Opened Eyes- Again

I was visiting a new city in a new State. My cousin was visiting from the States and I took her to go on a camel safari ride in the desert of Rajasthan, India for a whopping $14.00 USD.  We were tourists on our “happy vacation”. 

Happy for a time. But then the desperate eyes followed me as I wandered through the dark market streets. Waiting for me to exit a shop to offer her begging hand and starving child, she waiting patiently. No matter how long it took, this beggar woman would wait.

She asked for money. I said no.  I don’t give money to beggars in the case they are employed by some big pimp and larger “operation”. I offered to buy food instead. 

She knew this way of life better than I. She walked me to her friend’s local shop. He already knew her “order” and he told me what she wanted. Was this a scam? Was this a dream? I didn’t quite know how to respond. 

She must get her dinner bit by bit, supplied by the hands of softened hearts. A little lentil dal here, a little rice there. A bit of milk from that person. A bit of vegetables from another willing helper. She gathers her needs and then heads home to prep her evening meal. 

I questioned her, not wanting to believe that I was being taken advantage of. Begging can truly be a way of living here. One story tells of a beggar woman who died and police found thousands and thousands of dollars hidden in her “home”.  I think poverty and begging can become an identity that curses the beggar to never step out of their norm, even when given opportunities. Begging is familiar, and in an odd way, safe. 

The beggar’s baby had a disturbing protruding belly, I assumed from malnutrition. I questioned how old the child was and what was wrong. I picked up the lightweight of a three year old and felt her nothingness. My heart sank knowing my one year old weighed more than double. My one year old had all she needed. She was cared for, housed, and had the medical care and nutrition she needed. 

I asked the woman how she could daily beg for food and money, but not give medical care to her baby and get her the help she needed. She threw my insult back in my face. She told me her child had a liver problem from eating dirt. She had sought out help from 3 different hospitals, but couldn’t afford the treatment needed. She dragged me by the hand to a chemist (pharmacy shop) to buy vitamins and medicine for her baby. 

She told me to come and see where she lived. My heart was stringed along and I couldn’t resist. I followed her down dark allies and shady parts of town for about 30 minutes to a plastic tarp camp. A refugee camp of sorts. Her house existed of some wooden sticks stringed together and covered with black plastic. Inside on the dirt floor was one tin box with a lock. All her possessions were inside. They pulled out a weathered and dirty blanket to spread on the dirt for my cousin and I to sit. We obliged. 

They sat and told their story of brokenness, a begging life since childhood. They were gypsie desert beggars. They weren’t wanted in the society and were often kicked out from one area and forced to move to another. Everyone suspected them of theft and they were often mistreated and abused by local authorities and society. Their husbands were alcoholics and often took the hard earned begging money and used it for their addiction. There children were unable to be properly fed, housed or educated. And so the cycle continues.

We listened. Our hearts hurt. I felt convicted for the ways I had judged her so quickly. This was all she knew… her only way of life. She was doing what she had to in begging to support and care for her family. My eyes were opened- again.

What else could I do. I was leaving in less than 12 hours.  If it were in my State, my town, I could take this baby to the hospital and get her the help needed. I could advocate for the help of the family. I felt helpless and I felt their hopelessness. I did the only thing I knew to do, pray. I cried out to Jesus for them and for their children. 

I closed my prayer in Jesus name. One woman looked up and said, “You are a believer? Me too!” I had felt the connection before. I had questioned it. There was something different about her. I smiled and hugged them. We walked away. My heart still remembers them. My heart still hurts for them.

I can’t change their lives living thousands of miles away, but my eyes are opened again to think about what I can do. Mother Theresa said, “you can’t help them all, but you can help one.”  Corinthians speaks of giving out of what you DON’T have to prove your love. Do I give this way; do I love this way? I want to. I pray my eyes are opened here where I live to love BIG and love HARD in generous ways, even when it hurts!