In Search for Jaruwan Khattiya

When I get an idea in my mind, my mother says that I am obstinate. This was certainly the case when my ex-husband and I arrived in Thailand a few years back. I wanted to visit a child that I sponsored through Christian Children's Fund, (CCF) an international aid organization. This is the story of my attempt to do so.
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Ihab and I arrived in Chen-Mai, a lovely mountainous area in the north of Thailand. I was determined to find a young child named Jaruwan Khattiya, whom I sponsored through CCF. She lived in Payao Province, about four more hours to the north of where we were staying. I didn't understand at the time that the trip should have been arranged before arriving in- country. I had been so busy grading exams, I never had time to notify the organization in advance.

But surely I could visit this four-year-old girl I sponsored. Surely they would help me since I was already in the country, wouldn't they? I was my dream to meet her. I also had to convince my husband that the eight-hour drive up and back to Payao was worth it. Our schedule was very tight. But I was certain that it could be done. How could we come so close and not make the extra effort to touch base?

First, I had to find the phone number to CCF in Payao. Calling was more difficult than I ever imagined! None of the operators seemed to speak English. After several minutes of trying to somehow locate the number, I turned to our hotel manager. "Please help me, " I begged, "I can't understand a word!"

Here God intervened!

Our hotel clerk had been sponsored through CCF for the first eighteen years of his life! Nine years later--though he came from Chen Mai and not Payao--Prasan still seemed to have connections with CCF.

The hotel clerk eagerly dialed the number of the school where he had attended during his sponsorship. After a few minutes, he handed me the phone. I tried to explain what I wanted, but a hoarse female voice kept shouting, "What? Speak up, child! What are you saying?" I later learned that this was a ninety-two-year-old nun from Holland speaking to me! Once more, overwhelmed, I hastily handed the phone back to Prasan. "Ask her for information!" I urged.

After speaking for a few minutes in Thai, he turned to me, "It's a nun. This school isn't part of CCF anymore. I guess the agency stopped sponsoring them some years ago." I sighed.

He continued to speak to the party on the other end in Thai. "Talk to this woman," he advised, "Maybe she can help you."

A second woman's voice came on the line. English, though accented, was a start. "So sorry. This is no longer a number to CCF. But I am in charge of fifty poor girls from various hill tribes in the north. Do you wish to visit us?"

I hesitated. I really had wanted to visit Jaruwan Khattiya and see Payao. I had envisioned an ambitious trek up the curvy mountain passes in an old contraption of a bus -- what a loss! Yet, this kind nun was willing to share her charges with us. How could we turn that experience down?! I eagerly accepted it on behalf of Ihab and me.

I couldn't wait to begin!

Tenuous Ties

A Short Story By Amy Bovaird

“I want to see my baby! My BABY! Don’t take it away from me even before I get to hold it!” The nurse whisked the preemie to a waiting incubator. She knew it was crucial to move the baby to a safer environment, even if it meant taking her away from her own mother’s arms. Fatima dropped her outstretched arms in defeat. That was nearly a week ago. She still ached to hold her baby, an ache that hurt more than the physical pain she endured to have her.

She now focused on the four gray walls that surrounded her. She gathered her thick, black hair to one side and let it drop. Through the thin, flannel gown, she felt the rough patches of her belly where monitors had been placed in her own hour of need.

Three days ago, she was strong enough to walk with her mother’s assistance to the Special Care Baby Unit, and peered into the incubator to see Noora, a tiny wrinkled form connected to tangled tubes and wires. Wafts of antiseptic nauseated her; and the trembling hum of the strange machines weakened her knees. Fatima reached through an opening and stroked a dry, chapped leg. “Allah,” she cried, as she reached out for her mother.

Ayesha took charge, “Bas. Enough.” She led her away. From that day on, her fears ate at her. Would Noora live? She must! But what if she didn’t? What would Hamed say?

Fatima recalled when she first met Hamed on their wedding day. She was eighteen. He cast an appreciative eye over her. She noticed a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark, intelligent eyes, a full beard, and a moustache that emphasized his firm mouth. He wore a gold linen thob, fancier than the white robe grooms sometimes wore. She thought him very handsome, and smiled shyly. Pleased, he reached for her hand.

She prayed that he would treat her with respect and they would soon find love. But more importantly, that she would bear him many children. After all, becoming a mother was every woman’s duty. To be a mother was to be a queen.

“Mama, why don’t they give me news about my baby? Tell Zafar to find the consultant,” Fatima pleaded. “After all, since Father isn’t here, it’s Zafar’s duty to carry out these things as the oldest son. Mama, I’m begging you! This is urgent!”

