I love the train. According to childhood stories, I always have. Put me on a train and I'll often pass out within minutes. The gentle, easy sway of the train is hypnotic. Even in the midst of the mad crush of rush hour, the train instills an inexpressible calm.

I consider New York City to be my home when I'm not in Sri Lanka. A proud graduate of one the City's many fine universities, I spent three of my four years as a commuter from Queens. On a good day, I could make my way into the City in an hour flat. The trip home was a bit less certain; off-peak travel could morph the trip into more of an odyssey (2+ hours). Yet, in spite of all those "wasted" hours, I rarely had a real complaint about the travel. (The fact that I was able to feed my reading addiction during the commute probably helped.) More than anything, it was something about the train - that intangible something.

My enjoyment of trains has not subsided with residency in Sri Lanka. In fact, I'd say that my appreciation has, in some ways, only grown. The NGO community is typically (perhaps notoriously) well-endowed with vehicles and other luxuries. And ours is certainly not without some amenities, but, as it happens, I prefer the train. Work responsibilities oblige me to split my time between Hikkaduwa and Colombo, the capital. It is not uncommon for me to make the trip two or three times in a given week. The journey takes a minimum of two hours one way. That goes to say that I find myself on trains frequently.

As one might guess, Sri Lankan trains are an altogether different creature from those found elsewhere - say NYC. For one, SL trains are practically an anthropological find. While the trains might be aged especially quickly by the salty air and tropical climate, they appear to be at least 50 years old. All trains are a weathered brick red that, prior to its fading and chipping, would have been striking. The interior of the trains are an institutional beige with unidentifiable blotches and smears. Trains are rarely, if ever, renovated. They have only two classes: 2nd and 3rd. In either case, the best you can hope for is a rickety old fan that feebly stirs the suffocating air. Most of the time, the depressed fans fail to even whimper, and content themselves by faithfully occupying their position bolted to the roof of the train. The distinguishing feature between 2nd and 3rd class is approximately one centimeter of extra seat cushioning. Beyond that, the classes are identical save for the higher cost of a 2nd class ticket.

As with trains the world around, those in SL have windows lining both sides of the train. These windows and the adjacent seats are coveted prizes; the windows provide the sole source of air circulation. Arm perched on the edge of the window, the breeze coursing through one's hair, scenic views whizzing by - the window seat is the difference between a drowsy, comfortable ride and two hours on your feet, sweat dripping down your back. Windows are so sought after that people will position themselves in the bathrooms - each bathroom has a window. This is in spite of the decidedly unsavory nature of these bathrooms. (Beware: jagged transition.) In the bathroom floor is a hole. The hole is the toilet. The hole unabashedly opens onto the track below. The wooden beams below are visible. In each bathroom, one invariably finds a finely printed sign pleading that you not use the bathroom while the train is in the station: it is a discourtesy to those waiting patiently on the station platform. I agree. To use the bathroom you must be prepared to temporarily expel anywhere between three and eight people. Surprisingly, this is neither seen as an uncomfortable situation nor an imposition.

Admittedly, I have not drawn the most flattering picture of SL trains. But don't get me wrong. Each of these flaws is endearing in its own right, adding character and substance to the trains. I suspect that part of my appreciation for the trains derives from the fact that they represent a local communal experience. The vast majority of Sri Lankans travel by train and bus, not private vehicle. For that very reason, trains seem to bring you closer to the gritty reality of nationals. It is all too easy for an ex-pat to live a life apart from those with whom s/he works. By the very color of our skin that separateness can, to some extent, be a forced condition. (One can never fully escape 'foreign-ness', no matter how long you've been here.) But, by sharing in this quotidian experience, one intentionally breaks through that wall, however temporarily and superficially.

The train provides a view into the minutiae of SL life and society; the dirt, sweat, odors, textures, and discomfort all speak to larger, broader, deeper realities of this country and people. No doubt some will roll their eyes at this romanticized, perhaps exaggerated, perception of trains. But bear with me. As I've gradually learned to love this country (in spite, and possibly because of, its many faults) otherwise insignificant interactions, gestures, expressions, have come to possess a wealth of meaning within the context of the culture. The things that make SL Sri Lanka begin to take shape in the life and spirit of the train.

