Seeing Bangladeshis

By Vicki Ivester

Every day I was surrounded by staring people, their mouths gaping and frowning. There was nowhere to hide on the mission field, no way to blend in. My white skin and short, light hair, stood out blindingly in the sea of dark-haired, dark-skinned people. My clothing, language, and culture all signaled my difference. Even my efforts to find secluded spots for walks always ended with crowds following me, chattering and pointing.

My first response was to "civilize" them, to show them how rude, how offensive their behavior was to me. But my most unhappy scowls, angriest body language, and even words of reproof had no effect.

I remembered the personality inventories in candidate class. One question asked: "Do you feel people are staring at you when you walk down the street?" "Of course not," I answered. Later, one of my classmates laughed as she explained that she was sure to be labeled paranoid for answering "Yes." She had just returned from several years in Bangladesh and explained the curiosity of the Bengali people. Children especially delight in staring and daring to touch white skin or unoiled hair.

But now, I was in Bangladesh, living in the capital city where streets were always crowded and I was always the center of attention as I tried to walk inconspicuously to my language classes or make a quick purchase in a small shop. Finally, the truth hit me: I would never be able to change the culture and behavior of 100 million Bangladeshis. If I were ever to feel comfortable in my adopted home, I would have to be the one to change. Change of that magnitude-my thinking, my responses, my very nature-would have to come from God.

God answered my prayers by changing my vision. Instead of seeing mobs of people, God allowed me to see individuals. I started walking everywhere, greeting people, buying in the small shops, practicing language, observing, and ignoring the stares. Gradually, I began to see the smiling shopkeeper who greeted me each morning. Instead of hundreds of rickshaw wallahs milling about, I began to recognize and beckon the ones who always delivered me safely without arguing over the agreed-upon price. Instead of being overwhelmed by the throngs at the market, I sought out the egg seller with the beautiful smile.

As I saw individuals, I began to relate to them. I would watch for them, smile, practice my language text for that day, and ask about their families. Their distinct personalities and needs became clearer to me, and my burden for them grew. Not only did my language skills improve, but I grew accustomed to constant attention. I never learned to enjoy the stares and comments, nor the lack of privacy, but I did begin to feel at home, to love those people with whom I interacted, and to make friends in my new home.

From those friendships sprang ministry opportunities: teaching neighborhood children's Bible classes in Probha's home, teaching Ayesha, Renu, and Bani to read and write, leading Eva to the Lord at camp, visiting homes, hosting friends for tea or a meal, and checking Bible translation manuscripts with Dhana. Blessings abounded as I invested myself in the lives of those individuals that God sent my way. I was not only teaching, but learning; not only giving, but receiving. I was not only ministering, but God was using Bangladeshis to minister to me. Through these relationships, I learned and grew. Twelve years later, when God led me to leave Bangladesh and start a new ministry on another mission field, I left behind friends, students, ministries-and part of my heart.