INDIA JOURNAL - 2002 (Part 6: Is World Chaos the Norm?)

Kathmandu, Nepal: March 22, 2002: Royal Nepal Airlines flight #202 departed Bombay at 5:20 p.m. destined for Nepal. Stepping off the airplane in Kathmandu was like a breath of fresh air after being in India for nearly ten days.  No longer was the temperature 104 degrees Fahrenheit.  There was actually a cool evening breeze wafting through the valley nestled at the foot of the Himalayan range and the great Mt. Everest.

Equally refreshing was the quickly consummated friendship with Dr. Zimmerman and his Irish-born wife Deirdre.  They were at the terminal holding up a sign for us as we walked out of security after having cleared customs.  Once in the auto it didn’t take long for us to realize that by traveling into Kathmandu we had jumped right into another of the world’s political “hot spots.”  Fourteen “Maoist rebels” had been shot to death by Nepalese soldiers the day before.

In 1996 the radical leftist party in Nepal, called the Nepal Communist Party-Maoist or NCP-M, became frustrated with not being able to seize more power within the structure of the government of Nepal.  They had decided to launch a guerrilla terrorist movement against the people and the government, styled after the model of China’s revolutionary leader Mao Tse-tung.  Their goal was to topple the constitutional monarchy by hiding out in Nepal’s mountainous locations and performing deadly attacks of terror on government leaders, civil facilities, military outposts, and other high profile targets.

As was always the case, militant groups fed on their own terrorist activities, and the violence always escalated into more frequent and more severe atrocities.  The militant’s army of terrorists had grown to over 4,000 strong, and they had equipped themselves with sophisticated weapons by raiding small and poorly protected military outposts and arsenals.

In November, the Nepalese government had declared a state of emergency.  The rebels stepped up their violence, and instead of staying mostly in western sections, their planned attacks were aimed at Kathmandu, other major cities and tourist areas, and base camps near Mt. Everest.  By the beginning of the year hundreds of people were being killed in surprise attacks by the Maoists.  The guerrillas would declare a “strike” in Kathmandu or other cities and completely shut down commerce, transportation, government services, and the movement of people in, to, and from the city for a day at a time.  If shopkeepers left their doors unlocked and continued business, those establishments would be stoned, shot up, or burned.  If taxis or buses entered the streets, the drivers were beaten, and the vehicles burned.

Just a week before we arrived the violence had ratcheted up another notch.  The Maoists attacked and took over one of the city airports.  They almost simultaneously then set fire to buildings and fired at police in the town of Mangalsen.  Forty-nine police were killed.  Twenty-seven more were killed in another airport takeover.  Shortly afterward another 48 Royal Nepalese Army officers were killed.  The night we arrived in Kathmandu the Maoist rebels burned a large number of government vehicles and some buildings and killed another twelve people in the city.

To add to the civil unrest and instability, Nepal had gone through another shocker in June 2001.  King Binendra, Nepal’s monarch, and eight other members of the royal family, including Queen Aiswarya, were fatally shot in the Royal Palace in Kathmandu.  All evidence pointed to Crown Prince Dipendra as the mass killer.  He then botched his own suicide attempt and died a short time later at the hospital.  An official investigation was conducted later, which confirmed that the crown prince did perform the massacre in a drunken rage of anger.  His uncle, Gyanendra Bir Bikram, was the only royal family member left, upon whom the title of regent of Nepal was bestowed. With that opening of confusion and insecurity, the Maoists intensified their onslaughts of violence to try to topple Nepal’s government.

The Zimmermans had chosen a quaint Nepalese hotel in the Patan area of Kathmandu for us to stay.  We were perfectly safe there, and the cool night and our tired bodies successfully promoted the thought that we skip dinner and go straight to bed.

Saturday, March 23

The birds were singing, the flowers were blooming and the leaves were beginning to bud out on the trees. We awoke to springtime in Nepal!  Even by then the negative aspects of our India experience were beginning to fade into historical perspective.  We had been at the right place at the right time speaking to the right people.  God had blessed us and protected us.

We took a little local taxi from our Summit Hotel and met Dr. Zimmerman and Deirdre at the front gates of the Patan Hospital.  They took us to the ancient Hindu Temple of Patan, which was the center of one of four kingdom state cities and sat on the present site of Kathmandu.  Much of the sprawling temple had been turned into a Hindu museum with a quaint little restaurant attached, where we went for lunch. After lunch Anna Marie and I walked the narrow streets of Katmandu absorbing all the sights, sounds, and smells of the city that some claimed to be 10,000 years old.

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Dr. Zimmerman had finished his medical education at some prestigious schools in the eastern US.  He had traveled to Africa during his medical school days to do a short stint there.  He agreed to go to Nepal for three to six months to help out before he started his practice in America.  He went to Nepal and stuck.  He had been there for 15 years and had become the medical director of the Patan Hospital.

When Nepal opened up to the world in the l950s it was decided that there would not be just an influx of humanitarian and religious groups allowed in the Hindu kingdom.  Instead, it was agreed that the Methodists, Presbyterian, etc. groups would be allowed to jointly open one medical venture in Kathmandu.  Eventually, that effort became known as the United Mission of Nepal, and they were allowed to open a hospital in an old palace where even the patient wards boasted of crystal chandeliers.

The medical work built a strong reputation throughout Nepal and soon outgrew the old royal facilities.  What amazed me about Patan Hospital was that with such ecumenical diversity they could work together and achieve such success.  My attention was captured.  I was eager to learn more about the hospital and its mission.

Sunday, March 24

More violence and killing by the Maoists in Nepal.  We were also following the newspaper reports from India regarding the increased murders and torchings right where we had been just hours before.

Sunday morning Anna Marie and I spent some quiet time together in devotions at the Summit Hotel.  Our verandah looked north toward the majestic Himalayan mountain range.  I tried to point out to her where on earlier trips I had been at the village camps near the foot of the great Mt. Everest and also showed her on a map where I had crossed over the scary summits of the Himalayas when I traveled from India’s Kulu Valley over into Tibet.