Ayesha rose, and issued a command and Zafar left the room.

Soon, the curtain parted and a nurse’s face poked through. “The consultant is here,” Fatima donned her headscarf and made sure the blanket covered her legs. “Let him come.”

After the traditional greetings, the doctor directed his comments to Zafar, as was customary.

“I hear Fatima has asked about her baby,” he began.

“That’s true. What is the news?”

The doctor cleared his throat.

“Please. Fatima is crazy with fear! Speak, man.”

Fatima’s eyes darted back and forth between the two men in front of her.

“Ma’ash’allah!” May God protect baby Noora, Ayesha invoked, to prevent The Evil Eye.

Fatima’s rapid glances targeted each of the faces surrounding her. Everyone is so solemn. They’re not telling me something. Allah!

The consultant spoke. “Fatima’s baby died yesterday morning. She had hemorrhaging to the brain and great difficulty in breathing. It’s to be expected.” He shrugged. “Some premature babies make it, but that’s rare.”

Fatima stared. Her dry-throated voice cracked. “…my baby … died?”

The nurses nodded. The consultant, a thin man with glasses, looked away.

“I see,” Fatima whispered, “I see.”

After the consultant left, Fatima let out a series of thin, cracking, high-pitched squeals and began to thrash in bed. Her worst fear had become reality.

Ayesha ran to tend to her daughter, “Call Hamed,” she urged her son. “May Allah grant us mercy.”

“Oh Mama, I caused The Evil Eye to fall on my baby. I was too happy. Who would be jealous enough to inflict this tragedy upon us? Fatheyya? Aziza? Nadia? How could this happen? Allah!”

Her mother shook her, “You mustn’t ever question Allah! Do you hear? This is God’s Will.”

“Ay… my life lies in Hamed’s hands…” She began to groan and yank at her thick tresses until some hair came out by their roots.

“Fatima, stop that!” Her mother stilled Fatima. “These are dark days, yes. But all is not lost. Rest.”

After Fatima fell asleep, Ayesha considered the consequences. “Allah, this could ruin her life.” She smoothed Fatima’s blanket, finally letting the tears fall.

The silence unnerved her after the commotion earlier. To fill it, Ayesha listed the positives. “Hamed loves Fatima. He is a fair man. Fatima is a dutiful wife. She’s strong, and will bear him more children, Insha’allah, God willing.” She pulled the prayer beads from her pocket to calm herself. The round marble beads slipped between her fingers and gave her strength as her biggest fear assailed her, “God forbid that Hamed divorce her.”

Ayesha was dozing when the hospital door swung open and Hamed stepped inside. “How is my wife? Thank you for seeing to her.” He dismissed his mother-in-law with a curt nod. Ayesha left at once.

Hamed sat down on the bed. “Wake up, Fatima.” When she saw him, she buried her head in his chest, unable to face him.

He lifted her face toward him, “Look at me,” he commanded. “It’s true then?”

She nodded, her face crumpling.

His eyes fell upon the raw spots where she had yanked out her hair. “What is this? What happened to your beautiful hair?” He knew then, the extent of her grief. “Never mind. I’m here now,” he whispered as he kissed her wet eyelids.

“Our baby is gone. I failed you.” Fatima whimpered.

He didn’t respond, so she braved her question, “Hamed, will … you … divorce me?”

He paused, as if thinking it over. “Don’t be silly. You are my wife. Get well. We will try again next month, and the one after that. However long it takes. We will have another. Insha’allah,” God willing.

Together they embraced. Fatima smiled as he held her in his arms. She was lucky this time. But for how long? She wondered what their future would bring. What if the same thing happened again? Would Hamed be as patient? Or would he blame her? Demand a divorce, or worse, take another wife? “Allah, please give me a strong womb, let me be a mother, a good wife… Ma’ash’allah. May God protect me.”

Coughing My Way Into My Chinese Doctor's Heart

"Aaaarghhh! No one answers."

I left a message at my doctor's office. It's a toss of a coin if he will be in today. He's semi-retired and moving a bit more slowly now even when he's in. That doesn't bother me, it's catching him in that's the challenge. After work, I gave him another call, and again, the answering machine came on. I didn't have much hope of getting in today. I sighed.

My phone rang.

"H'lo... Oh, hello Dr. Juang, you can fit me in this afternoon at 2:30. Great! Thank you!"

I checked my watch. Just an hour's wait.

