Religion

Grand Rapids, Michigan, where I used to live, is known as a city of churches. There’s one on every corner. Banda Aceh, on the tip of Sumatra here in Indonesia, is a city of mosques. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many mosques in one place. Green domes, gold domes, silver domes, multi-colored domes, black domes. They are beautiful to look at and there’s something haunting about the call to prayer.

Our guide and driver, Yassir, is a Muslim. Today when we finally broke for lunch, we were just sitting down when he asked to be excused for “about 10 minutes.” It was time for prayer. That’s devotion.

Garuda Airlines, one of Indonesia’s airline companies, has an in-flight magazine. The current issue has two full pages, prominently displaced just before the maps in the back of the magazine, giving “Invocations” to all so we can pray before the flight takes off. These invocations are offered in a variety of languages, but I’ll just give you the English, exactly as printed in the Garuda magazine:

Islam:

We seek the help of Allah, the most Gracious, the Most Merciful… Who has bestowed upon us the will and ability to use this aircraft without Whom we are helpless. Verily, to God alone, we worship and to God alone we shall return. Oh Allah, shower us with Your blessings and protect us on this journey from any hardship or danger and protect also out family and our wealth.

Protestant:

Lord in heaven, we praise and thanks of thy bless and endless love in our live. In this opportunity, we call They holly nname to accompany our journey. We believe Thou will guard and protect our plane from any disturbance and danger. To the all air crew, Thou will lead their duty in order for us to arrive in destination in time and save. Thank you for Thy help and firm love from beginning, now, and forever, In the name of Yesu Christ, we pray, Amen.

Catholic:

In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen. Long Ago You save the children of Israel who crossed the sea with dry feet. And three wise kings from the East received Your command with the guidance of a star. We beg You. Bless us with a safe trip, with good weather. Bless us with the guidance from your angels, so that the crew of this aircraft will lead us to our destination safely. We also hope that our family remain happy and peaceful until we land safely. Blessed be Your name, now and forever. Amen. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen.

Hinduism:

Om Sanghyang Widhi Wasa the Greatest, all wealth and intelligence comes from your blessings. Keep our minds and manners pure and let us attain inner peace and happiness.

Buddhism:

Praise be to Sang Bhagavca, the Pure. One who has attained enlightment (3x)

Let All Creature live in happiness in accordeance to Your will. (Paritta Suci).

Confucian

In The Name of TIAN, The God Almighty. In The Highest Place. Under the guidance of our Prophet Kong Zi. Be Honor. SHANG DI, The Supreme God. Please be your guidance for all the airline crews. So they can perform their job accordingly. Please bless us all. So that we can arrive at our destination savely. And so to unite with our beloved family.

Rebuilding Banda Aceh

On December 26, 2006, a tsunami raced through the Bay of Bengal and killed over 260,000 people. Many of those victims were on the northern tip of the Island of Sumatra in Indonesia.

Since then, CRWRC (Christian Reformed World Relief Committee) has spent millions of dollars to put lives and communities back together. That’s not so unusual. CRWRC does that. What’s rather unique about this story is that Banda Aceh (pronounced A-chay), the community at the tip of Sumatra—the one that got hit hardest by the tsunami—is a Muslim community.

Next week I’m going to Banda Aceh to help CRWRC tell the story of what they’ve been doing since the tsunami hit.

It’s not part of the slum documentary, but yet it is. It’s a story about people who are “down on their luck,” people who needed a hand—and got one. Slum dwellers often don’t get that helping hand. Because their needs are chronic and never ending, we tend not to notice. But when a tsunami hits and takes out a couple hundred thousand people, we notice.

I’ll write about my experiences on these pages and tell some of the stories of the people I meet. I hope you’ll forgive me for using the Slum Doc blog to tell a different kind of story here.

On another note: I love fine coffee. My favorite is Sumatra from Starbucks. I’ll see what I can find on Sumatra J

Impunity

A woman was murdered here last night.

In Guatemala, that’s not so unusual. Last year, 620 women were murdered, and not one person was brought to justice over it.