At 10 a.m. Anna Marie and I arrived at the Patan Hospital to perform Project C.U.R.E.’s needs assessment study.  Their little “palace hospital” had grown up to be a full-fledged 300 bed facility with eight specialty teams in surgery, pediatrics, medicine, OB-GYN, ICU-anesthesia, outpatient/trauma, orthopedics, dentistry, radiology, and pathology.

There were other hospitals in Kathmandu, but Patan Hospital had earned a splendid reputation and was doing some great medical work.  Last year they had treated 266,000 outpatients, 33,000 emergency cases, 20,000 dental patients, and cared for 17,000 inpatients.  I told the CEO, B.B. Khawas, and other staff members just how very proud Project C.U.R.E. was to be considering working alongside the Patan Hospital.

The way Project C.U.R.E. had become involved with the Kathmandu project was so very typical of how we became involved in projects all over the world.  We never advertised, and we never went where we had not been invited.  Now, that still meant that the word had to get out some way.

In the Nepal case, a wonderful couple, Mr. and Mrs. Jim Hecht who lived in Denver, had been introduced to the Patan Hospital and traveled to Kathmandu to visit.   Montview Presbyterian Church in Denver, Colorado, had gotten excited about the work of the hospital and raised $160,000, which they sent to Nepal for Patan Hospital to build a pediatric department.  Even the women of the church got busy and quilted blankets to be sent.

It just so happens … Jim Hecht was a good friend of Jim Peters, with whom I traveled to Belgrade, Yugoslavia. (Jim Peters was also a dear friend of my friend, Nick Muller, executive at Samsonite International).  Project C.U.R.E. had pumped nearly a million dollars in medical goods into Yugoslavia and Serbia.  You are smart enough to figure out “the rest of the story.”

The Patan Hospital was a natural for Project C.U.R.E.’s involvement.  I went away from the needs assessment really excited about what could be done in the future to help 22 million Nepalese in the only country in the world that considered itself an official Hindu state.  We pledged together that we would start immediately to work on the possibilities of getting Project C.U.R.E. involved with the Patan Hospital on a long-term basis.  Anything that Project C.U.R.E. would put into the Patan project would pay great dividends both now and forever more.

Monday, March 25

Anna Marie and I were both exhausted.  I needed some time to complete all the paperwork that had resulted from the days in India and Nepal.  Monday morning was spent trying to catch up. That evening we took Dr. Zimmerman and Deirdre out to dinner in Kathmandu.  There we heard the story of how she was born and raised in Ireland and eventually had decided to go to Africa on a mission.  But providence dictated otherwise and she ended up going to the Patan Hospital as their dietitian.  Of course, she met this handsome young doctor from the US who was the medical director at the Patan Hospital.  He got a taste for the dietitian, and she figured the union would make for a well-balanced program, so they got hitched.  It was a beautiful love story.

Tuesday/Wednesday, March 26, 27

It was time to go home!  Tuesday morning, we were to catch our flight from Nepal back to Bangkok Thailand.  . . . Reality Check . . . We still needed to get back to the Kathmandu airport. That meant picking our way back through all the Maoist terrorists squads who were presently holding strategic parts of the city hostage. The local news was buzzing with reports of overnight murders of both Nepalese soldiers and Maoist terrorists. “Will this incessant worldwide civil strife ever end?” The terrorists were focusing their efforts this morning on trying to shut down the main Kathmandu airport. Dr. Zimmerman contacted us and said he would personally be in charge of getting us delivered safely to the airport.

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When he came to pick us up he was driving a well-marked ambulance from the Patan Hospital. They had collected a couple of white bed sheets from the hospital. He carefully drove through the streets of Kathmandu and right through the troops of terrorists. His friend was sitting in the passenger side of the ambulance leaning out and waving the white flag. Dr. Zimmerman was driving and waving the white flag out the driver’s window. We drove up very close to the front entry doors of the terminal. Dr. Zimmerman jumped out and personally escorted us until we walked through the doors of the waiting aircraft and found our seats.

Our trip had taken us completely around the world from Denver to Frankfurt to India to Nepal, to Bangkok, to Tokyo, to Seattle, and finally to Denver and Evergreen.  As you know, we had the privilege of living March 27 twice on our way home.  But sometimes you need that when you are slow learners and need another day to play catch-up!

Having Anna Marie on the trip had been as wonderful as I had imagined it would be.  She was such a trooper and every day God had allowed me to be with her made me appreciate all the more every single day of the past 42 years that we had been married.  Faithfully following God was paying great dividends and as everyone in the world with half a brain and one eye would know, we certainly did live a blessed and protected life.


INDIA JOURNAL -- 2002 (Part 5: Wonderful Rotary Folks of Gujarat)

Bhuj and Gujarat, India: March 21, 2002:

Nearly four hours later the beat-up Indian train pulled into the train yard of Surat, Gujarat.  It was dark and nearly 7 p.m.  Surat was a main train terminal for further travel east, west, north or south.  There were lots more people crammed together at the station.  By the time the train stabled it was 7:15 p.m.  We were supposed to be at a Rotary meeting especially called on our behalf at 7:30 p.m.

We hadn’t walked far down the station platform when we were met by Prafull Bhatt and his wife.  We wedged our entire luggage into their small car, and the five of us then pulled the car around our bodies.  We drove off through the Surat traffic to the 7:30 p.m. Rotary meeting.

It had been announced that Dr. Anna Marie Jackson and Dr. James W. Jackson would be special guests on March 15. Our credibility and wisdom were both enhanced, according to the people in Surat, when we didn’t show up.  It just would not have been smart to travel toward Ahmadabad when it was expected that the whole region was to erupt in violence.

But a crowd larger than they expected had shown up to see and hear us on March 21.  Several different district clubs had their presidents and representatives there.  They were very kind to us and showered us with gifts and accolades.  To think that we would travel to western India during their time of civil and political unrest to help them with their earthquake problem almost overwhelmed them.

It had been announced that I would speak to them, and they assured me that I was to take all the time I wanted.  They included Anna Marie in their presentations and gifts, which made it very comfortable for both of us.  Somehow they found out that my birthday was the next day, and it was cute the way they made a big deal of the occasion.

