Bungled Bangla

Do you need a lesson in humility? One way to go about this is to attempt to learn a language and culture whilst immersed in the culture. This has really opened my eyes to what it must be like to be illiterate in my own culture. I have certainly felt very humbled. But as we wrap up our three months of formal language and cultural study, I’d like to share some of our lighter moments of not quite clearing the hurdle that is the English/Bangla barrier.


Most of these include Our Friend The ChaWallah (tea seller), herein called OFTCW.

*My friend told OFTCW that she was a mosquito.

*Another friend tried to ask OFTCW how many languages he knew. Instead he asked how much rent he paid.

*My beloved husband told OFTCW that he was going to marry my brother.

*I told some waiters at a restaurant after I had finished using the bathroom that I had no questions. (Although around SE Asia it wouldn’t have been unusual to have questions after using the bathroom.)

*I also told our language teacher that when our children wake during the night, we feed them chicken and salad sandwiches on Naan bread. With hand gestures to demonstrate how large the sandwich was. She was struck by the cultural difference. Bengalis give their children a glass of milk.

We are in good company. The founder of our organisation, when he moved into his first slum many years ago, wanted to ask where all the water pumps were. Instead he asked his extremely poor community where all the movie stars were. You gotta start somewhere.

Love - beyond the assumed

Today was pretty awful. Our team was in a language class while the kiddies stayed with their usual carer at home. Hubby and I had a message to go home immediately. That’s all. Just get home as quick as you can. This message had already passed from the carer, to the guard at the front of our building, to the maintenance guy, to the landlord, to our friend and then us, so the effort alone was worth some concern.


It’s a very short walk from our language school to home, but today, each step seemed to be getting us nowhere. It seemed like a long time to have to dwell on possible scenarios. Brutal. The calming prayer in my head competed with my rising adrenaline. In that time, I wasn’t sure what the final outcome was, but I didn’t really question that there would be blood involved. So thankfully I wasn’t surprised when I saw it. The usual crowd had gathered. I can’t remember who was holding Henry, but we saw the gash on his forehead, instantaneously noted the need for stitches, got the story (or Banglish version of same) and headed to the local emergency department. Again.

And although we knew it wasn’t serious, yes it was bad, but not life threatening (or life taking – it’s pretty surreal to spend two minutes thinking it’s a possibility that you would come home to that) this was probably the worst part.

Gashes require stitches. Stitches require anaesthetic. Adequately administered anaesthetic requires a still, calm patient, and we were lacking the last ingredient. I held my baby down with all my might. I listened to him scream, I felt him kicking against me and with each injection into the gash we both cried a little harder. The pain he was feeling was unbearable, and I was holding him down so he couldn’t leave. All I wanted to do was pick him up and hold him so close he could barely breathe. But instead I listened to his shouts of ‘Mummy!’ and showed him the best love I could at the time, while all the time he was wondering why I did not love him at all.

Later on, when things were calm, I had a chance to think about it. I wondered if, when God says we will be refined through fiery trials, as we encounter suffering, both ours and our neighbours’, that this may be the way God sees his own children. During those times, God sees us in suffering. He may allow that to happen, because without the initial pain, healing cannot begin. If I had picked Henry up when he cried out to me, and removed him from that pain, he would still be walking around with an open wound. He would have no defence against infection or blood loss. The most loving thing I could do at the time was stay with him, let him know I was with him while making sure he got what he needed to begin healing, even if that meant a temporary pain.

I believe that it may be the same when God walks with us through suffering. It may be a trial we perceive is bad, or that it really is, untheoretically, undoubtfully bad. We wonder where he is when we cry out? Why would a loving God allow this? Why is the pain not over? Surely this is not love at all. But our God promises treasures in darkness, and we may not always see them straight away. Treasures can come after we realise God has not allowed us to walk around with gaping wounds, but the healing process may be painful. I believe with all my heart that God loves His children with all of His heart. I’m sure that seeing His children in pain, and hearing his children ask him why his love is absent, when it is the strongest love that ever there was, grieves Him. And the goal is healing, to once again know the feeling of being held so close by a loving God that we can barely breathe.