A quartet of educated, middle-class men beckoned me to come sit with them. They wanted to know: “Does being a Christian missionary mean you are here in Narail to convert people?” I responded: “It does not. I am here to live as a Christian and to be useful to the poor. There is no bad religion in Bangladesh.” The men heartily agreed. One of them, Jamal, then and there offered me free use of a plot of land on which to build a house.
Alom and I worked six hours moving 150 cubic feet of earth (the foundation for my hut) to the plot given me. Alom is about 65; he is wiry, unschooled, has poor eyesight, and is expert and tireless when constructing a house made of bamboo (the frame) and jute sticks (the siding). His measurements made me anxious for he used only a piece of string, or the length of his forearm, to measure pieces that had to be cut exactly. “You’ll soon see what I mean,” he repeatedly assured me. And so it happened; all the pieces fit. Moreover, the roof is of sticks covered by polythene and it keeps me dry.
THEY RESPECT SPIRITUAL MOTIVES
Gopal came from his village to see me in my house. The final one hundred meters was by way of a muddy path causing him to arrive smudged. Before departing, he asked me: “Why do you live in such a place?” I explained that Jesus lived simply, with the poor, and the disciple is not greater than the master. That made sense to him because the reason is spiritual, not merely practical. Bangladeshis, both Muslims and Hindus, respect spiritual motives.
During a bus ride to Jessore, a bearded, piously-dressed Muslim sat beside me. Shaheedul asked whether I had read the Kur’an. I had indeed. “Did you like what you read?” he inquired expectantly. “The Kur’an and Islamic preaching, in general, do not attract me,” I told him frankly. “What is inspiring to me is to see the lives of the hard-pressed, faith-filled poor,” I added. Shaheedul’s disappointment was evident. Most Muslims presume the Qur’an has great attractive power for all who read it. It is good he extracted an admission from me that the Qur’an (in English translation, not Arabic) does not automatically captivate even the most sympathetic reader.
Shamreem, my cheerful nine-year old neighbor, and his buddy, Polok, stood beside me as I sat outdoors reading. Shamreem tried to explain me to Polok: “Uncle Bob is a Christian. He believes Jesus is little Allah.” That point was made without sarcasm or disapproval. He was simply stating the matter as he perceived it, or as older Muslims had explained it to him. “No,” I explained to the boys, “there is no little Allah. Jesus is the model of my life. As Jesus did, I try to do.” Shamreem received the correction gracefully. I hoped he would repeat our conversation to whomever misled him about Jesus’ role in my life.
AT LEAST HE WAS HONEST
After a six-month interval, I visited the parents of Shefali, a girl who died of liver cirrhosis at age 12 despite our efforts. Her mother was particularly glad to see me again because she had something to get off her chest. “Habibur Leader told us you returned to Shefali’s grave after the burial and dug her up. Is it true?” I assured her it is false and that whoever invented such a vicious rumor is no friend of her family. Good works done for needy persons are appreciated by nearly all Muslims and Hindus. A few, however, resent our closeness to the poor and sow suspicion.
As the man came towards me from a distance, I understood from his gaze and gait he intended to intercept me. Straight away, he asked: “How can I join your community?” I quizzed him: “Which community is that? Do you mean the human community?” He waved away my incomprehension. “No, no! I mean your Christian community.” “What is your religion?” I asked. “Islam,” he stated. “Is Islam not a good religion?” I continued. “Yes, surely, but then how can I go to your country?” he reasoned. Though misguided, at least he was honest.
PILLOW TALK ABOUT THE ONE
Torun, one of the seminarians assigned to live with me for a few weeks, is a mature young man – and a good bicyclist. Together, we journeyed widely throughout Narail District. In village Narayanpur, within a short distance of each other, we found Sonia, age 10, having an acutely distended abdomen; Farida, 35, bedridden with an undiagnosed illness; and Rima, 7, a severe-burn victim (whose burial we attended days later). Torun told me afterwards he had never seen persons with such conditions in all his years. He values his exposure to their lives.
Early one morning before birds chirped or the call to prayer sounded, I overheard a conversation coming through the flimsy wall of the hut closest to mine. He spoke about Allah; she likewise spoke of Allah. Pillow talk about The One. As a topic of conversation, Allah comes up habitually among Bangladeshi Muslims. These people remember their Creator. That habit helps make Bangladesh a wholesome place to live in.