I started my talk by congratulating them on all the wonderful relief work that their clubs had spearheaded following the disasters.  I then explained the history and mission of Project C.U.R.E.’s work in 89 countries around the world.  I wanted to encourage them and also challenge them, and even though I knew most of them were Hindu, I felt quite free to tell them of the great influence and help that we had received from God both personally and with Project C.U.R.E.

I closed my talk by telling them the story of the little boy and his grandfather walking on the beach at low tide, and the little boy running ahead trying to throw all the stranded starfish back out into the water.  “Son, there’s 200 miles of beach and thousands of starfish, and you will never be able to save them all.  Besides it really doesn’t make any difference,” the grandfather insisted.  Then the little boy picked up another starfish and flung it as hard as he could out into the water and said, “Yes, but it makes a big difference to this one.”

I challenged them to arise to meet their own potential for significance, and I said, “We can make a difference and we can change our world.  Let’s do it together.” The group was very responsive and appreciative.  We all joined together for a wonderful dinner of Indian rice, curry, and vegetables.

Prafull Bhatt was a past Rotary governor, and his wife was in charge of all the matching grants in their district.  They had made arrangements after our dinner to adjourn to their home in Surat for a smaller meeting with area Rotary presidents, directors, and prominent physicians.  There we spent another hour and a half discussing how Project C.U.R.E., together with Rotary clubs in India and America, could partner in medical projects.

Friday, March 22
 
We woke up to the news that quite a high number of additional people had been killed in violent outbreaks over the night.  The situation was remaining under control in that it had not erupted into a full-blown civil war.  But it was still very dangerous.  We would all feel safer when we were finished with our India train ride and on our way to Nepal.  We would be riding on the same express train that was burned just a bit further north two weeks earlier. Anna Marie and I talked often about how nice it was going to be to finish in India and land in Kathmandu, Nepal where we would be able to enjoy a few stress-free, safe days to just unwind and peacefully relax a bit.

Much to my surprise Anna Marie and I went down to breakfast Friday morning to find that our host and hostess had arranged for a “Happy Birthday Breakfast Party” for me. They had invited some of the influential people of the community to join with us.  I had chocolate cake with “Happy Birthday James Jackson” written on it, and I even got to blow out a birthday candle.

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We were rushed to the train station to catch the 8:20 a.m. train back to Bombay.  One thing admirable about the Indian train system, they had maintained the old British custom of running their trains precisely on time.  At exactly 8:20, we rolled out of the Surat station.

About 20 miles down the track the train stopped at a station where it had been arranged for me to meet another one of India’s Rotarian governors. He was a dentist and extremely interested in working with Project C.U.R.E.  We had to talk and listen in rapid succession because our only time was the brief station stop of the train.  When the whistle blew I had to grab the rail of the coach and swing into the train in mid-sentence.  I got in “goodbye, nice to meet you,” and a quick wave.

As the old blue train pulled its bogies into the Bombay rail station we made another mad dash across the city to the airport. For over a week we had not slowed so much as to catch our breath.  Of course, because of the thick pollution in India you could live your entire life and not catch your breath. Inside the airport Anna Marie and I found a small cyber net coffee shop run by some entrepreneurial computer-whiz Indians.  For about $5 and two cups of Gold Label tea, we were able to check our e-mail and send messages home and on ahead of us to Dr. Mark Zimmerman in Kathmandu, Nepal. Royal Nepal Airlines flight #202 departed Bombay at 5:20 p.m. destined for Nepal. Now we could relax and be safe. Oh! . . . but were we in for a huge surprise . .
.
Next Week: Is world chaos the norm?


INDIA JOURNAL --2002 (Part 4)

Bombay, India: Wednesday, March 20, 2002: (Note: We had traveled from Bombay to Hyderabad, performed necessary needs assessments on the medical facilities; traveled to Orrisa State where scores of towns had been devastated by the “super cyclones”; performed needs assessments in cities of Cuttack, Bhubaneswar, and many smaller towns and villages. Now we were back in Bombay, ready to make another attempt into the dangerous areas of northwest India that had been destroyed by unprecedented earthquakes. We would be in the Surat areas of Bhuj and Gujarat along the troublesome border of Pakistan): I was beginning to see why we had felt strongly to travel to India as planned, even though from a civil and political perspective it had seemed quite dangerous for us physically.

Following breakfast, we checked out of the Bawa Hotel and boarded our Jet Airways flight #347 for Bhuj.  The city of Bhuj was located near the border of Pakistan, near the Arabian Sea on the western tip of India.  Bhuj was the epicenter of the massive earthquake that killed at least 30,000 people in a matter of two minutes on January 26, 2001.  In Colorado the US Geological Offices measured the earthquake at 7.7 on the Richter scale.  Nearly a million people were left homeless and an additional quarter of a million injured, all within a flash of time.

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In order to land in Bhuj the commercial airplanes had to use the landing strip of the Indian military base close by.  It was a strategic military encampment because it was a main defense on the troublesome border with Pakistan.  As we landed I could see the devastation that had taken place at the military installation.  Almost all the buildings were completely knocked down or at least rendered useless.  The jet fighter planes were housed in temporary camouflaged hangers.  I could only imagine how tight security was when we deplaned.

We stayed Wednesday night at a guest facility at Ghandidham called The Sharma, where we had dinner with a number of World Relief staff folks.

Thursday, March 21

The India Times or India Express newspapers were full each morning of sporadic incidents of the explosive political situation: “six people killed” here in Orissa or “police shoot 12 rioters” in Gujarat or “nine homes torched with people inside in Ahmadabad,” but the widespread murder and perhaps all-out war seemed to be postponed.  It was, indeed, a miracle.  The main towns and cities in Gujarat were under curfew and for a time, train service had been stopped through some areas.  The restraints were proving effective but everyone knew they were temporary.  As soon as the Supreme Court made its final decision there would be open violence.  Each side had openly declared that they would reject the ruling should it go against them. 

In the meantime, Anna Marie and I were tiptoeing through the minefields of violence.  God was mysteriously protecting us each step we were taking.  Anna Marie and I kept reminding ourselves of verses in Psalm 91: 

               He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most high

               shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.

