I could only understand bits and pieces, but it was as if my body could feel it all. So much is communicated through the face, the voice, and the breath. My heart felt compressed and breathing became difficult. When she was finally done, half an hour later, we quietly shut the camera off and all held each other and cried. And then, in a moment that is still profoundly humbling, Mussamat took her scarf and slowly, gently wiped the tears and sweat from my face. It is a moment I draw strength from every day.

Suddenly, a feeling of lightness came over us and we all started cracking up. We laughed and danced in that courtyard until it was time to leave.

The last image of her in my mind is of her beaming, holding her daughter, sending us away with a giant wave. As we drove away, I asked Ruhul if he heard her say how old she was.

"22," he answered.

The same age as Patricia.

When we left her house that day I made myself a promise. That I would make sure that we were not the only ones carrying that testimony.

To me, our experience in Bangladesh was a testament to the power of solidarity and connectivity. With the help of the BRAC staff and Ruhul, we approached these women and incredibly, they let us into their lives and revealed with intimacy some of their most painful and proud moments. The compassion we tried to bring to our interviews hopefully contributed to the trust with which they revealed their stories, but I also think it was something else too. The last words that Julekha, a mother in Mymensingh whose daughter was raped and murdered, said to us were, "When you leave, tell everyone that you heard my story. I have told you everything. I want to feel justice." Many of the women seemed to see the camera as an amplifying tool for their testimony and they spoke out to their imagined audience on the other side of the camera. Now that audience is there, listening.

Today, a year after launching this project, Mussamat's, Julekha's and others' stories will be passed on. My hope is that these women and their stories can give others the inspiration to believe in their own strength and courage to confront injustice.

Visit www.brac.net/courageintheheart to see these stories. Carry them with you. And please, share this project with anyone you can.

Photo Credit Annie Escobar, ListeninPictures