Lucknow: The colonial city

Dear Friends,

I apologize for the lack of posts lately. Internet access has been sparse these past few weeks as we travel to many different places. I have many stories to catch you up on and will be posting 5 or so more posts over the next two weeks. For now, here's one from the beginning of October that has taken me a while to put into words.
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Growing up in a "fear or be feared" neighborhood such as the one I have come to love, violence is not a foreign concept. In schools, metal detectors were routine, and fights with knifes were entertainment for some. Although my neighborhood has come a long way, I guess when you cram people into the same run down neighborhood with next to zero quality resources and even fewer examples of a better way, there is not much that can be done in the way of non violence. Being raised in such an environment would seem to prepare any person for all sorts of violence, but the city of Lucknow, or at least its train station, has proved that there are just some things that no person or amount of experience can prepare you for.

The tender city of Lucknow sits on the Gomti River and holds the never forgotten whispers of unmentioned fallen soldiers and homeless victims of social and personal neglect closely to its banks as the waters attempt to wash them away through the friendly process of "erosion". Sadly, I've come to expect this sense of destitute to wash over me as we step onto the dark concrete of any major or busy Indian city. While some, if not all, of us have resigned to the notion that perhaps it is best to ignore the things about this country that we do not like, those things are still made apparent. In effect, we've given up our liberal belief that we must change the things that our moral compasses cannot accept. Although, I would be remiss if I did not recognize the possibility that some of us may very well have only temporarily suspended those very beliefs. No matter what we believe or chose not to believe, however, the same sounds, colors, smells, and sights still come into contact with our receptors just as the sounds of begging children and annoyed travelers flooded my ears as the feet of 26 or so well educated adults came into contact with the cold concrete of the Lucknow train station. Per usual, we were stared at by seemingly puzzled and intrigued Indians. Per usual, we were annoyed by this. Per usual, we began to ignore this and walk away. Per usual, I took a position in the back of the crooked line of LC Students and associates to make sure no one was left behind. Life seemed to go on as it has been in the past weeks here in India. Just at the moment that I was getting comfortable with the new environment, the forces that be rocked me unsteady. Just as we made our way up the stairs, the little girl that was asking us for money was running after us in what I can only imagine was a desperate last ditch effort to get someone to take pity on her as a seemingly wealthier gentlemen(although I would argue he was far from a gentleman) began to "help" us get rid our our problem. As this man proceeded to yell at the little girls with words and facial expressions that I may never understand, familiar feelings washed over me. I had known all to well the pattering feet to avoid the swift and heavy open hand of a parent. However, there was something different here. It may have been that this guy didn't seem to be related to the little girls, or that they just seemed to be so much smaller than this mammoth of a man as his hand was probably half the size of her body. Whatever it was, it made it so I will never forget what came next. As the little girls scattered, the feet started to turn over as fast as they were able, but they proved to be no match for the weight of the man's human paddle and the length of his over arching reach. It seems as though their best efforts to protect their backs and their dignities were also of no match for the embedded anger he carried. As the girl was thrust upon the dark concrete steps of the Lucknow trains station, I saw her face grimace as tears sprinted down her cheeks, and the well educated and experienced Lewis & Clark student that writes to you today could do nothing more than freeze.

I stood there just watching. I felt too incredibly helpless and at the same time so immensely ashamed and embarrassed of not only myself and my own inaction, but also for that little girl. Could it be that those social psychology discussions of not ignoring the things that are happening around us in hopes of someone else taking responsibility really didn't sink in? Had it come to the point where I believed that cultural differences and cultural relativism could be used as an excuse for suspending my own deeply rooted beliefs of non-violence unless in the defense of those who cannot help themselves? Was I not the kid that told his summer campers to "increase the peace"? I had to shake myself out of this spiraling confusion as the group was waiting for me at the bottom of the steps.

As we made our way out of the train station I reached the bottom of the steps and had to turn around. There was something clawing at my heart strings and violently plucking them until the recent memories had become murderous melodies in slow motion like an old time horror flick that keeps skipping up and down the screen, but was never really meant to be played in the first place. I finally gave into the plucking and turned my entire frail body to face back towards the steps. I don't really know what I was looking for, but I suspect my upbringing that valued the morals of such world figures as Jesus, Gandhi, Dr. MLK Jr., Mother Teresa, Nelson Mandela, and other people who fought for those who could not fight for themselves had a large influence on that decision. As I peered over the dispersed sea of people, the two little girls stood at the top of the steps, and the one that was thrown to the ground pointed a finger in our general direction. She stared towards the doorway and something in me must have wanted to see if she was ok, because I was able to turn around after she stood on those steps, pointing her fingers like I imagine the prophets once did as they stood on a hill above their followers, leading the way they wanted them to go in order to do their bidding, whether it be for good or bad. Only this time, there was something hanging over me like a forgotten birthday of a loved one that hard recently passed away because my eyes started a war with my inner emotions and lost the battle as the emotions destroyed the dam that kept the tears at bay and they snowballed down my cheeks as I caught up with the group. I stayed in back so no one would see how ashamed I was of myself. We walked to the bus and the little girl followed. I plopped myself in the back of the bus and could not help but tear up again as the little girl played on the abandoned bicycle outside as if nothing had happened. As if the tears she cried when falling to the ground were all too often wiped onto her torn t shirt.

I tried discussing it with friends over breakfast that morning, because my western upbringing had taught me that talking about it was the way to process it. Clearly I was not ready as I had to leave the table in fear I would burst into tears again. Thinking back, I've had to bring into question my most core perceptions of India, myself, and how we've been interacting. What is it about India's culture that makes it acceptable to hit unknown kids in public without any sort of consequence or retribution? Perhaps equally as important, what is it about my upbringing that makes me so in tuned with children rights? I have to wonder if the many different environments in which i was raised had a profound impact on the way I view human rights and civil liberties. To take it a step further, I now wonder if cultural differences are enough of an excuse to suspend my own set of beliefs.

Seeing that little girl and reflecting upon my own experience in India has made me recall my initial experience on the intense part of Delhi called old Delhi. Upon my initial reflection of the old city of Delhi, I came to the conclusion that there is no better way to describe it than the "jungle that got a hold of technology." Now, experiencing what I have, I can't help but wonder if the jungle mentally has been internalized by those whose education has not been focused on critical analysis. I recognize my own bias that is passed along through my own upbringing, but at the same time I want to cling tight to those beliefs that I have come to hold so dear. What is more, is I was deeply moved by the notion that education, if focused correctly, can indeed act as a foundation to start dismantling some of those aspects of culture that are perceived to be "uncivil".

I may not have the answers to the questions raised by this experience, but I am now clear on one thing; intense and serous acts of violence on people that cannot defend themselves, such as homeless kids, no matter what they be involved in, is unequivocally wrong. I make that statement fully aware people may differ in their own values, and fully prepared to defend it.

Oh, the place's you'll go...