               I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my

               fortress, my God, in him will I trust.

What we had seen of the result of the earthquakes was radically shocking to the senses.  Buildings were flattened to the ground.  Only mounds of rubble protruded up from the otherwise flattened landscape.  Occasionally, there would be one wall or a staircase still standing.  Once in a while there would be a commercial building still standing but the huge cracks in the walls and the caved-in roofs had left them uninhabitable.

People had sought temporary places to set up housekeeping.  Most were subsisting under pieces of salvaged timbers or metal beams pulled from the rubble with blue, plastic tarps stretched over for roofs to keep out the hot sun or the rains.  A few temporary, bamboo-and-banana-leaf structures had been brought in by disaster relief agencies.  But mostly the people were living under their own makeshift shelters made from the rubble of what once had been their own homes. 

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Mile after mile, village after village, and town after town in the Bhuj and Gujarat areas there were only flattened sites of devastation and hordes of people trying somehow to exist.  “The ground rose and fell, like the swelling of the tide of the sea.  When the surface rolled the structures crumbled apart and came to rest in piles of rubble.  What you once owned and thought valuable was destroyed and buried under your own piles of stone … the very stones you had used to build your beautiful house.”

We checked out of the Sharma in Ghandidham and traveled by car back to Bhuj.  Arrangements had been made for us to meet with the district governor of Rotary for the 3050 district of Gujarat in Bhuj.  Bharat M. Dholakia was an attorney and notary living in Nagar Chakio just outside Bhuj.

Some of the commercial buildings in Bhuj were still standing even though damaged.  We were to meet Bharat Dholakia along with the former Rotary Governor, Bharat Solanki, and the present Rotary district secretary, Dr. Azim Sheth, at a damaged office building in Bhuj. 

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We finally located the building on a narrow back street filled with rubble.  Governor Dholakia explained to us that he had totally lost his offices and everything in them as well as his home.  Nothing was left of the former governor’s business, and Dr. Sheth explained that his entire clinic had been ruined.  He was now trying to see patients out of his heavily damaged home.

The men were so grateful that we would come to Bhuj to meet them.  They told us that 20 Rotarians in just their club had been killed, and most of their businesses had been wiped out.  We discussed some possible projects together and got the paperwork started for some Rotary matching grants.  I admit that my heart really hurt for those businessmen.  It seemed to them that the world had forgotten them as soon as the crisis faded from the international headlines.  But on a day-to-day basis they were still dealing with their tragic losses and were bravely trying to pick up the pieces of broken businesses and shattered dreams.  Under the piles of dirt and ashes were all their files and accounts, but their assets were gone as were many of their lifelong friends and partners.

As we returned to the military base in Bhuj to depart for Bombay we, once again, met with very tight security and heavily armed soldiers who constantly trained their weapons on us.  We were right next to the India Air Force jet fighters as they were taking off for their reconnaissance missions along the Pakistan border.  Our shuttle had to make its way from the gate at the highway by dodging around the stacked sandbags and foxholes currently being occupied, out to where we boarded our plane.

Our schedule was very tight.  We would fly back to Bombay and have just barely enough time to go from the airport to the Bombay train station where we would catch the train north to Surat city in Gujarat. Fortunate for us, our bags were the first off the conveyor belt at the Bombay airport.  A man and a car had been scheduled to meet us just in front of the busy airport.  The driver kept one hand on the horn button in the car as he sped across Bombay narrowly missing beggars, merchants, trucks, and holy cows.  With just minutes to spare before the Indian train pulled out of the station our driver slid his car to a stop in the dirt and gravel outside the dirty, crowded train station.

Most everyone was already on the train who had tickets. Anna Marie had never been in an Indian train station.  I knew if she were ever to have a cultural panic attack it would be at a local train station.  It really is difficult to reduce to words the sensational damage you receive at such a place.  The filth, grime, poverty, perversity, stench, and noise would startle even well-seasoned wanderers.  The people had absolutely no concept of private space, which we Americans seemed to expect.  In a grocery store or in an American airport we would expect the other person not to invade the presumed space barrier that encircled us in some mystical way.  When someone came too close or bumped us they were more than likely going to get a crusty look, at the least.  But in the third-world countries, especially in horribly crowded places like India, memories of private space and polite civilities served only to mock your sensitivities.  You are going to get pushed, shoved, and pawed at by beggars, and people are going to knock you out of your position in the queue every time there is a chance.  Putrid smells of rotting food, rancid bodies, and acidic urine will slam your olfactory portals like a 10-megaton bomb hitting an Afghanistan cave.

We were trying to push our way through the crowd to get to our designated train coach.  I happened a glance at Anna Marie’s face.  Her eyes were as full as moons in October, and most of the blood had drained from her already transparent Scandinavian skin.  But she was stepping right along, determined to keep up. I saw her look twice at all the people crammed into the end coach cars.  They were already hanging out the windows and doors, and every sardine inside the can was carrying loads of stuff being toted either to or from the market.  I could tell she was thinking, “Oh, how will we, with all of our luggage, fit into this hot, sticky mess?”

We kept nearly running toward the front of the train where we had reservations in a sleeping car.  You must pay a bit more for those accommodations, but the rail company limited the riders to only six in a small compartment.  I knew we all could handle that. Once on board, we found our compartment just as the brakeman blew his whistle and the train started forward with a lurch.  We had to run out a couple of free-loading squatters who had wanted to occupy our seats thinking that we were not going to show up at such a late call.

As I settled into my bench seat the train began to pick up speed.  On the other side of the glass windows of the compartment stark reality slid along the landscape.  Poverty, shanty huts with corrugated tin roofs, raw sewage running openly toward the train tracks, women in dirty but brightly colored saris, scads of naked kids playing with discarded pieces of rope, and wheels broken off from junk carts and old scooters.  People, people, and millions more people.  How did they exist?  Where would they scavenge for their food?  Had they ever taken a bath, or did the filth finally accumulate to a level where it flaked or chipped off?  Did they really find solace in thinking that they would be reincarnated into something better in another 25 or 40 years?  How many of them could look and read any part of the sign that said “sleeper car” on this coach?  Had they ever wondered what the strange ink figures on a piece of newspaper were trying to convey, or did it even matter to them?