SL trains are a showcase for humanity. For lack of a better way of expressing this, below are a series of things that I have come to associate with the country.

It's the 6:15 p.m. train out of Colombo. The sun is starting to set over the city, but we will make it beyond the outskirts before the sun will make a singularly spectacular descent below the ocean's horizon. But only a few of us passengers are able to actually see the show. I've strategically positioned myself within view of the door - a spot I have tenaciously defended. This space, located in-between the seating areas of the train, is popular. The bodies hanging out of the train resemble a bloated stomach, as a minimum of six people share the outer step, each hanging on to whatever handle or edge is available. Though these people have the rare advantage of fresh air, they must contend with the branches and trees that line the track, not to mention the unpredictable lurching of the train. It would take little for one's grip to falter. Mind you, this is from the alarmist perspective of the lone white guy on the train. While I've been one of those six dangling out the door, I insist on having two handholds and two feet on the step (toes count). The stupidity of such a position does not escape me. But all others do this with effortless insouciance - one grip and one foot on the step are plenty. I feel no pressure to grow more daring in this respect.

On this day, I'm about three feet from the door's edge. Yet, in this cramped space (this section of the train, from door to door, is no more than twelve feet by three feet) I estimate 25 people. In my present position I am so tightly squeezed to those around me I don't need to hold on to anything to keep my balance. I now know how a canned sardine feels. Luckily, I'm relatively tall by Sri Lankan standards, so I generally have a bit of free breathing space above the heads of my neighbors. Please note that this makes me especially vulnerable to hair up my nose and in my mouth. Though I have the luxury of a few wisps of air (precisely why I've fought for the door), I'm sweating profusely. I've just come from the office, as is the case with everyone else on train - though the "office" for most is a construction site, a lumber yard, or restaurant kitchen. My collared shirt was soaked through even before I got on the train. I know it's going to be at least an hour before the first exodus of passengers. The train will become only more claustrophobically close as passengers continue to struggle onboard. As it is, there is no room for movement. Seriously, no room. I have an itch just above my eyebrow. For the life of me, it won't go away. I try to think about something else. Nope. It's still there. I spend the next minute wriggling my right arm out from behind my nearest neighbor. (I can't help but poke them several times. They understand my predicament, and are unphased by the unceremonious goosing.) The next minute is used planning how I can raise my arm without dislodging the eye glasses of the neighbor just in front of me. The effort is successful. Everyone knows my arm is going back to where it came from, so the return is easier. Yet more people are getting on. At this stage, people drive in head first in an all or nothing effort to find space where there is none. Miraculously, the human mass shifts to accommodate our newest friends. We all grunt and grown as the pressure of bodies intensifies.

What's remarkable about all this is how nonchalant everyone is about this complete and utter violation of personal space. Now, anyone who has been on a NYC subway during holiday rush hour has experienced a similar thing - exiting bodies spilling off and boarding bodies charging on. The difference is in how people respond to this spatial intimacy. In NYC, these packed trains are eerily silent except for the mechanical noises of the train itself. People typically avert their eyes, seeking out the nearest inanimate object onto which they will bestow their undivided attention for the next 20 minutes (or whatever it is) - similar concept to people's profound and inexplicable fascination with the ascending numbers in an elevator. (It's actually quite funny when you think about it.) Well, things are done a bit differently in Sri Lanka. After the second or third stop, everyone has settled in their position for at least the next 30 minutes. Conversations are starting, scattered banter rising up to join the din of the train's movement. The gentleman who is now standing directly in front of me is engaged in an animated (as animated as you can get when virtually paralyzed) conversation. I imagine it's cricket-related; Sri Lanka has just had its best finish in the cricket world championships in several years. Before long I notice a steady vibration in my chest. I soon realize that I only feel it when this cricket-fixated gentleman speaks. His side is so closely pressed to my chest that I can feel the vibrations of his voice as he rages on about the success of the SL team. Yes, this was unequivocally weird. This brought to mind an unforgettable quote from a friend of mine who experienced a similar thing on a trip to Kandy (it was his first and last trip on a SL train): "It's been a long time since I've been this close to a girlfriend." That says something. The situation also reminded me of the stark contrast to how New Yorkers handle such crowds. Even the attempt to start a conversation on a train such as this would be viewed as taboo. The general mentality: "We're way too close, my personal bubble has long been popped, we can't do anything about it (I want to go home, after all), and there's no way I'm gonna look at you, let alone talk to you..."

