It is no easy task persuading the girls to come with us--a struggle that exposes how many of the tensions between health and culture are even heightened in the slums. Going house to house, the outreach workers try to refer as many women as they can to come to the ICTC with us. Not all of them are registered under the GVSS intervention groups in the colony, but they are encouraged to come anyways in hopes of reaching the largest possible group. The women are always hesitant and many decline. Watching the outreach workers try to convince them, ask them why not, and talk about the number of girls that went the day before gives me so much respect for them. They are tireless and passionate about getting the women to the center. I don't need to be fluent in Hindi to understand the reasons the women give for their unwillingness to come; the children on their hips, barefeet, and baskets of laundry speak for themselves. GVSS tries to make the trip to the center as easy as possible- the women do not have to pay for anything from the transportation to the test itself and children are crammed into the rickshaws with their mothers. But there is so much fear in their eyes. As soon as they hear the words 'blood test,' 'clinic', or 'counseling' they almost immediately turn away. Some agree to come on their own, others are swayed by their obliging friends, sisters, or mothers. On Thursday all it took was one grandmother to agree for her daughter and three granddaughters to follow suit. It usually takes about two hours of walking around the colony, approaching women in their doorways, and explaining to groups of hesitant friends why getting the test is important and nothing to be afraid of. Yet, the combination of fear, misconceptions, and stigma do not make for an easy task. Over the past three days we've taken a groups of 28, 6, and 11 women.
After three hours of recruiting on Thursday, we were actually able to rally up a group of 28. The next step is finding enough rickshaw drivers that are willing to transport all of us. Some have made it very clear they want nothing to do with a group of slum dwelling women on their way to a medical facility. Walking through the daunting hallways of the medical college on the first floor does nothing to soothe the nerves of the huddled together women as each room is dark and filled with old microscopes, medical instruments, and heaps of papers. When we get to the waiting room they silently sit as their names are called to meet with the counsellor and then enter the testing room. The majority of them are illiterate, married, and under the age of 25. The room was too full when we arrived with the large group of women and children so they were told to wait in the hall outside. Hopes of anonymity are slimmed. The fact that the first girl let out a yelp when they stuck the needle into her arm made it even more difficult to coax the following girls to take their turn. After watching the first three women sit in the alone in the little room under the fluorescent lighting obviously terrified about what was going on, I decided that I would go in with the rest of them to hold their hand while they got the test done. Upon seeing the needle, most of them tried to get up and run out of the room, but I think that just having someone there to support them really helped as they took a breath and sat back down. During each of the last three trips to the ICTC, I've spent the time holding the hands and stroking the hair of the terrified girls, a foreign gesture to the ICTC testing doctors who don't pay much mind to the people behind the serial number.
Navigating the intricacies of health, culture, and gender here has been nothing short of an intense experience laden with both language and cultural barriers. If trying to create a work-plan with a group of non-English speaking office staff wasn't motivation enough to spend every waking hour studying Hindi, sitting with the group of curious, chatty, and giggly teenage girls sure was. Despite the language barrier, the last three days have created a solid base for my relationship with the women of Bhadvasia. Through standing with them at the ICTC, holding their babies, and embarrassing myself with my horrible accent, I think I have proven my keep. Walking through one of the other colonies today, I couldn't help but notice a shirt hanging from a laundry line that read "With money you can buy sex, not love"... a statement, that given the population I'm working with, I don't know exactly how to take. But it struck me as such an ironic expression of the complicated universe that the slums exist in.
While thinking about what a week it's been on the tempo ride home from work today, I realized that the little boy across from me (no more than 1 foot away) was looking a little green and squeamish. Before I could even think about how I might climb over the three people next to me in hopes of moving farther away from him just in case, he leaned over the side and vomited... right into the wind. I guess the first thing on my sunday to-do list will be to wash the entire front of my bag. I came home to freshly baked sweets and chai which had a surprising way of making up for the mishap!
I also just uploaded a few pictures on facebook.. they don't do the trip justice, but it's something!
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