My mind went back to the devastated villages in the earthquake and cyclone areas.  Why weren’t the Hindu and Muslim “do-gooders” doing anything humanitarian to help their own countrymen?  It seemed that the only effective relief and reconstruction projects were being carried out by Christian-based organizations, and that was in a country where the population was 82% Hindu and 13% Muslim.

I closed my eyes and welcomed the gentle swaying of the train coach, which seemed to rock some security and sensibility back into my soul.  “Project C.U.R.E. was the right thing to do.  I wanted to spend all the rest of the energy allotted to me in boasting not of wisdom or strength or wealth, but that I would know and would understand God who exercised loving kindness, justice, and righteousness.  I wanted to delight in those things just as he does.”

Next Week: The wonderful Rotary folks of Gujarat


INDIA JOURNAL -- 2002 (Part 3)

I never really expected a St. Patrick’s Day card would ever be given to me in Bombay, India.  But upon awakening at the Tulip Hotel Sunday morning, Anna Marie presented me with a card she had brought along for her Irishman.

Upon good advice, we were headed south to escape the riots and bloodshed in Gujarat. By 6:00 a.m. we had checked out of our hotel and were in a small taxi headed for the Bombay airport to fly to the large interior city of Hyderabad.  After a couple of days in Hyderabad we would fly on to the Bhubaneswar - Cuttack area and then on to Orrisa on the east coast of India. 

After checking in I picked up an India Times newspaper and to my amazement read of how over 300 rioters had stormed the legislative facilities in Orissa.  We were flying from Hyderabad into Orissa thinking that we were staying out of harm’s way that was in Gujarat on the west side of India.  We would see if we could now play hopscotch successfully around the violence in the east. 

Upon landing in Bhubaneswar, Anna Marie and I were met by Dr. Ranjan Singh, and taken to the Blue Lagoon Hotel to check in.  We were in the heart of rural, eastern India.  We would be spending Sunday and Monday primarily in Cuttack, an area, along with Bhubaneswar of about 2.8 million people.

Dr. Singh was eager to have us visit his hospital.  Following graduation from medical school he had gone to Calcutta to specialize in surgery.  When he returned to Cuttack he worked at the government hospital and medical school, but at the same time opened his own small clinic and lab on one of the side streets of Cuttack. Over the years he had built his “Seba” hospital into an impressive facility, but he desperately needed Project C.U.R.E. to help him out with medical supplies and equipment pieces. I admired what Dr. Singh had accomplished. 

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Dr. Singh was also an active Rotarian.  Before we left we were able to get all the papers signed that would help secure some matching grant money from International Rotary to help cover the costs of shipping the container of Project C.U.R.E.’s donations in the future.

Monday, March 18
 
Orissa state had experienced a devastating weather phenomenon.  A storm developed over the Bay of Bengal that weathermen referred to as a “super cyclone.” As the storm moved onto the coastline it brought incredible winds, but more devastating was the water that accompanied the storm.  The sea was actually pushed up onto the shore and then inland for miles.  When the cyclone abated, all the water that had flooded the inland rushed back out to the sea with such force that it carried everything in its path back out to the Bay of Bengal.  Tens of thousands of people were swept out to the sea and drowned.  There had never really been any accurate accounting of how many lives were lost.

Entire villages were washed away.  The village of Bagadia, located a full four miles inland, was left under eight feet of water once the water had swept back out to the sea.  As we viewed the devastation we were urged to join Operation Mobilization to help bring needed relief to Bagadia.

We drove back along the Bay of Bengal then turned directly west for another nearly four-hour drive to Cuttack.  While driving I once again observed the driving habits of the people in India.  Perhaps of the nearly 100 countries in which I have traveled, no other drivers were as dangerous as those in India.  I thought to myself, “In America we drive defensively . . . in India they drive defiantly.”  I still think that the way the TATA truck drivers operated their rigs in India reflected the fact that most of them were either from the lowest caste level or of the untouchables beneath the caste floor.  Behind the wheel of the huge trucks they had the ability to finally level the power-tilted social playing field, and if their recklessness resulted in their death they could only return as something better.  That was just an unofficial opinion on my observations.  But they frightened the puddin’ out of me.

Tuesday, March 19
 
A crazy thing had happened in the riot riddled area of Ayodhya on the west coast of India.  The Supreme Court of India had taken the whole Hindu temple issue under consideration.  That had an effect on the people to slow down their violence and wait for the Court’s decision.  Neither side would abide by the decision when it came down, but it temporarily defused the explosive face-off.  The other interesting thing accomplished by the government as a conciliatory measure was to allow the shiladaan stone of the Hindus to be delivered and presented on an adjacent site in Ayodhya rather than the actual temple site.  That allowed the Muslims to claim that they had kept the Hindus from declaring the construction had officially begun on the old site of their mosque, and at the same time, allowed the Hindu holy people to claim that the sacred stone had been officially delivered.

Somehow the pleas of the officials for peace and calm had temporarily postponed the radical bloodshed.  Be that as it may, it had allowed us an opening to travel through the “hot spots” during the small opening of the window of opportunity.  We would go ahead with our plans to return to Bombay and push for the trip into Gujarat.

We checked out of the Blue Lagoon Hotel in Cuttack and were taken back to the airport in Bhubaneswar where we caught an India Air flight back to Bombay and made our way to the Bawa Hotel not far from the airport. That night we purchased our tickets for our ride on March 20 from Bombay to Surat.  We needed to check our e-mail messages, but the hotel computers were all down. We walked the streets of Bombay that night until we found a cyber storefront where we could connect to the Internet. 
 
It was nearly 10 p.m. by the time we walked back to the Bawa Hotel.  Bombay is not a pretty or desirable sight that time of the night.  Leprosy victims and scores of little children, some toting babies on their hip, mobbed us as we quickly walked down the dark streets.  Off in the shadows I spotted the “beggar masters” who organized the beggars and directed their actions.  They are like pimps are for prostitutes.  The beggar masters not only encouraged and controlled their herd of street beggars, but would force them to take only a certain percentage of the money while they kept the rest.  Begging was a huge business in India.