I'm still protective of my personal space (whenever possible). But there's certainly something to the Sri Lankan urbanite's ability to not only surrender that space, but to be so socially blasé about it. For all intents and purposes, the train (no matter how jammed) is just one more setting to talk about the latest sports highlights, a new recipe, political instability, or anything else. I can appreciate that.

(To be continued.....)

**Allow me to preface this entry by saying that in Sri Lanka, as is the case elsewhere in the world, businesses vastly prefer cash to credit cards. In some instances, stores will go out of their way to discourage the use of credit cards. This can be a major source of frustration.

We wanted to buy a couple of mosquito nets, some pillows, and drinking glasses. Simple, some might say. Perhaps. But not always. As usual, Arpico, the Sri Lankan version of Wal-Mart, is our destination. It’s a Sunday, but, as are most stores, Arpico is open for business. The store is jam-packed floor to ceiling with every conceivable thing from rubber car mats to futon couches. With a little bit of help we’re able to find everything we need. We make our way to the register with about 50 USD worth of purchases – sizeable for Arpico, especially on a Sunday. As all the items are “furnishings” for our team quarters, the purchases are official. Such things are put onto the business credit card. And so out it comes once the total has been calculated. The cashier, a severe-looking middle-aged woman dressed in the ubiquitous Arpico uniform, looks at the card. Then looks at us. Then looks at the card. Then, again, looks back to us. In heavily-accented but good English, she blithely says “We don’t take credit cards.” Well, for one, we’ve all at one time or another used a personal credit card at this exact store before. Second, a large sign on the front window energetically states in flamboyant colors and oversized letters that “We accept all credit cards”.
We are quick to point out the discrepancy. “But, but, the sign outside…..” She cuts us off. “We don’t take credit cards.”
“But we’ve used a credit card here before, why can’t we use it?”
“It’s Sunday.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“It’s Sunday?”
“Yes, it’s Sunday.”
“What do you mean it’s Sunday? How does that make a difference?”
“The machine doesn’t work on Sunday.”
“What do you mean the machine doesn’t work on Sunday? We just made a purchase down the street with a credit card. These machines do not work according to the day of the week. Is the machine broken?”
“No, the machine is not broken. The machine doesn’t work on Sunday.”
“No, really, I promise you that you just have to swipe the card through and it will work just fine, whether it’s Sunday or Wednesday. The day doesn’t matter.” At this point, we’re becoming rather ruffled by her deadpan, matter-of-fact demeanor. Our deep confusion does not help the matter. In desperation, “Please swipe the card.”
“The girl’s not here.”
“The girl’s not here?”
“The girl’s not here.”
“What girl?”
“The girl does not work on Sunday.”
“Okay, some girl is not here on Sunday. We understand that people don’t work every day. But how does this one girl not being here affect the credit card machine? You just have to swipe the card and punch in the amount.”
“The girl does not work on Sunday.”
“Okay, okay. The machine does not work because the girl does not work on Sunday.”
“Yes.”
“Does anyone else know how to use the machine?”
“Yes, I know how to use it.”
“Great! Would you please swipe our card?”
“No, the machine does not work on Sunday.” At this moment, a camera would have been handy. All three of us have the identical expression: eyes squinted, brow furrowed, mouth slightly agape – the look of a person completely at a loss for words. But, although we’ve lost the battle, we still believe the war is in contention. “We would like to see the manager.”
Now, it must be stated that two of us are completely broke, not a dime to our name. The third has just enough money. But, at this stage in the game, it is the principle of the matter. She hesitates, presumably thinking about the potential consequences of allowing these rather unkempt, funny-looking (dressed in board shorts and t-shirts), stubborn foreigners into the manager’s office. She points towards the back of the store. We ingenuously think we’re making headway.
We make our way to the back of the store, up the stairs, and into the manager’s office. The office is a cubicle made of plywood. The manager is seated at his desk, which is covered in a wild disarray of papers, folders, and several mugs. He stands as we arrive at his door and gestures us into the office. We make our plea. “Good morning, Sir. We would like to make some purchases with a credit card, but have been told that we cannot.”
“That’s right.”
“Why is that exactly?”
“The machine does not work on Sunday.”
“We know that one of the employees is not here today. But one of the others knows how to use the machine.”
“That’s our position.”
“What exactly is the position?”
“That’s our position.”
And that’s as far as we got in the conversation. The battle, the war, and our pride are all lost in a five-minute logic bludgeoning. Tail between our legs, we walk back the register, and pay with cash. As soon as the cash is on the table, the same female employee not-so-subtly sniggers and says something in Sinhala, eliciting a chuckle from her co-worker. Even though the interaction took place in a language none of us speaks, it was the first thing we’d understood throughout the whole exchange.

