survivor girl ukulele band

bringing restoration and hope to survivors of human trafficking through the healing power of music and love

Archive for the tag “india”

of lice and love

the subject for one’s first attempt at training a survivor girl beautician class on how to remove lice with a lice comb should not be the worst lice case on campus. the photo doesn’t do the case justice.

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this was one for the history books. lice and learn!!

on the other hand. i was given the opportunity to show love and kindness and give gentle touch to a young woman at the shelter home whom everyone laughs at and calls dirty.

but i’m getting ahead of myself.

survivor girl ukulele band project 2015 — kolkata!! was my first experience living in a shelter home for survivors of human trafficking. there are nearly one hundred girls living at the shelter home, and they all have lice. not one to be left out of the action, i went ahead and got lice too!

the morning when i pointed to my head and said, “ookun!” (lice!) — instead of being shocked, the girls were quite pleased that i had joined their ranks, and within moments, latika* and reeti* pounced on my head, looking for lice and nits.

everyt time reeti pulled a nit from my hair, she crushed it between her thumbnails and said, “dead!”

i get a lot of hugs from my students, so there was no point in trying to get rid of the lice while i was here, but i did order a nice lice comb and other lice products to be waiting for me when i got back to the states. and when i got home i went after the lice in earnest and soon they were gone.

why not get some lice combs to bring back to the shelter home?

but the whole experience gave me an idea. why not get some lice combs to bring back to the shelter home? so i contacted a fairy tails hair care company and asked them to donate some lice combs to survivor girl ukulele band project. and they said yes!! and sent me some fabulous combs and product!! thank you, fairy tales hair care!!

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my plan was to train the girls how to use the combs and lice products — and even though it’s not possible to completely eliminate lice from the shelter home, at least the girls could keep the lice counts way down and be much more comfortable.

the ngo that conducts the beautician class invited me to spend an hour or so with those girls and train them on how to use the lice combs. the shelter home staff suggested that my first subject should be kohana*.

i don’t know kohana’s story, but there a number of things that set her apart from the rest of the residents here. she’s older; she’s thirty-one. she’s a bit rough around the edges and sometimes she’s the butt of jokes. she’s also big and strong. in the morning she’s out early, hunting for coconuts that have fallen from the palm trees. she cracks them open and rips the outer husks off with her bare hands.

one of kohana’s duties is to take care of the dogs. she brings them their food, and wherever they make a mess, it’s her job to clean it up. if there is heavy lifting to be done, kohana is often the one to do it. she clomps around in dirty salwar kameez (pants and top), and though kohana does have some friends, certainly no one had been nit-picking her hair.

the task was daunting

when the training began, the beautician class girls all scooted away. some jeered.

i sat in a chair and she sat on the floor in front of me. i gently put my hand on kohana’s head and said, “kaemon acho?” (how are you?”)

“bhalo,” she said. (fine.)

the task was daunting. much of the length of her shoulder-length hair was awash with old nit casings stuck to the hair shaft. even with the fairy tales lice good-bye treatment, it was slow going. as the comb clogged with nits and lice, i wiped it off on a disposable towel on my lap.

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the beautician class girls got bored with the slow progress and went off and painted their toenails.

i felt like quitting

the live lice crawled around on the towel that was piling up with brown mounds of nits. this was more than i had bargained for. i was getting tired, and i knew that with all the lice being flung around and wiped onto the towel, i was going to have lice all over me.

“kamon aacho?” i said from time to time, checking in on kohana.

“bhalo!” she always said.

a few of the girls came back to watch, but they stayed far away.

another section of hair. more lice product. more and more combing. this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. this wasn’t training. it was a marathon. i felt like quitting.

but i kept at it, and slowly slowly kohana’s locks were getting clean all the way to her scalp.

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the class was over, and though there wasn’t time to get all the lice removed from her scalp, kohana’s hair was free from nits and so clean and shiny looking! wow.

i told kohana to take a shower and put on clean clothes.

later that evening, in fresh clean clothes, kohana came up to me and touched my arm and then stepped back. she smiled a thank you.

and later than night when i washed my own hair, i combed out dozens of big red juicy lice. it was worth it, i thought.

“i want to bring love to these girls,” i said to myself. “and today, maybe it was through a lice comb.”

this was more than i had bargained for

the next day while i was teaching ukulele, kohana brought three chunks of fresh coconut to me! but what happened next really caught me off guard.

i was in my room and there came a knock at my door. i opened it and there was kohana — all dressed up in a red and black sari!!! wowowow!!

she asked me to take her picture. her hair was shining and so was her smile as she posed this way and that in front of the camera. “dekhao!” she said. (show me!)

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kohana in her sari. (her face is not shown to protect her privacy.)

she looked at the photos, so pleased with herself and how she looked. this was very likely the first time in years kohana felt feminine and beautiful. and when someone called to her, she ran off lightly, and it was as if her feet didn’t touch the ground.

i went back to my room and sat down and cried for a few minutes. this was more than i had bargained for.

two days later it was time to go through kohana’s hair again. now that her hair was free of nits, it was time to really give her scalp a good going over with the lice comb. this time however i set up a chair on the block just outside the shelter home dormitory.