Wednesday, March 20
 
Over 700 people had been killed during the civil unrest, including the people torched in the train incident.  But, God had protected us and we had been able to sidestep the mêlée.  But the most precarious part of our trip was yet ahead of us.  Wednesday our travels would be within the state of Gujarat where the majority of the killings and conflicts had taken place.  We felt that we would be safe if we flew from Bombay to Bhuj.  If we were to go by train we would have to go through Ahmadabad and the other cities where the majority of the killings had taken place.  Curfews had been placed on almost all those towns, so flying was really the only option.

Next Week: A second attempt into the riot area


INDIA JOURNAL --2002 (Part 2)

History-making cyclones had struck the eastern part of India in the region of Orissa, leaving over 10,000 dead and hundreds of thousands homeless.In January 2001, massive earthquakes had also hit India’s western region of Gujarat.  The quake registered an unbelievable 7.7 on the Richter scale and left over 30,000 people dead, over 165,000 injured, and almost one million people without homes or economic support.

When the earthquakes and the super cyclones hit India, Project C.U.R.E. became immediately involved.  I had never viewed Project C.U.R.E. as a “disaster relief” organization because I had always felt that we could be of more value coming alongside an organization or institution and helping them on a long-term basis than we could by chasing disasters.

However, we were approached to help out in both the western Gujarat area as well as the eastern Orissa area. From our Project C.U.R.E. warehouse in Rochester, England, Project C.U.R.E. UK had sent emergency medical goods to the earthquake victims, and from our warehouse in Phoenix, Arizona, Project C.U.R.E. had sent goods to Orissa.  But the real need would still prove to be in the long-term reconstruction of destroyed medical facilities in both venues.  Requests for help began pouring into our Denver headquarters and the pressure was on us to get to the locations and perform the needs assessment studies so that we could begin to ship the much-needed containers of donated medical supplies and pieces of equipment into the crippled areas.

Additionally, we had been getting pressure to perform a needs assessment trip into Kathmandu, Nepal.  Some wonderful people in Denver had earlier become involved in spearheading donations of cash and goods to the Patan Hospital in the old Patan section of Kathmandu City. I decided to see if we could combine both assessment assignments into one trip. 

Tuesday, March 12
In India’s grievous history, there supposedly stood a Hindu temple on holy ground near a place called Ayodhya not far from the major western city of Ahmadabad in the state of Gujarat.  Previous conflicts between the militant Muslims and the radical Hindu sects had resulted in the Muslims desecrating the holy site by destroying the Hindu shrine and building in its place, on the very spot, a Muslim mosque.

In 1992 the Hindu radicals attacked the mosque and tore it down piece by piece and burned it.  Riots broke out across India where thousands of people were either killed or injured, and surrounding properties were burned or looted.  The Hindus made declaration that they would rebuild their temple and reconsecrate the holy ground.  They had declared that on March 15, 2002, they would march to the holy site with a sacred stone called a “shiladaan,” which would commemorate the official beginning of the temple construction.  Earlier, the Supreme Court had ruled that the Hindu temple should not be rebuilt and the government purchased the surrounding property in order to block the building.  But none of that was going to stop the Hindus from reclaiming the lost honor of their gods, who had suffered for such a long time under the Muslims.

Hindu pilgrims began taking the public trains to Ayodhya to support the move to rebuild the Hindu temple. On Wednesday, February 27, the Indian trains were packed with passengers headed to Ahmadabad.  The Sabarmati Express had just pulled into the Godhra station.  Muslims were at the station shouting anti-Hindu slogans.  The train pulled out of the station only a short distance when someone pulled the emergency stop handle.  Immediately, the train was attacked by rock-throwing hoodlums who began smashing out the windows of the railcars.

The frightened passengers in a second-class sleeping car pulled down the shades and locked the coach doors.  Soon burning rags, Molotov cocktails, and bottles of acid landed inside the train car while the attackers doused the outside of the coach with gasoline and kerosene.  Almost immediately sleeper car S-6 and the adjoining coaches were on fire.  There was absolutely no escape for the passengers inside who were burned alive.

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Of the 58 people who burned in S-6, 26 were women and 16 were children.  An additional 50 or more were injured in the burning ambush.  Then rumors quickly spread that in order to teach the Hindu pilgrims a lesson, the Muslims had also kidnapped and raped Hindu women.

Riots broke out all over India.  People were killed and properties were torched in Bombay, Ahmadabad, and Hyderabad, and as far away as New Delhi and Calcutta.  Everyone figured that the violence was only a precursor to what might happen on March 15 when the Hindus marched to Ayodhya with the shiladaan.

For me, it was an interesting situation.  All through the mess I still felt that it was necessary that we go ahead with our plans to travel to India.  I continued to monitor the situation closely on the Internet.  On March 6, we received an e-mail from Havshida Bhatt, the wife of the former Rotary governor in Surat in the state of Gujarat.  Her e-mail stated, “Not advise to do any travel in Gujarat.  The worst riots are going on.  There is a curfew in Surat, Baroda, Ahmadabad, and Rajkot.  Advise him to postpone the trip.”

We prayed for direction and wisdom.  There was still the calm insistence that we should continue on our plan to travel on the dates already arranged.  Once we got to Bombay we could further assess the situation on March 14. Our Lufthansa flight took us to Frankfurt, then on to Bombay, India. We landed about 2:00 a.m.

Wednesday, March 14

I had made reservations to stay at the Centaur Hotel close to Bombay’s domestic airport and had told our people that Anna Marie and I would either catch a shuttle or a taxi to the Centaur Hotel. We would meet up with them in the morning. I had landed in India before in the middle of the night.  I knew what to expect at the airport.  But it was a first for Anna Marie.  Bombay was hot, muggy, and stinky even in the middle of the night.  We were suddenly surrounded by thousands of desperate people.  They were everywhere, pushing, grubbing, begging, and others sleeping wherever they could find a space large enough to lie down.