The below is entirely based on my interpretation of the detailed events. I make any number of imaginative leaps in guessing the thoughts and fears of those involved. My impression may have been due to a look, a gesture, a touch, and nothing more. So take that for what it’s worth.

The walls of the hospital room had an aged quality as if they had seen much over the years; the despair of loss mingled with the relief at the end of suffering; joy intertwined with the aching memory of what could have happened. All this lent itself to a wizened, ponderous appearance, drab yet cared for. Light struggled into the room, obscured by the rusted bars over the windows and yellowed curtains. The woman in the bed was flanked by a middle-aged woman and man, the daughter and son-in-law. They were huddled over the bed, whispering words of encouragement and comfort. The eye contact, warm and embracing, was broken as we were ushered into the room. The woman, lying on her side in the fetal position, appeared to be in her seventies. Her eyes, and only her eyes, shifted in our direction. The subtle, almost imperceptible movement made it seem as if the eyes alone remained animated, imprisoned by the rigidly contorted body. Any motion beyond the eyes seemed impossible; the body belligerently refusing to cooperate, as if certain of its inevitable conquest over that last glimmer of light and life.

The somberness inside the room was oppressive, even palpable, as it pounded against all those who entered, against every object and in every corner. The woman’s eyes gave voice to this in a way more expressive than anything. Practically immobilized, the woman had no other means of communication. The pain had stripped her of everything, speech, facial movement, hand gestures. She could not make a sound for the wrenching suffering of her crippled shell of a body. Her eyes had become her only means of reaching out to the world. All her pain, terror, and uncertainty resided in those tearful, sad eyes. As we approached the bed, her eyes drew us closer, and closer still. One could imagine the mental energy she was devoting to beckoning us to the side of the bed. The look could not be described as anything but desperate. Desperate for empathy, words of reassurance, a gentle hand, any kind of human interaction. It was as if she felt her connection to others fraying, her grip on life slowly but irrevocably weakening, slipping, her humanity dissolving into an aqueous nothingness. Human contact and compassion were like a soothing balm. Such connections were affirming, a reminder that she was still alive; she was still linked to those around her. Her body, though conspiring against her, had not won. Her body had not yet denuded her of that connectivity, that sense of being with others. She feared the uncertainty of what would follow the loss of that bond – what awaited her beyond the threshold of human relationships, the sense of trust, mutual reliance, fellowship, and faith inherent in those relationships.

I held her hand. It was a hand that had seen much work over the years, the calluses on her palm had yet to smooth over. But it had the softness and fleshy warmth that only the elderly have. She tried to squeeze, to infuse the touch with more life, more vitality, as if seeking, like a frightened child, just a little more assurance. She could not. The strength was gone, perhaps never to return. Yet the touch alone was enough. The indolent fan watched on from above as it stirred little more than the collected dust in the darkened recesses of the room. With those drifting particles of dust went her anxiety, if only for the briefest of time. As she peered into her personal abyss, unknowable and inscrutable, that moment invited a sense of peace. She did not know what awaited her. She did know that there were people there for her.