“let’s have an ‘ookun jao!’ (lice go away!) party,” i said. i brought out my bose bluetooth speaker and played music from my ipod and made it fun. we laughed and grooved to the music and got to work.

and now as the girls looked on from the dormitory, kohana became the subject of envy!!

soon there were many calls from the girls at the dormitory windows. they tugged at their hair and said, “laurie aunty! ookun!! ookun!! ami!! ami!!” (lice!! lice!! me!! me!!)

after kohana, the ookun jao party continued with a mentally handicapped girl, who also had a thousands of lice on her head. usha*, one of my students, came up and laughed at her. but soon usha was assisting me with the various combs, anticipating which comb i would use next and handing it to me and then cleaning the comb that i had just used. after a while i asked usha if she would like to do the combing. she jumped at the chance and was soon combing out lice like a pro!!!

usha was so engrossed in the task she skipped her lunch. another girl joined in to assist, and together we worked on the worst cases until sundown.

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the next evening kohana called to me from the dorm. when i came to the window she loped over to me and showed me her new sparkling earrings and diamond studded bindi!! she looked like an indian princess!!!

and two days later, when i was hugging one of my students, kohana awkwardly leaned in — and got a hug, too. i had never seen her hug anyone before.

the woman whom no one would touch and everyone called dirty is now able to sleep at night without thousands of lice crawling on her scalp and biting her. she feels pretty and feminine. she’s fixing her hair, paying more attention to her clothing, and getting hugs. wow. this is way more than i bargained for.

we’ve had a number of ookun jao parties and more are planned. how can i thank all of you who support me in this project called survivor girl ukulele band?! i get to do this wild job because of you. thank you thank you thank you for joining the band.

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*names changed to protect privacy.

two weddings and a funeral

mysore gold train car 2

at the bangalore railway station

where to begin. i’ll start with some good news.

in december, shortly after i arrived in india, i got a call on my mobile phone from an unknown number. the person on the other end was speaking quite excitedly, but i couldn’t understand what she was saying, so i said in my limited hindi, “kaun?” “who are you?”

“bindu! bindu!” she said.

“bindu?!! is that really you?!” i said. i could hardly believe it.

“ya! bindu!” she said, laughing.

“yay!! i’ll call you back tonight!!” i said.

bindu* was one of my survivor girl ukulele band students from last year in pune — and i hadn’t seen or heard from since she left for home in may 2013, so i was very excited to hear from her. later that night i had a hindi-speaking friend call on my phone to bindu and ask her where she was and how she was doing. bindu said she was in mumbai and that she was married and that i should come and see her! i was so happy!

then in february i got a call from the mother of another of my students, preethi*, who is from pune. when preethi was released from the protective home in pune she was quite sick, and my last text to preethi asking how she was had been unanswered. when i asked how preethi was i couldn’t understand anything her mother said except, “please come my house,” but i knew something was wrong.

a couple of weeks ago, i set out on the 28 hour journey to pune and mumbai to see preethi and bindu, worried that something had happened to preethi.

soon after my arrival in pune, i heard the bad news. preethi was dead. she died in october 2013. she was only 19.

and i thought to myself, how does this happen?! a 19 year-old girl just dying like that?! what did she die from? did she have the correct diagnosis? was she getting the right medicine? so many questions.

a friend agreed to accompany me to preethi’s mother’s home and translate. her mother told me that many times preethi said, “call laurie madam,” and that they tried my number. but by then i was back in the usa and my indian number was switched off.

it’s true that the life-expectancy of a prostitute in india can be very short, but this was a complete fail. i failed preethi. her family failed preethi. her friends failed preethi. her doctors failed preethi. and the government system along with the ngo that kept her locked up without medical attention failed preethi. we all failed preethi.

i can’t believe that she’s gone and i keep thinking of all the things i could have should have would have done differently. now it is all too late. it’s a sad and messy story and i am still trying to process it.

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in sharp contrast to preethi’s story is that of mina*, another survivor girl ukulele band students from last year. last june, soon after she was released from the protective home, she got married, and i was invited to the wedding. here are a few photos from mina’s wedding:

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arrival back home after the temple wedding ceremony

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bashful bride

mina is surrounded by some really good people who love and support her, and is very much enjoying her new role as a housewife.

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from pune i caught a bus to mumbai to meet with bindu. bindu doesn’t speak much english and i don’t speak much hindi, so it took a number of phone calls with a translator-friend to arrange a time and place to meet: platform 10, kalyan junction.

when i disembarked from my train at kalyan junction, i spun around in the surge of hundreds of people. where was bindu?

my phone rang. it was bindu. “bindu, where are you?” i said.