Right on time, I pushed in the door to his large, dark and very polished old home which housed his practice on the bottom floor. The door creaked, loud and slowly as I pushed my way in. It announced my arrival. I peeked into the absent receptionist's office and found a seat in the waiting room. A Chinese patient was in with the doctor, and when he saw me, he swung the door shut.

A few minutes later, it was my turn.

"Ni-how-ma?" I greeted him in mandarin.

"Ni-how." He looked up from his desk. "You good job. You want translator?"

I shook my head. The movement threw me into a minute-long and labored cough.

"Dr. Juang, I can't stop coughing! "Coughers" are not popular in public anymore, you know. Help me!"

Could I have the swine flu? Nowadays television commercials advocated coughing into your sleeve in public and staying away from hospital visits. I felt like a pariah.

"Say, ahhhh" he ordered after I opened my mouth.

He muttered something half in English, and half in Chinese, which I strained to hear.

"Breed. Big breed," he ordered as he took out his stethoscope.

So I breathed, but had to smile as he checked my breathing with me still wearing my coat. Who am I to question his methods?

"Tsk-tsk. You wheeze?"

"I-uh-I-yeah, I guess so."

"Thought so. You bronchial problem. Next pneumonia. You care now, you better for teaching."

"Oh. Okay."

"You insurance now?"

"Noooo."

"No problem. You take pill and rest. Must take rest. You call me no feel better tomorrow, uh, after tomorrow. Jus' you call and you say me."

I nodded.

"This Obama. No make it easy. He take more cuts. You happy this man?"

"Well--"

"Yes, he make big mix-up now, you see. You brother. I see he struggle his business the insurance." he made a face. "Little business big problem. Too much money they need pay."He laughed-- a dry humorless laugh that showed his compassion.

My doctor's a card and I so appreciate him! He's also the only one in which I can afford to go. At a mere $30 an office visit, he also prescribes medicine I can afford. He tries to work with patients like me. I think it's the nature of small town life. So much better than other doctors with big waiting rooms, who charge bigger bills to support them. $95 a pop is what those doctors charge just for the visit.

My doctor has a great personality. I can understand him just fine. My brother, on the other hand, struggles. They repeat themselves many times to be understood, poking fun of each other all the while.

"You big man," the doctor warned but always with a gentle smile, "You diabetes. Need lose weight."

"What? What? Are you talking English?" my brother would joke back. "Nah, t'day it's my back. Trying to fix my truck..."

"Okay, okay, but you diabetes, so you need lose big gut, now we talk 'back'."

"What doc? You talkin' back to me?"

And so a typical visit between my brother and his great friend, Dr. Juang, would go.

But they like each other. My brother introduced me to him, in fact. Small town life is great that way. A personal introduction to a great family doctor.

"You teach college? No many students. You see?" he questioned now.

"Now high school, doctor. This year, high school."

"Okay, okay, tomorrow you college. You remedial now." I laughed. He looked over the top of his glasses at me and frowned.

"You listen me. You need teach college. Big pay, huh? They want bring community college here, and tax payer need pay. What you think? We need it?" He looked unhappy. I knew it was for show. He'd lived here for thirty years. This was his world.

I shrugged. He shrugged.

"Shay-shay-ni" Thank you.

Delighted at my Chinese, no matter how poor my tonal abilities that butcher his language; this always brings a smile to his face.

"You good. Youuuu good." his face a wreathe of lines and smiles.

"You too, doc. Very good"

I left his office and was almost to the door when I remembered to pay him for my appointment.

"Oh, Dr. Juang, the money!"

He gave me a blank look.

"The thirty dollars!"

"Yes, yes, yes. You can pay now?"

"Of course!" I quickly extracted the money and handed it to his outstretched palm.

Dr. Juang was so kind as to not even ask for the money of his own office call. Then again, usually his receptionist, also elderly, usually took care of that.

The door swung open and creaked loudly, announcing my departure. I tapped my way out to the car with my blind man's cane.

I am so blessed.

How Languages Touched My Life...!

Una Mexcla de Idiomas y Ideas, Parte I
A Mixture of Language and Ideas Part 1

A Rough Draft

There is nothing more beautiful and amazing to me than learning a new language! This opens the door to communication and more important, culture and better understanding to a way of life. New vocabulary provides building blocks and give insight into what is valued. I love to discover how words fit together to make a sentence! What words are emphasized? How intricate is a language? How do you pronounce it? How is it used? These are all adventures to me … and no matter how imperfect I am in repeating or writing what I hear and see, it still fills me with wonder when I learn a foreign language…

Probably the focal point of motivation for me when I learn a new language is “immediacy.” That means I can try it out right away – put what I’m learning to the test. I think it’s the same for everyone. Do I need this language to be understood right now? Is it necessary in my life? If so, why and how? Then, go to it!