In that shared community there was an opportunity for acceptance of that uncertainty. Just having someone there to share in the experience, to share in the emotion and angst of the moment, made a difference. It was as if that touching of hands, sympathy, compassion, concern, even though these do not provide answers, are a source of courage and strength; a way of knowing we are not alone.

All I could do was hold her hand and say a prayer with her. She didn’t understand a word, but I firmly believe she could sense the sincerity. I could not help but weep for her, and I do not cry easily. My own powerlessness was overwhelming. Though it was just for a few minutes, the chance to share in her pain and journey made clear our kinship. The willingness to stop, touch her hand, drink in the vulnerability, and have no answers, no solutions, validated her experience. For me, this is the embodiment of communion. She didn’t know who I was or what I was saying. It didn’t matter. All she knew was that she had someone’s hand to hold. And that was enough.

The train swayed lethargically from side to side.
The mother and child made their way
through the disdainful tumult of commuters.
As I stand in the doorway, a mere observer,
they stop inches from my elbow.
Sinhala is their language of plea.
Though I don't understand their words,
the scene has become familiar.
Standing at the periphery,
looking upon an unseeing, deaf audience,
as the mother describes a life, a fate
that in so many ways is too cruel for words -
the essence, the agony and suffering encased
in words as unfeeling as the audience.
Where to go, what to do, we have no hope,
we have no food, we need your help.
Please help.
As this goes on I realize the child is looking at me.
Her face is obstructed.
I can only see her right eye, the jet-black hair
dancing across her forehead.
She looks intently, without expectation or condemnation,
just curiosity.
As I look on, all I see and know of the mother and child is now -
a sad lament, a cry for help, a beleaguered mother,
a child that doesn't know anything different from this.
The child's face blocked from view,
only a small part of the whole seen.
All the circumstances, the injustice,
the failures, the abuses, the hunger
cannot be grasped in this brief appeal.
It remains hidden, incomprehensible, or, worse,
too commonplace to warrant a response.
And so the mother desperately strains to express,
make evident and real
the scope of their struggle.
But it remains obscure, abstract.
Only a few make the attempt to scrounge for the loose change.
So where will this mother and child go,
what will they do, how will they eat.
Given the response, it doesn't seem to matter.
So long as their plight, their lives, the depth of their suffering
remain concealed, out of sight,
we can carry on with our lives with little more than
the imposition of distant, reverberating echoes of another's pain.
The trudging train of our lives
unhindered by these passengers without a ticket.

Allow me to preface this entry by saying I love my job. There is nothing I’d rather be doing, there is no place I’d rather be. I consider it an honor and a privilege to be where I am doing what I’m doing.

That said, it is not an easy thing to work and live in the developing world. There are any number of cultural differences to which one must grow accustomed. However, some adjustments are certainly more challenging than others. The transformation is painful, but indispensable. In many cases, a failure to acclimate is to ensure an early departure. I’m not speaking of a fist-pounding, curse-evoking aversion for hot weather year-round or the rage of detecting the hard way a grain of sand in your rice. These are annoyances, though persistent they are, that easily pass away with the comforting clamor of a monsoon rain. Rather, I’m referring to the social and cultural shifts – might as well call them tectonic shifts given all the explosive, earth-shattering emotions that are involved – that an ex-patriot must undertake for survival. These shifts are life-changing as they dictate how we operate, both professionally and relationally, on a day-to-day basis; they are pervasive and constant, touching virtually every facet of life. This goes to say that they are inescapable.

I work for an organization that was founded over 125 years ago. In recent years it was rated as one of the most effective organizations ever. It spans over 100 nations world-wide and positively impacts the lives of millions. Here in Sri Lanka, as well, the organization enjoys an impeccable, unimpeachable reputation based upon a long, illustrious history of sound social welfare programs. Yet, as is the case with all international organizations, the Sri Lankan branch must necessarily possess the intrinsic cultural traits, practices, traditions, modes-of-thought of the country. (Herein lays the challenge for the outsider.) This is not the first time I’ve worked with this organization. In fact, my entire professional life, short-lived though it has been, has been in its service. The efficient, focused, and driven American-model of the organization stands in contrast to the bureaucratic, cautious, and deliberate local model, of which I am now a part. After almost four months in Sri Lanka, I still struggle to reconcile these two competing models.