“ya!” she said.

the crowd dissipated. and there on the next platform over, in bare feet and a blazing yellow sari, was bindu.

it was like a scene out of a movie. the long lost friend, now found. we each ran up the stairs and met on the bridge and hugged and laughed.

then she led me barefoot through the maze of the station and the narrow side-streets and out to a busy road where we caught an auto-rickshaw.

i had no idea where we were going, but as we sped down the road i pulled out my iphone for some selfies of the two of us. bindu snuggled up against me, her chin on my shoulder, her cheek pressed against mine. together we smiled into the camera.

“oh, bindu, bindu,” i said.

“yeaah?” she said.

“it’s so good to see you!!”

“ya!!” she said, and we laughed and smiled, pleased at the selfies we were making.

i clicked off my camera. we couldn’t talk to each other much, but it didn’t matter because we were together. despite the heat and humidity we sat close to each other for the next forty minutes as we bumped along toward her home.

bindu brought me to her home, which was little more than a shack. on the floor a plastic political poster with some padding underneath serves as bedroom and sitting room. on the other side of the room, a makeshift shelf holds a few kitchen items.

she introduced me to her her husband, who clearly loves her.

“are you happy?” i asked.

“ya!” she said.

bindu's kitchen

bindu’s kitchen

the whole afternoon i felt like i was in a movie and this was the happy ending. after the horrors of the brothel, bindu has overcome many obstacles. she’s found true love, has her own snug little home, and carries hope and joy into her future. i can’t claim that survivor girl ukulele band played a major role in this happy outcome, but i am thrilled that bindu contacted me, that i was able to see her, and that i am able to share the story of her new life.

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these are just a few of the stories of survivor girl ukulele band project. i’m so grateful for the many family and friends around the world who are a real part of this project through your love and prayers and financial support. thank you.

pune 2014 auto-rickshaw selfie

 

* names changed

 

 

everybody loves a little uke

there have been a number of raids and rescues recently in the local brothels, and now the population of the home is 102 girls. and there is no keeping the ukulele lessons on the terrace a secret.

here’s where i teach. it’s called the terrace, and it’s the covered roof of the home. every day the girls’ clothes are hung to dry on the north wall of bars that surround the terrace. it makes for a pretty place with decent acoustics in which to teach.Image

every day a few girls sneak up to the terrace and sit with the class and try strumming one of the ukuleles. even the police officers who are on duty like to get into the action.

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the fellow below was also very interested in the uke that i often carry around in my backpack. we met on a number of occasions at this little chai shop down the street from the guest house where i stayed when i first arrived in pune. the first day we met he asked, “you are from nigeria?” i didn’t quite know how to answer that.

the next time we met he asked to try out my ukulele.

after i took this video on my iphone 3gs he said, “tell me again, how much does that phone cost?” i told him that phones like this are a couple of hundred dollars and then about $100 a month on a two year contract. the small crowd that had gathered calculated the cost of an iphone in rupees, and their eyes widened. he liked my uke, but really really really liked my iphone. i get that lot.

and here is a video of roma*, who is from bangladesh and is super quiet. she may not have the best technique, but she is always there and loves to play.

“this is a chance.”

we are just four days into survivor girl ukulele band lessons, and it is amazing to see what the girls are accomplishing. last friday when i visited the protective home for girls who have been rescued from brothels, they sang me a song — tu pyaar ka saagar, your love is like the sea. so i got a guitar hero to figure out the chords for me and was able to start teaching them to play the song with just a few chords, c, g, and a minor.

on day one, i started with three girls each in two separate classes. in each class one of the three girls spoke english. someone advised me to limit the classes to a half hour each, because the girls would be unable to be attentive for more than that.

monday’s first class went for an hour and forty-five minutes, and they were tuned in every minute.

a couple of the girls came with long fingernails on their left hands, making it difficult for them to fret the chords. they love their long fingernails. but they all agreed to cut their nails. through the translator, one of the girls said, “nails can grow, but this is a chance.”

on day two i combined the two classes, and now have six girls in the class.

here’s a video from day two, where the girls are practicing moving from the c chord to the g chord.

on day four, one of the girls showed up late, and didn’t want to tune her ukulele because she felt she couldn’t do it. she was also struggling with a stiff strum hand.

i took her aside and helped her “dekho aur suno” — hindi for “look and listen” — as we looked at the electronic tuner and at the same time listened to a pitch pipe and the sound of each string as we found the correct tuning.

then i tried to get her to relax her strumming hand, but she couldn’t do it. so i had her take ahold of my strumming hand. when we started to play, she wanted to take over and control my hand, but after a minute she was able to relax and let her hand move along with mine. still, it didn’t immediately translate into an easy strum on her own.

for the next hour and a half as the group played and practiced changing chords, she struggled with a stiff strum. then just before the end of the class, she started strumming with a nice easy stroke. she was so happy and we all clapped for her. she said, “you take my hand. now i can do it. i miss you.”

and here’s a video day four of the girl i mentioned earlier who said, “this is a chance.”

can you believe it? this is just her fourth day of playing ukulele!

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