While filming in Guatemala, we are staying at a seminary, the largest in Latin America. It’s a beautiful oasis in a violent city. High walls surround lovely green areas, well-manicured lawns, well-kept buildings and engaging students.

We left the compound at 8 a.m. for our day of shooting. At 7:30 a.m., the woman who cleans the rooms, makes sure the towels are fresh and who keeps the guest comfortable, was dropped off right in front of the main gate of the seminary.

A student who lives across the street was an eye witness to what happened next.

The cleaning woman (who’s name I do not know) alighted from the vehicle and moved toward the gate.

A car sped around the corner and a well-trained assassin leaned out the window with his pistol and shot the woman in the head.

The car sped off and the woman collapsed in the arms of her sister. She died soon after.

The eye witness said it was a well-executed operation by a well-trained person. Apparently it’s quite easy to hire such a person in Guatemala.

One of the seminary professors knew the woman quite well and she’s the one who told us about the 620 murders of the previous year. Trembling with anger and frustration, the professor told us that most likely, some routine paper work would be done on this murder and then it would be put in a file somewhere and would most likely never see the light of day again.

The professor talked of those who operate with “impunity.”

Seeing her anger and helpless frustration gave me an inkling of what the residents of La Limonada slum must feel at times. The Ministry of Justice building is an imposing structure (see photo) that stands literally on top of the ridge overlooking La Limonada. The task of the Ministry of Justice would be similar to the FBI in the USA. They are charged with investigating murders, suspicious deaths, etc. Being so close to La Limonada, a violent slum in a violent city, should be job security for them.

However, as we found out, what happens in La Limonada stays in La Limonada. According to those who live and work down in that deep ravine, murders that happen there are just not worth investigating by the Ministry of Justice.

At certain times of the day, the shadow of the Ministry building literally falls into the slum. But that’s about all the residents of the slum will get. Murders down there are not investigated.

Imagine being one of those residents and knowing that murderers can operate with impunity. Simply being a resident of La Limonada makes you unworthy of official protection. You’re on your own.

The United Nations says some characteristics of slums include lack of security of tenure, lack of security and lack of sanitation. For those in La Limonada, we could also add lack of rights.

Selma's War

I have never, ever, in my life, heard a story quite like Selma’s.

Imagine Job. You know, the guy in the Old Testament book of Job. Now add rape, sexual abuse, physical abuse and a severe beating with a machete, add a life-time of rejection by an alcoholic mother, being sold by her to the sex trade, a string of men who added to the rejection and abuse she felt, and you start to get an idea of what Selma’s story is all about.

Being a journalist, or in my case, a documentary film maker, opens up portals into stories and lives one could never enter otherwise. I remember interviewing a lovely woman in Sierra Leone who was finally, a few years after the war there, recovering her sanity. She was buried in a deep hole for days, was raped, assaulted, tortured, and made to hold the severed head of her aunt for hours on end. That happened during a war so in some bizarre, strange way, maybe the fact of war somehow lessens the horror of her experience for those that hear her story later.

But Selma’s story takes place in Guatemala. Today. The war officially ended in 1996 but even so, her story really had nothing to do with the “official” Guatemalan war.

When Selma finished telling her story to Tita and, in effect, to you the reader of this blog and eventual watcher of the film, Tita and Selma hugged each other tightly and they both wept for several minutes. It was a most holy moment there in Selma’s house. Iron sheets on a narrow spit of land on the side of the steep ravine that is La Limonada.

After catching my breath, Tita told me that Selma’s story is actually not that unusual. Women in Guatemala are abused and beaten all the time. “At least 50% of them,” she said.

I suppose poverty is a war of sorts. It assaults its victims and puts them in situations and predicaments that would seem unimaginable in peacetime. Selma, the men that beat her, the impoverished alcoholic mother, the men that used Selma when she was sold as a nine-year-old girl; all part of the violence of poverty.

Does it really have to be this way? In a world that generates so much wealth, does Tanya have to beg on that corner every day, and does Selma have to suffer so much?

Today, as I write this blog entry, Selma is experiencing yet another chapter in her life. She’s having surgery somewhere in Guatemala City to try and remove her cancer.

