As a mother, I can often connect with other mothers, regardless of the culture they come from. We share something that goes deeper than words yet is easily understood. We can sense each other's pride and joy, fear and worry. As I write, I can hear a child's anguished cry and it's mother's voice as she is taking control of the situation. On the contrary, I saw something this week that troubled me deeply. We had taken a trip to Dhaka and needed to do some shopping for things we can't get here in Mymensingh. As we were walking through one of the markets I saw a man carrying a girl who must have been 11 or 12, yet her body was swollen and her head was nearly the size of a basketball. He set her down near me and was trying to get my attention, begging for money. I confess that I couldn't bring myself to really look at her. I felt such anguish in my heart. I felt horrible if I didn't give anything, horrible if I did, knowing that someone was making a business out of the poor girl's suffering. I wanted to scream a protest and ask where her mother was! Maybe she was dead. Maybe the man was her father and had absolutely no other way of caring for her. But in a country where family and community are so valued, surely there is an aunt or uncle, someone who could shelter her and give her the dignity of a home away from the public's eye, who could love her and make her as comfortable as possible, even if they couldn't pay for medical care. We made our purchase and walked away, giving nothing yet giving all I could - a heartfelt prayer that she will be shown compassion, that she will know love before she dies. She has stayed with me through the week and still brings me to tears. There are many other beggers, but none that needs her mother more than that one.
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