I studied Spanish in high school for four years but that immediacy was not there. So the vitality didn’t exist. Like most students who study a language without putting it to use, it felt separate from my real life. Divorced, you might even say. The words sounded beautiful and I still loved how my thoughts came together, but it missed that extra leap to become an integral part of my life.

In college, I adapted my Spanish to a hands-on class of Portuguese. I used it on a mission campaign and to this day, I still remember memorized phrases. It opened the door to my communication with Brazilians for one month. What joy I felt in drinking “tinto” ( small cups of very strong coffee, similar to expresso) and eating “bocadillos!” (appetizers). Language and culture are inseparable.

When I moved to South America, Spanish danced in my head. The relevancy came back. Spanish took on a deeper beauty and sound to my ears. Although everyone could hear that my Spanish was imperfect, I still communicated and made friends. I couldn’t roll my rrrs, but the mastery of other parts of the language excited me. I started to absorb culture through my study, and when I traveled through the country, or countries that spoke Spanish I became confident.

Tomorrow, a mixture of languages and countries ...

The Ethiopian Cross

I recently received an Ethiopian cross in the mail from a good friend of mine in San Antonio who had worked in that country for some time. It was such a lovely surprise, and really cheered me up as I was experiencing a "valley" in my life at that time. My friend sent me a photocopied handout of the meaning of the cross, which inspired me to look further into the meaning.

To see what I discovered, keep an eye on this blog!


Coming Tomorrow:

"THE MEANING OF THE ETHIOPIAN CROSS"

Photograph of cross identical to the one received by me; taken from the following website:
http://www.authenticafrica.com/etproccros.html

Stranger in a Strange Land

I was lying down tonight trying to get rid of a persistent headache in the back of my head when my dog came into my bedroom. He came up to the bed and nudged me. I tried to ignore him. But then he did his usual--half bark, half gulping air. It makes a really comical sound. His meaning: get up. I'm bored! "Go away," I muttered, "I have a headache!" He continued to pester me until I got up and gave him some attention.

When I finally went back to take a nap, the image of someone else came to mind--an unlikely character in the parade of people I met during my hospital stay in Dubai. I never thought this woman would impact my life at all, but she did! God taught me how similar that women of different cultures are regardless of origin, language, position, education and background.

This is our story.

~ ~ ~ ~

I waited for doctors to sign my release papers from Dubai Hospital, recalling the sojourners God sent along my way—the image of an unlikely one popped to mind

I hadn’t liked her at all at first, especially not the way she mopped her way into my life. Mornings I wrote letters to keep my mind off the possibility I might lose the baby in the Problem Pregnancy Ward.

Bam! Bam! I looked at my watch. It’s her again.

“Do you have to wham my bed every day?”

Dark, square features turned away. Uh-oh. Too much English. Thick, pudgy, work-rough arms dragged the mop back and forth not caring that dust flew into the air and cascaded down around me like a sudden storm. As she swept, she nearly dislodged the books stacked next to my bed, and rammed the flower arrangement a recent visitor had brought.

“Careful!”

She stopped mid-motion to stare. Hard. Angry.

“Many stuffs!” she muttered. “Why this?”

She smacked her chewing gum, deliberately blew a bubble and popped it, half-heartedly swiping a damp cloth over my food tray leaving a trail of crumbs behind.

I sighed, irritated—but as usual she ignored me.

I wish I spoke Urdu; I could tell this Pakistani woman a thing or two.

The maid’s bright yellow bell-bottomed uniform strained under her weight as she bent over, showing her broad backside. I watched her slow movement. Sensing my eyes, her mouth formed a thin line. Then she straightened and smoothed her tight polyester tunic, shuffling past, uncoiling a cord as she prepared to buff scuff marks. She heaved the buffer back and forth in long angry movements.

Most morning I’d pantomime messages after she whacked my bed. Stop that! I need soap. Toilet paper. Empty my trash. One day she held up a small bar of soap before I asked. I grinned. I pointed at the paper towels. She tossed the roll to me, a smile perched on her face.

I started looking forward to my daily bed-bashing sessions.

I actually missed her when a month later I moved to post-natal care—after losing the baby. I felt sorry for myself. Here I am, a stranger in a strange land. No one around—Bam! Bam! I glared at her. She made a funny face at me.

Wait, what is she doing here? This isn’t her area to clean!