For her, the war goes on.

Begging from a Wheelchair

Today we filmed Tanya at work.

Tanya, you may remember, is paralyzed from the waist down. She was shot 10 years ago and is in a wheelchair. We joined her at 6 a.m. down in La Limonada slum in Guatemala City. Her papa already had her in the wheelchair. She was just putting the finishing touches on washing her face and getting her hair out of her eyes. She has a beautiful face and bright eyes that manage to laugh despite the physical and emotional pain.

Jesse and I followed with our Panasonic HVX hi-def cameras and we had Aaron with us, a friend we met last night. We gave Aaron the Nikon and let him go to work getting photographs for the website and future print pieces. Papa wheeled Tanya through the very narrow corridor on which they live. That empties out onto a wider alleyway. He took that down to the river and then followed the main road out of La Limonada. The main road goes up. It’s the only way to go. Papa doesn’t work as a painter anymore because he has such a sore hip. Picture him pushing Tanya in her wheelchair up a very, very steep hill. (Papa was so exhausted at one point that the film crew jumped in and pushed Tanya the rest of the way up the hill.)

Once at the top, traffic is the main enemy. Cars and trucks and buses fly by. Diesel fumes and smoke hang thick in the air. Papa and Tanya quickly and deftly maneuver through it. They do this every day and are quite good at it. The streets are level for several blocks, then go up again. The traffic increases. It’s 7:30 a.m. Finally, after a two-mile hike that takes them from the bottom of La Limonada slum to a busy intersection in Guatemala City; from a world of gritty survival where there’s no margin for error, to a world of expensive cars, flowers for sale, and coffee shops, Tanya is ready to work.

Papa collapsed on a step and caught his breath while Tanya adjusted her clothing, got the cup out for collecting money and put her game face on. (The cup, she explained, is necessary because so many people who might be tempted to give money don’t want to touch her. She cried when she told us that yesterday in the interview. She said, “they don’t want to touch me,” and she cried.)

So the work day began. She joked around and laughed with the flower vendor on the corner. They must see each other each day there on the corner. And she wheeled herself up and down that incredibly busy intersection in her low, blue chair, reaching up to the windows of SUVs and cars and pickups, hoping for a good day of generosity.

We shot this scene from a variety of angles. Sometimes when you see life unfold through a lens, rather than just watching it with the naked eye as you pass by, you see things differently. What I saw was how incredibly vulnerable Tanya is. That tiny chair, with Tanya in it, next to rumbling buses, diesel trucks, expensive cars and beat-up junkers. Some reach their hands out and place some coins—or paper bills—in the cup. Others ignore her. Others literally don’t see her. This is her life. She does this each and every day because she has to to survive.

By seeing the behind-the-scenes story of this one beggar on a street corner, I and my team have had our perspective changed of beggars in general. It the future, It will be mighty hard to see someone working a street corner in the Developing World and not immediately think of Tanya. We’ll wonder what the story is, who the Papa is, how much do they need to survive, what kind of room do they sleep in.

Getting to know one person has made me aware of a whole class of people.

That’s what this documentary is about. Maybe if viewers get to know a few slum dwellers, like Tanya, Selma (more on her later) and the Alquino family under the bridge in Manila, they will become aware of, and concerned for, a whole class of people called slum dwellers.

All one billion of them.

(photos for this posting: thanks to Aaron Kreuger.)

Behind the Black Door.

Today we entered La Limonda, the largest slum in Central America. 60,000 people crowded into a deep ravine one mile in length. At the bottom of the ravine a rushing stream carries the sewage of these 60,000 people to the Rio Las Vacas which empties into the Rio Motagua, which empties into the Atlantic Ocean.

If you wind your way up from the sewage through narrow alleys, you’ll come to another alley, more narrow yet, and one of thousands just like it. Turn right, wend your way through it and pound on a black door. A man will open the door and let you in. We stepped through a tiny courtyard—literally about six feet across—and into Tanya’s bedroom.

She was laying on her bed, covered with a blanket. The first thing we noticed is that the “normal” shape of a person under a blanket was missing. And that’s part of Tanya’s story.

