Email: Ariel Givens

A village life
           
One of the big reasons I wanted to spend a year abroad as a YAV was to have the “full immersion experience” in which I was invited to participate in a culture completely different then my own. During my time in India I have been like an observer, trying to examine the culture as an anthropologist would, with curiosity, but being careful not to judge any differences I observe.

What I have found to be more of a challenge is participating in the culture. While I try to involve myself in as many activities as I can—marriages, social events, holiday celebrations, farewells—I still feel like an outsider looking in more than a participant. The longer I have been here the more I find myself just wanting to blend into the crowd, but in this culture “blending in” is nearly impossible.

Everyone is curious to see the foreigner, and I can’t go anywhere without some pointing fingers, astounded gazes, or random shout outs in English (my favorites are “how are you I am fine” spoken as if it were one sentence, and “I love you,” from complete strangers).

Recently, I have been paying more attention to the looks I get and have decided there are three categories. The first and most common look is the “Oh wow! Look it is a madam! (white woman)” complete with raised eyebrows; the second look I have encountered is the “What the heck is that madam doing in India?” which is a puzzled look but could be mistaken for anger; the third and my favorite is the “Holy God, I think I have just seen an alien!” which is accompanied by eyes as wide as the sky.

On the one hand, it is kind of flattering to be the center of attention, but on the other hand it can feel pretty lonesome when you know you are an outsider and probably always will be. Today I finally admitted to myself that I am pretty much frightened to go anywhere by myself, and anyone who knows me knows this is a hard thing for me to admit. I like to feel free to go anywhere I want without feeling scared. I like to feel like an individual who can do things on my own. But here, I feel like every time I step out my door, there are those looks that remind me, I am a long way from home. Of course, the language barrier doesn’t help and it is rare that I see a woman here, foreigner or not, traveling alone. But despite all the looks and subtle reminders, I do feel comfort coming back to my small village after I have been away.

During the last couple of months, I have attempted to resolve some of my fear by going on house visits in my village. At around 4:30 or 5:00 in the evening, when the sun is no longer unbearable, I walk around my little community waving, saying hi with my very limited Malayalam vocabulary, and visiting with people on the streets and in their houses. Several times I have gone with Kochamma, an elderly woman who has lived in the area for a long time. This has proved to be very helpful, as she knows many of the people in the community and can help translate.

We have ventured into a couple of very poor communities behind the college, and these areas are my favorite to visit. There I feel like I can begin my transformation from observer to participant, outsider to insider. When I step into these little villages I feel welcomed by strangers, both young and old, who fearlessly run up to me or invite me inside for tea, and although not much of anything is said, there is a genuine conversation of smiles and gestures and I am immediately filled with joy. Their fearlessness in welcoming a stranger helps me overcome my insecurities, and I realize how much of my own fear is not only a hindrance to myself but also to others who I believe can instinctively pick up on that fear. In these small villages I no longer feel like a foreigner but a good friend or family member enjoying one another’s company, laughing, and even at times embracing.

After these visits I walk home feeling full of life, my spirit rejuvenated and ready to soar. Some of the best memories I will take back with me are from these house visits. They are the reason I came to India.

One evening, Kochamma and I went to several homes to visit and pray with families. One woman, a friend of Kochamma’s, had no mobility in her legs and was bed ridden, but her spirit reminded me of mine. I could tell she was a woman with a lot of stories and experiences, a woman with wisdom from a life well learned.

We talked for a long time, then she and Kochamma began to sing one of the only Malayalam songs I have become familiar with, and I was able to participate in the boundary-breaking melodies of music. We then closed in prayer, holding hands and offering our hearts to God.

After the prayer, we ventured down a hill to another small village. There was a soccer field where a group of middle-aged men were playing. I felt nervous at first, as I always do when I feel like I am crossing over or entering into someone else’s domain. I felt like I was intruding. I think I get this idea from the unwritten law in the United States which states that “Each person has their own personal space, do not enter unless first asking permission.” (Here there is no such thing as personal space, which has its own pro’s and con’s).

However, when I crossed that invisible boundary, I got a much different reaction than the usual “stop, pause, and gaze” response I have become so familiar with in Kerala. Instead, before I knew it, I had six or seven children around me, four of which were my students from the LP school. They were tugging me toward their houses, asking me endless questions in their limited English, and their families were welcoming me with open doors and cups of tea. I felt there was an unspoken mutual appreciation. They appreciated me for spending time with their children at the LP school, and I appreciated their bringing me into their homes.

I walked with one woman and her children back behind their house to where a large paddy was covered in water. There we stood in silence, and I felt a little friend of mine creep up, the feeling of peace. When it started to get dark, Kochamma and I walked back to the church for an Ash Wednesday service There I prayed, letting the Malayalam words wash over me like a gentle wave, and I felt my heart expanding, growing bigger and bigger, taking in the love all around me. I thanked God for the village life where I felt a sense of belonging, a home away from home, with friends and family. As I walked back that night I felt the boundaries I had created falling and my spirit lifting. A feeling of bliss filled me as I acknowledged the truth, God’s truth, that I am free.

Ariel