What I really should learn is that they’re not competing at all. My own erroneous conceptions and comparisons alone, steeped in self-righteous Western biases, are what put them at odds. What I really should learn is that I am a 25-year old nitwit that shouldn’t feel he’s at liberty to voice objections to a system that has been in place far longer than he’s been alive. I haven’t yet learned either of these lessons (sad, I know). But I’m working on it.

This personal example gives shape to the larger issue at hand. The alien’s experience is in large part defined by the line between how things are (in this new, often bewildering place) and how s/he thinks things should be. Now, while “should” does not always denote “It should be this way, but is not the case,” in this instance it means just that. Defined in this way, ‘should’ is a powerful word. (One that is best given due weight, and not thrown around lightly.) A relative to ‘could,’ ‘should’ encompasses the element of potentiality. But, unlike ‘could,’ ‘should’ also expresses an imperative; it is not only possible but also important/crucial/obligatory/correct that it be so.

“Shoulds” are great. Every ideal Humankind holds as sacred, as worth fighting for and protecting, springs from the concept of “should.” I should love my neighbor as myself. Government should be guided by the voice of the people. So on and so forth. But, as potent and meaningful as “shoulds” can be, they serve many other purposes (not all as noble as the above). They make you feel in control even when you’re utterly helpless to change a situation. They provide a sense of superiority, as if somehow someway you know better. “Shoulds” reduce (at least in the mind) the status quo to the worthless prattling of a ranting, petulant, irrational, temper-tantrum throwing child. In the heat of the moment, when nothing makes sense (i.e. the rules seemingly serve no purpose at all) and you feel as if the world is evilly conspiring against you, “shoulds” enable you to achieve some shallow emotional equilibrium by writing things off as stupid and backwards. As your fingers go white with the strain of holding onto your sanity, I’d say “shoulds” are a good route to take. After all, public meltdowns are something one ought to avoid.

The struggle of many an ex-pat (and I’m no exception) manifests in this nurturing of “shoulds”. Beaten down by a day of failures, setbacks, and delays, “shoulds”, again, provide a sanctuary (albeit fictional) of control. But, when given free reign, these “shoulds” become destructive and delusional. Like a swarm of flies, incessant and maddening, “shoulds” have an uncanny ability to monopolize your attention. You become preoccupied with your own illusions of how-what things should be. Buzzing about, landing briefly, nonchalantly wandering about, and narrowly, mockingly escaping your swatting hand, “shoulds” are not easily ignored, and can take over.

Connecting this to my previous entry, it would almost be easier were this an issue of moral disparities. In a time of ever-increasing moral relativism, there’s infinitely more latitude for differences in moral perspectives. However, as Western capitalist business and organizational practices (preaching speed and efficiency) expand, native practices (fostering sincere relationship development, communal reciprocity and empowerment, and steady deliberation) are not only on the decline, but are being stigmatized as backwards, archaic, and a hindrance to “progress”. In this ideological context, it is all but blasphemous to say that these long-established ways of working are legitimate. The fact is, these practices are not really about ideology, business models, or getting the job done; they are rooted in the collective personality that typifies a nation and culture. Please forgive the sweeping generalization, but many Sri Lankans are more or less passive and non-confrontational. These characteristics, giving rise to an inclination towards the methodical, gradual, and cautious, directly inform all of the above. Thus, when one broadly condemns prevalent organizational practices, it is, at best, an indirect attack on cultural identity. This cultural identity has allowed for the development of a complex, rich, perseverant society that has been in existence for millennia.