I won’t trouble you with all the details, we’ll cover more of that in the documentary, but here’s the short version. Membership in a gang, brothers murdered, Tanya shot, bullet hits her spinal cord, she loses the use of her legs, later a severe break means she has one of the legs amputated, she now lives in this tiny room with her father in his own room right behind her. She wheels herself to a busy intersection each day and works—rain or shine—begging next to the cars when they stop at the traffic light. She must earn about 50 Quetzales each day ($1=8Qs) to survive so even during rainy season—now—she must be out there begging.

At the end of a long day, she wheels herself back down into La Limonada, through narrow alleys to her own, comes to the black door and papa lets her in, helps her into bed so tomorrow she can do it again.

Tanya welcomed our crew into our home. She was painfully honest about her life, her frequent thoughts of suicide and her oft-repeated questions of “why me?” What troubles her greatly is the comments people make to her, or about her, as she begs at the corner. Rich people, particularly, are harsh, she says. She cried while telling that story.

She was also honest about how she gets through it all. Her faith in Jesus is what sustains her. By her own words, she went from a hard gang member, to a women with a deep faith in God, despite a personal story even the best Hollywood writers would have a hard time matching.

Tita is the woman who linked us up with Tanya … and is largely responsible for helping Tanya, and many, many more like her, find that deep and abiding faith. Tita’s story is a documentary in itself. Maybe another day.

Meanwhile, Tanya is resting behind the Black Door while I write my blog. Tomorrow morning we will be at the red door at 6:00 a.m. so our cameras can follow her as she makes her way out of La Limonada, over the crest, down to the busy stoplight and begin another day of survival.

Flowers in the Slum

There’s a storm brewing in Guatemala. Last week, a lawyer was assassinated. Soon after his death, a video surfaced with him telling his fellow citizens that if they were indeed seeing him on this video, it meant he had been assassinated and he knew exactly who did it.

The news finally reached the Drudge Report today, which means it’s pretty big.

Being here in Guatemala puts it all front and center.

There were demonstrations again in the central plaza today. We were there later and it looked like a hurricane swept through the plaza and left tons of garbage behind. We didn’t get there in time to film the event though because we didn’t come here to capture up-to-the-minute breaking news. We came to get the much older story of poverty.

Today was our first day of shooting in Guatemala. Joel A, our guide, drives us to the right places, tells us when to shut the windows of our car because the neighborhood is bad, translates for us, and gives us good advice and answers to our many questions.

We didn’t actually go into the slums today, that’s our job for the rest of the week. Today was a day to get the lie of the land, get some establishing shots, get some of the stuff we’ll forget about later like government buildings, landmarks, candid people shots, culture, sort of essence-of-Guatemalan-life shots.

We did get to the outskirts of La Limonada though. We went up on a precipice that overlooks the slum. Actually, the slum creeps right up to the edge of that precipice and almost crawls over. We shot long, wide establishing shots to show this piece of the slum when we were quietly and wonderfully interrupted by the type of hospitality poor people are so good at.

We were shooting when Joel started talking with a tiny, elderly Guatemalan woman who’s home almost reached the top of the precipice. She was curious. What were we doing? He explained. She invited us—four strangers from another country, plus Joel—into her house.

We might enjoy getting some shots through her window, she explained. Then she led us through her little house to the back onto a tiny verandah that emptied out onto more little homes straight down, down the slope of the embankment we were on, a perfect picture of how the very poor build their homes on the absolute worst and most dangerous pieces of land.

She had flowers on her verandah and proudly showed them to us. I asked her (through sign language. My Spanish is horrible) if I could take a picture of her with the flowers. She agreed. You can see her picture here.

We got some great footage from that vantage point; shots we would not have gotten without that serendipitous moment provided by that gracious Guatemalan woman.

In her home, I forgot all about the storm brewing in Guatemalan politics. I forgot completely that I was on the cusp of a slum and surrounded by poverty. In her home we were treated as friends. And our political persuasions, incomes and countries of origin didn’t seem to matter.