I was walking ahead of Anna Marie pushing a path through all the bodies as we pulled our wheelie suitcases toward a taxi.  “Oh, honey,” I heard Anna Marie gasp.  “I just ran my suitcase over the feet of a sleeping beggar.  I didn’t see his feet sticking out.  What should I do?” 

“Keep walking, baby,” I shouted back.  “Don’t slow down here.” It was 3:30 a.m. when we got checked into the hotel.

Two Indian gentlemen met us at the Centaur Hotel later Thursday morning. Alphy Franks andGideon Peter had flown to Bombay just to meet us. We discussed at length the situation that was unfolding in India.  The next day, March 15, the Hindus would march to the proposed temple site at Ayodhya.  If violence was sparked, riots would instantly erupt all over India.  The train burning had already heightened the emotions of religious radicals on both sides to a frightening frenzy.

I shared with Alphy and Gideon that our schedule for the Indian trip included going by train from Bombay up to Surat in Gujarat state to meet the Rotary people on March 15 and spend about three days with them viewing projects.  Then, we were to fly from Bombay across the country to the Calcutta area and visit Orissa state to view Dr. Singh’s projects and the cyclone projects from March 18 to 21.  On March 22 we would fly north to Kathmandu, Nepal, for the last needs assessment assignment for the trip.

Alphy and Gideon had traveled to meet us in Bombay to tell us of the acute danger of traveling in Gujarat over the days around March 15 and to urge us to reverse our India travel schedule.  Their suggestion was for us to leave Bombay and fly further south away from the flash point of the trouble to Hyderabad. Then, travel from Hyderabad to Orissa State and meet with Dr. Singh and also view the cyclone projects near Cuttack and Bhubaneswar.  By that time we would all know what was going to happen at Ayodhya and be able to determine whether or not it would be safe enough to return to Gujarat.

I told Alphy and Gideon at the end of our discussion that I believed God had sent to us words of wisdom through them.  I asked them to help us with all the necessary scheduling changes including train tickets, airline tickets, and hotels.  The changes would also make it necessary to contact the Rotary people and Dr. Singh and let them know of our thinking.

Next Week: Trying to stay out of harms way


 

GOOD NEWS--Progress report on new journal books: "Roads I Traveled Delivering Health and Hope"

We announced earlier, Winston-Crown Publishing House, LTD. is in the process of publishing all of Dr. Jackson’s actual field journals and making them available to his readers. It is estimated that it will take twelve separate, oversized books, to accommodate all the exciting stories, adventures, and photos covering the twenty-five-year saga of the unique organization affectionately known as Project C.U.R.E. The stories reveal the heartaches, thrills, disappointments, and personal dangers experienced while trying to build an international humanitarian enterprise that would be capable of delivering health and hope to tens of thousands of needy people around the world. 

The good news is - - as of the end of this week, six of the twelve books will have been published and are ready to go. It has been the determination of the publisher not to make the books available for sale until all the books are presentable in a commemorative package. It has also been agreed that all proceeds from sales will go directly to Project C.U.R.E. and their exceptional projects around the world.

Now, you can see why we are so excited! We are well over halfway to the finish line.

We will keep you updated on the progress. In the meantime, we will be sharing excerpts here on this blog site, taken directly from the pages of Dr. Jackson’s international journals. Enjoy!
 
                                                  INDIA JOURNAL -  2002
                                                                 (Part 1)
                                                     Dr. James W. Jackson

INDIA AND NAPAL JOURNAL: March 12-28, 2002: India had the reputation of being a terribly needy place.  As my previous journals would indicate, I had already traveled extensively throughout India. From Delhi, I had traveled by Jeep north through the Kulu Valley over the treacherous snow-covered Himalayas into the Spiti Valley and Tibet along the China border.  Another trip had taken me to Calcutta, then south and east along the coastline to Visakhapatnam and the “rock breakers” of Rajahmundry.  Yet another trip had taken me to Hyderabad then to the southern sections of India.  And, I could recall that my very first trip had dumped me into Madras from Kuala Lumpur arriving all alone in the midst of lepers, thieves, and beggars at about 2 in the morning.

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Of course, I could never forget another trip, flying into Bombay then to Delhi, and on into Mizoram, Manipur, and Nagaland, with Drew Dixon.  There, we experienced getting mixed up in a civil uprising and coup where, before it was all over, we found ourselves staring down the barrels of the Assam Indian Army’s automatic weapons, trying to explain what we were doing out in a war zone.

India was a pitifully needy place with a population of over one billion and poverty and squalor wherever you looked.  However, a lot of folks were very wealthy in India.  For example, if you had the money, you could receive healthcare in private hospitals rivaling those in the US.  I had become acquainted with wealthy people in India who lived in plush homes, drove sleek cars, and maintained lifestyles equal to the rich and famous anywhere else on earth.

Some 82% of the Indian citizens were Hindu, 12% were Muslim, and barely over 2% were Christian.  If India could experience a thoroughly equal free market economy and society, there would be wealth galore for everyone.  The natural resources were certainly at the citizens’ disposal if they could only access them.  Hardly any other continent in history could boast of a workforce of a billion people.  But their economy and social structure was so intertwined with their religious beliefs that real wealth and production would get constipated before relief could be experienced.

The whole concept of birth, lust, procreation, and finally, acceptance of death placed the Hindu believer in a damning cycle that was only modified by the idea of incarnation.  Hope would spring only from the possibility of being recycled into something better in the next go-around.  You needed to accept where you were and what you were in the present life and hope things would get better when you came back the next time.  That philosophy gave continuation to the deadly controlling factors of the caste system.  “Placidly accept what you have in the present life and you will be promoted as you pop from the womb into the next recycling bin.”

At the highest level of the caste system you would find the “Brahmans.”  Originally, they were the priests and scholars.  Now, that included even hotel managers, chefs, and other recognized professionals.

Next in line in the system are the “Kshatriyas,” the warriors and rulers, today’s politicians.  The “Vaisyas” category followed, including the merchants, farmers, and traders.  Last in the caste system would be the “Sudras,” the laborers, artisans, servants, and other common workers. 