She spoke to me through our usual non-verbal gestures She pantomimed a pregnant lady. Rocked a baby. Pointed to me. Giggled. Spread her palms, questioning. Tilted her head, bottom lip protruding. Demanding.

I shook my head “No.” Rocked a baby. Stopped. Held out my empty hands. Covered my face. Slowly uncovered it, my eyes wet. Our eyes met. Locked. She understood. At last, she stopped chewing her gum. She didn’t ram my bed at all after that.

That day both Pakistani and American shared wordless grief over a baby—strangers in a strange land profoundly bound as women across cultures.

~ ~ ~ ~

Thank you God for this woman who understood my grief. Thank you for teaching me that caring is not dependent on a common language. Thank you, most of all, for reaching across social barriers to show me the value of this woman. In her world, she shuffles across the room with a lowly mop. In Your world, she pauses to lift the spirits of a lowly patient. We are the same in Your eyes. And now, Lord, in my eyes as well. Teach me always to look beyond the surface to the heart for commonalities.

Moving? Try the ADVENTURE Method of Adapting!

I just wrote this entry for fun and to explore how I really adapted to moving around so much for the past twenty-five years! (Actually, I think it was probably more difficult to adapt to moving back to my hometown here in PA! We're talking "reverse culture shock" here!).

Having successfully settled in six US cities as well as in five continents abroad, I recommend the "ADVENTURE" method of adapting. It's easy to remember and fun to do. Best of all, you really get to know your new environment!

For future references, you can find this information on a brochure at any Department of Defense (DOD) military installation and your local public library when I market it. For easy reference, ask for The Adventure Method of Adapting to New Cities, Cultures and Countries.

Okay, ready? Let's get started!

A: ASK lots of questions about your host country (preferably before arriving!). Ask people who have lived there before, check business contacts (your new employer might have a 'buddy' system in place in which you've been assigned a specific person to help you adjust) and email makes it easy to contact them ahead of time.

D: DARE yourself to step out of the routine to make new acquaintances. Push yourself. No one else is going to. Don't wait for someone to welcome you. Seek people out, and you'll be glad you did.

V: VISIT one or more places once a week (perhaps a nearby place in the area where you live-a restaurant, museum, or try to seek out a new sports or culural event to observe. This is a great way for families to discover their new environment together! Or, you might want to visit a nearby town or city, say, once a month.

E: EXPRESS what you're feeling and seeing. I kept a journal. Others might want to record their feelings on tape, talk to a friend or relative in their home country via one of the inexpensive computer software cameras. The most important thing is to share your feelings (good, bad, bewildered, angry even) so as not to isolate yourself as you're trying to adapt.

N: NOD a lot. Some people might not agree with this step. They might think it makes them look silly. In that case, feel free to leave this step out! But many times when I wasn't sure of how to respond, I merely smiled and nodded politely. I never offended anyone; people smiled back and I soon learned what I needed to know by watching others.

T: TASTE new foods! Go ahead. The bigger risk-takers can go for the sushi, 1,000 year-old eggs, or octopus while the more timid can merely try a new noodle, or a local variation of a meat cutlet.

U: UNDERSTAND Culture Shock! Get a book on it, look it up on the Internet, attend a lecture, whatever. If you're planning to live in a country for any extended length of time, you'll be going through various phases of adapting and if you don't understand what it is you're feeling and why, you might start to feel alienated from your host culture for things you [or they] have no control over.

R: REMOVE cultural baggage. For example, stop thinking that your (or your country's) way is the best way to do something. It might be better or faster, but what works is what occurs in the host culture. So, it's better to figure out how the system works and work within that framework because anything else just ain't gonna happen. It's only going to frustrate you more. Relax, enjoy the local methods. That will help you to start identifying with the local population as well. Or at least make for a good story!

E: ENGAGE in new activities. For example, if you normally play American football, perhaps you can join a group of "futbal" or soccer players. Don't just watch a cultural celebration -- be part of it. This isn't only for outgoing people. I consider myself quite shy but in a small group, I learned several folk dances, how to use chopsticks, how to get around on local transport, and I explored.

Well, there you have it, readers, the Adventure Method of Adapting to New Cities, Cultures and Countries. This was helpful not only when I moved abroad but when I relocated in other American cities. San Antonio is as different from little ol' Girard as being in a foreign country! Corvallis, Oregon was also completely different. Whether it's a short move or a permanent relocation, the Adventure Method will serve you well.

Good luck in your moves, everyone, whether it's national or international, and let me know what adventures you encounter in your new positive locales!