So, where does that leave me? Well, I’ve sworn off “shoulds”. Just when I feel the words bubbling up, I have to tell myself to shut up. (Anyone who’s been in a similar situation knows how difficult this is. It just feels so good to lambaste a seemingly unnecessary, meaningless… fill in the blank.) I’d like to say that the latter paragraph is the main reason for my self-imposed censorship. But, honestly, it’s as much a matter of realism as it is about respect. As noted earlier, “shoulds” can take over before you know it. “It should be this way, it should be that way, yada yada yada.” The fact is, I really don’t know any better. The “shoulds” that I irreverently identify are not meant to be helpful; they are criticisms, each and every one, that make me a feel a little better about a world I can’t control. I’ve realized that each “should” is an indicator of my own inability to adjust. I’m not here to change how things are done. Rather, I’m here to be of service. The sooner I come to terms with that reality, the more effectively I’ll be able to do my job. Now, I’m far from perfect. The occasional “should” escapes my lips. But I’m getting better. The flies have stopped keeping me up nights.

The word ‘desperation’ gets thrown around a lot. As a result, it has become little more than a mundane addition to the wealth of hyperbolic language with which people can aggrandize their own emotions and experiences. Hackneyed and misused, ‘desperation’ has lost much of its meaning. Gauging from its widespread use, one would think that it is a familiar condition to Westerners. Now, I can only speak from my own limited experience, but, as a Sri Lankan born American (I was five when my family returned to the States to stay), I have never known desperation. (Being desperate to get an A, or make the All-Star team does not count.) I grew up in a loving, affectionate, protective family, and never lacked for anything. I contend that this is the case – to one degree or another – for many, if not most, Westerners.

It is not uncommon to fall into a meandering conversation on morals and ethics. (I suppose that in a world riddled with so much corruption and deceit, these are logical preoccupations.) The classic hypothetical situations invariably come up: Would you steal food if your family was starving? Would you kill if it meant protecting the innocent? So on and so forth. I have heard many an American say that sound morals and ethics must be inviolate; that once you have compromised, there is no redemption… I honestly feel that not one of them has known true desperation. Hypothetical situations are all well and good. But to grasp the complexity, anguish, and conflict inherent in such situations, one must have first-hand experience. Unless you have looked starvation in its cadaverous visage, your body crippled by weakness, your internal organs slowly shutting down, your wife and children withering away before your eyes, you cannot possibly know what you would do to fend it off.

Desperation alone can teach us what we would do to survive. As a shadow slowly inching across a sun-lit floor, growing, expanding, imperceptibly and insidiously consuming the light, desperation can devour hope and overwhelm the last shards of light. Options are spent, food is scarce, hope is dwindling. The darkness is seemingly all-pervasive. What can you do to survive? What do you have to do in order to survive? There is nothing hypothetical about it. You do whatever you can.

I was standing on a beach in Negombo, a beach town 40 kilometers north of Colombo, admiring a spectacular sunset, when I was joined by two of my teammates, M and A (a married couple). Within minutes, a Sri Lankan mother and daughter walked by and struck up a conversation with us. The mother did all the talking. By all appearances, she was a friendly, sociable, sweet woman who had no agenda beyond hospitality. She invited us to her home just down the beach. After an initial hesitation, we decided that there was no harm in accepting her rather insistent (at the time misinterpreted as eager) offer. The woman’s home was nothing more than a shack. The walls were hastily built of coarse, flimsy wood; termite infested, the structure seemed on the verge of collapse, the corrugated metal roof contemplating its impending plunge into the living area. The woman sat us down and graciously provided drinks, though it was obvious she hardly afford the luxury of soft drinks. At this point the family’s story – the loss of her husband in the tsunami, her inability to meet rising costs for the education of her three children, and the scarcity of gainful employment – was put on agonizing display. Indeed, it was a story dripping with the acidic residue of desperation. Time and time again, the family had struggled to break the surface of the water and steal a breath, only to be crushingly, ruthlessly driven underneath the tumultuous waters of hunger and poverty. In a meek, unassuming way, the mother concluded the narrative by asking for a donation.

