Before my
adventure to India,
hope was a pretty generic, overused word as I looked out my bus window of life.
I hoped to land a new client. I hoped the kids would enjoy their vacation. I
hoped Steve would rub my feet (yes, hope springs eternal).
But on the
ground in India,
hope took on an altogether new meaning for me.
Meeting
with 36 women who had built home businesses with the micro-loans they had received,
hope was no longer a vague noun or an overused verb, but a face. Speaking with
these women, with the help of a translator, I learned about their business
successes. Each was in her fourth level of lending, meaning that each of them
had been loaned, and had paid in full, three other cycles of advancements. Having
borrowed amounts from approximately $100 U.S. in cycle one to over $2,000 in
cycle four, these women, once starving,
now provided for their families and community.
With the
confidence of Fortune 500 presidents, the women stood, one by one, and shared
with us how they started their businesses and their plans for expansion. Just a few years earlier,
these Dalit women (once called the Untouchables, the lowest level in India's
caste system) would not even make eye contact with other humans because they
believed they were unworthy. But on this day they exuded both confidence and
determination, as they shared their accomplishments and future strategies with
their new American girlfriends. A fruit stand. A flower shop. A seamstress. A
fish hatchery. A basket weaver. A retail store - with a newly expanded
assortment. These women, representing hundreds more just like them, were
inventive; impressive; and inspiring.
The small
audience of American women sat in total silence, each of us holding our breath,
for the presenter. At the end of each presentation, we outwardly cheered with
enthusiastic pride for what these women, of
all ages, had accomplished. And no doubt, more than a few of us wept
inwardly for our personal reunion with hope.
"Here is what I know:
all people are created equal.
Given the tools and
incentives for success, they will succeed,
no matter where they
are or where they live. . ."
- Former U.S. Secretary of the Treasury,
Paul O'Neil
As the
women shared their stories with us, two beautiful little girls, dressed in
their school uniforms, peered in at us through the open doorway. "What about
your daughters; are you teaching them business skills?" I asked them. "Yes,"
replied one woman. "They are learning our business with us." The little girls giggled
and ran away - only to return minutes later but this time in new, brightly
colored short sets. It appears that the concept of "FASHION SHOW!" knows no international boundary. And neither does
hope.
Today, I no
longer struggle to remember what hope looks like, because now she's a person to
me. She is alive and well in a slum in Chennai, providing for her family and
growing in her confidence.
If this
note finds you wrung out, worn out, and hanging by your last thread, you might
have forgotten what hope looks like, too. If so, please step to the nearest
mirror and allow me to re-introduce you. You've pulled yourself up by your
bootstraps before, you can do it again. Hope is alive.
Hopelessly
hopeful,
Ellen
Posted by Ellen on March 5, 2009 10:59 AM
| Category: On the Ground
In Dallas, I look out my car
window as my son, Scott, walks briskly to the car. He looks like the picture of
health. But looks are deceiving. As he folds himself into the car, I know that
my strapping young son is pumped full drugs as he fends off AIDS. He's HIV
infected.
While I was
in India,
I saw others infected and affected by the disease; mostly women, some who came
by their illness via "clients," others gifted the disgraceful disease by their
husbands - only to be rejected by her family. Like my Scott, they are
responding well to their potent cocktails of modern medicine. Through my tinted
windows, the death sentence just looked like a chronic disease. Until I stepped
off the bus and was on the ground at an AIDS Orphanage.
Visiting an
organization dedicated to the care of children orphaned by and dying with AIDS,
the reality came crashing home in the form of a slight 8-year-old child.
Sitting on the floor to play with V (please allow me to protect his identity),
the death sting of AIDS became personal. As I lifted the 40-pound child onto my
lap to read him some of his favorite stories, my past flashed before my eyes. I
remembered holding and reading to Scott, just like this. Twenty years ago seems
like just last week.
V held my
hand as we walked to the clinic for his daily treatment. We donned our sunglasses
as we strolled under the hot Indian sun and pretended we were movie stars as
the cameras rolled. Hamming it up for the camera, V and his quirky sense of
humor made me forget he was dying - until I looked into his tired eyes, as we
entered the clinic. The treatment is losing its effectiveness. This is not a
chronic disease. We must be reminded that this is a death sentence, especially
for the children who are too weak to fight.
Across southern Africa, the AIDS epidemic has left more than thirteen
million
children with neither
father nor mothers. . . How does a person begin to
understand the reality
of thirteen million orphans?
Maybe like this: Put
the population of Los Angeles and New York City together.
Let that combined
metropolis be made of only children.
In that whole city,
let there be not one mother or father.
Let there be a
ramshackle home where a nine-year-old boy is the head of the household.
Let his six-year-old
sister leave home every morning to find food.
Now let these children
be yours. - Bruce Wilkinson, The Dream Giver
Just as I
saw my past, I stared into the reality of the future - not just for my own
child but for millions of others. When we
step off the bus of denial and ignorance and experience atrocities first hand,
reality sets in. And only when we accept reality can we collectively solve the real problems of this world - both here at
home and abroad.
Out of denial,
Ellen
Posted by Ellen on March 24, 2009 10:53 AM
| Category: On the Ground
