Stories Vol.1

These are my heroes.

It is the common boast of modern India that the Caste System is a thing of the past.  Though the letter of the law labels caste system discrimination as illegal, the spirit of Caste remains tangibly present.  Nowhere have I encountered this more than in Orissa.  In Birmitrapur, in the shadow of the city lies a small squatter village affectionately called “the sweeper village.” Fate has dealt a tough hand to the Dalit people that comprise this village.  Despite the level or quality of the education they receive, young individuals are destined to spend their lives sweeping the feces filled drains that line the city.  This taxing labor earns them little more than a quarter a day—a quarter intended to support wives and children. As we surveyed Birmitrapur, we stumbled upon the village to the chagrin of our upper caste friends.  We were warned to avoid the village for fear that the village was home to “werewolves.”  As we entered the village, we were greeted with a combination of smiles and confused looks.  The confusion seemed to stem from our presence with them.  It was as if we were the first foreigners to enter their village, much less look in their direction. Our time there was mostly spent in song.  As we sang and danced, the standoffish beginning of our relationship slowly faded to smiles.  Their smiles were motivated by much more than the skill of our performance.  It was as if the joy of our songs provided a brief pause and ray of light to an existence that is ever dark. Darkness that the many shining temples just over the horizon seemed content with.

As we traveled to Rourkela, a city famous for its numerous brilliant temples, we again noted the acceptable shadow of oppression that the caste system fuels. The devoted attendees of these temples, those whose funds coat the exterior in gold or the floor in marble, do so on family incomes of around $100 dollars a year.  As they bring their gifts to the temple, they step over sewage that flows freely through the area where their children play.  As they bring their roti and rice to the hungry gods, they pass their malnourished children bathing in the same water as pigs. We entered their homes to bring them messages that God does not demand their sacrifices and offerings, but rather is in love with them.  This message has begun to take root in our friends, once men driven to alcoholism because of the strain caused by seeking to support his wife and four children on two dollars a day.  A tension compounded by the hopeless promises of religious men. They have now been liberated by the truth of God’s love for him.  Now they are men confident of God’s desire to use people just like them.  He now leads several churches in the area with his limited knowledge of the Bible and unshakable smile.  They now dream of an India where everyone is liberated by the truth of the God of love.  Dreams that inspire them to raise grandchildren on land that they can never own.  Land that could be taken from him at any moment without reason or rationale.  Yet, their smile shines brighter than any temple in the area, and offers a glimmer of hope for all India.