My immediate response was one of pity. But indignation was soon to follow; I felt that we had been pulled along in an elaborate ruse to get money. (I am now ashamed of this blind, knee-jerk reaction.) After three months in the country we have become somewhat mistrustful of people’s unwarranted kindness, as it has often spawned just this type of outcome. Our observations the following day confirmed our suspicion; we saw the same mother and daughter approaching and engaging other foreigners, walking them off the beach toward their home. Evidently, this was how they earned the pittance that put food on the table. Some might view this activity as dishonest, as a way of taking advantage of people. And, perhaps, it is. The hard-line moralist would probably say this is wrong. The realist would undoubtedly say this is a way to survive when there is a dearth of options. Plain and simple: this family was desperate and, when confronted with the glaring reality of their destitution, they have shown themselves to be resourceful. Is it pretty, neatly packaged, easy to rationalize and justify? No. But it doesn’t have to be. It is necessary, and that is all that matters. When the alternative is to fall further and deeper into the pitch blackness of poverty, there is no alternative.

None of this is to say that desperation is a license for amorality. (A man kills another because there is only food enough for the survival of one. This is unequivocally wrong in my mind.) As I talked over these events and thoughts with my two teammates, M brought up something A and I had not thought of. She believed that if A and I had been alone with the mother and daughter during the exchange, we would have been offered the daughter in return for a donation. (Human trafficking is rampant in this area of the country.) Let me reiterate that I cannot conceive of the inky depths of desperation. But, in some way, somehow, no matter what happens, is there not some moral distinction between right and wrong? No matter how desperate one becomes, is there not some ethical and moral standard to which humanity as a whole is beholden? I ask this as a question because, while I have my own beliefs, there is no clear-cut answer. Hypotheticals are utterly impotent when considering such concrete issues. There is no satisfying conclusion to this entry. As much as one is inclined to resoundingly condemn this mother, blame rests with many. There are innumerable social, cultural, political, and economic factors that have brought this family to the brink. Though desperation may brutally shatter the kneecaps of Morality, casting its very existence into doubt, I hope and pray that Morality is able crawl along and makes its voice heard.

On Saturday, September 23, several teammates and I had to be up and out the door by 7:15 a.m. For a group that struggles to meet an 8:15 a.m. departure time during the week, this was, in a word, challenging. With eyes still partly crusted over from sleep, the coffee yet to have its full impact, we, amazingly, managed to trudge out the door at 7:22 a.m. Impressive, I know. The logical question: What could make us do this on a Saturday morning, after a long week of field and administrative work? Photographs. The Boxing Day Tsunami razed the lives of hundreds of thousands of Sri Lankans. All along the coast, homes were ripped apart and washed away; the landscape was littered with the tattered remains of people’s livelihoods, homes, and memories. A year and a half later, much has been recovered, rebuilt, or constructed anew. But memories and their precious tokens are especially elusive in that way. For thousands, the loss of life was accompanied by a loss of history. The pictures that framed and memorialized lives, events, and achievements were lost to the ravenous void of the tsunami. To some, the loss of pictures may seem insignificant. But, when placed in the broader context of emotional recovery, these pictures, as irreplaceable as what they represent, would have been the last remaining remnant of a child, sister, mother, husband. Upon entering the home of many Sri Lankans, one is immediately inundated by images; a young child posing austerely in his first school uniform, a daughter on her wedding day, barely able to contain her joy. These pictures, clinging to the walls, mingling contentedly on tables, evoke the emotion and history of the family. As your host moves you from one picture to the next, sharing the background and meaning, the images gain a voice and a presence in the here and now, sharing their story. For many tsunami victims this is no longer possible. The pictures are gone. The voices are silent. The stories are seemingly finished. The memories are fading. Though little can be done to restore what has been lost, our project was an effort to help people pick up the thread of the story once again, the narrative does not need to end. Hope can give us the strength to turn the page and put pen to paper once again. “There is always hope – hope enough to balance our despair. [If there were not] we would be lost,” (Rohinton Mistry). May these pictures provide some small glimmer of hope. And (who knows?) maybe it will be that intangible, mysterious "something" that allows some of these courageous community residents to escape the unfathomable darkness that has been the past two years, helping to balance their despair with newly found hope.