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Below the lowest caste level would be the people of no caste designation.  They really messed up somewhere along the recycling line but not so bad as to reappear as an animal.  They were referred to as the “Untouchables” or “Harijans.”  Their level of separation seemed to fall along the continuum of pollution vs. purity.  They were relegated to tasks of “pollution” not acceptable to any person within the caste system.  They slaughtered animals, tanned leather, and were the “rock breakers,” some of whom I had met in Rajahmundry.  Physical contact with those people would defile anyone in the caste levels.  In recent years legislation had tried to outlaw the discrimination leveled against the Untouchables.  But, just changing their nomenclature to “Dalits” hadn’t changed the convenience afforded those even in the lowest level of the caste system upon having another group of individuals in society even lower than they.

During the British colonization of India, the English never really figured out how to unravel the death grip of the Hindus’ reincarnation, caste system, complacent resistance, civil disobedience, and movements of non-cooperation.  They finally figured the price was too high to continue their involvement in India and in August 15, 1947, pulled up stakes and sailed home.

It had really only been in very recent times that India had shown a positive blip on the screen of economic progress.  The technology industry had tended to ignore the restrictions of the caste system.  Multinational organizations from the US, Japan, and Great Britain couldn’t have cared less about the cultural status of a national worker in India.  If the individual was smart enough to design, build, engineer, or service computers or other high-tech systems, they were hired and could become very rich.  In 2002, over 80% of all computer programmers in the world were men and women from Indian decent.  Their minds were keen and their technical creativity unequaled.  The world of the computer was finally somewhat blurring the lines of the caste system and allowing real wealth to trickle down through the Indian economic structure.  With that wealth Indians were becoming highly mobile and were becoming participants in a more global economy and social structure.

Next Week: Our involvement in India’s unending natural disasters.    
 


SO, WHAT'S THE SCORE? I'LL BET YOU NEVER KNEW

Many times in the 30-year history of Project C.U.R.E. I was tempted to believe: The task is too daunting, the enemy too great, somebody keeps moving the finish line, and just how do you bridge the gap and fill in this bottomless hole of poverty, sickness, corruption, and death? The response was always: take another deep breath, schedule one more international assessment trip, send out one more ocean-going cargo container of medical supplies, keep swinging, keep fighting, keep pushing. I would often draw on biblical admonitions like:

“So, take a new grip with your tired hands, stand firm on your shaky legs, and mark out a straight, smooth path for your feet so that those who follow you though weak and lame, will not fall and hurt themselves, but become strong.” (Heb. 12:12)

But we never really knew if we were making significant headway in the race. We knew we were saving thousands of precious lives and transforming thousands of needy hospitals and clinics, and encouraging tens of thousands of struggling doctors and nurses. We knew that if there were to be strong economies in the developing countries, those economies would have to be built on strong and healthy people. We just kept at the task.

Recently, however, a friend of Project C.U.R.E.’s President, Dr. Douglas Jackson, wrote a book, published by Simon & Schuster, entitled, “The Great Surge.” Steven Radelet is the author. He is a professor at Georgetown University and over the past thirty years has become a distinguished expert and advisor to developing nations. Thanks to Dr. Radelet’s incomparable and painstaking work, we now have a scoreboard erected at the end of the playing field. We can now get a glimpse of the real score. Radelet claims:

“We live at a time of the greatest development progress among the global poor in the history of the world. Never before have so many people, in so many developing countries, made so much progress in so short a time in reducing poverty, increasing incomes, improving health, reducing conflict and war, and spreading democracy.”

Dr. Radelet goes on to explain that over 1 billion people have been lifted out of extreme poverty during the past twenty years. But few people would have ever heard of such a thing or believed it should they have heard the information regarding one of the greatest achievements in human history. He cites a recent survey showing that 66 percent of Americans believe that the portion of the world’s population living in extreme poverty has doubled during the last two decades, and another 29 percent thought it has stayed roughly the same. That means that 95 percent of Americans would have totally missed this revolutionary news. The real score is that the average income for hundreds of millions of people in dozens of poor countries has more than doubled.

In 1960 twenty-two out of every hundred children born in developing countries died before their fifth birthday. Now it is only five. Seventeen more kids out of a hundred have a chance to live today. In 1990 nearly thirteen million children died from preventable diseases. By 2013 that number was down to 6.3 million. There has been an increase in life expectancy. In 1960 life expectancy was around fifty years. Now life expectancy is 66 years. Today, people born in developing countries can expect to live one-third longer than just twenty years ago.

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Dr. Radelet goes on to show how this unprecedented progress is effecting the ravages of poverty, creative methods of increasing incomes, development of broader access to and better practices in health care and education, and a wide spread of democratic practices in local and national politics.

We have been an engaged and active participant in this global phenomenon since it started. Just look at the scoreboard. We are actually beginning to win this ball game!

I was incredibly encouraged as I read Steven Radelet’s book. Thanks Steve, for your indefatigable work. This is Project C.U.R.E.’s 30th year of procuring and delivering donated medical supplies and pieces of medical equipment into over 130 developing countries around the world. We have now become the largest handler of donated medical goods in the world. It is humbling to know that the simple efforts of all the staff and volunteers at Project C.U.R.E. have added to the score in a monumental way. Wahooo! and Yipeee! . . . we are winning. Together, we really can make a difference for good in this old world!

“We live at a time of the greatest development progress among the global poor in the history of the world. Never before have so many people, in so many developing countries, made so much progress in so short a time in reducing poverty, increasing incomes, improving health, reducing conflict and war, and spreading democracy.”

Let’s keep this global phenomenon going. The rewards are definitely worth all the efforts. 

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QUANTIFIABLE RESPONSIBILITY

I don’t speak or write very often about the subject of fear. It isn’t that I’m such a brave fellow. It’s just that all the nooks and crannies of my Scotch-Irish disposition seem to be filled up with happy stuff. I try to choose happy over scared. Over decades of international travel, however, there have been some occasions when I probably should have been more afraid.

In 2004, I had just returned to Denver from a physically exhausting trip to Papua New Guinea, Tonga, and India and was headed that July morning for Montenegro. I experienced a situation that shook me to my emotional core. It was a fear I had never known before.

In order for me to catch my international flight, I had set our alarm clock for 4:30 Saturday morning. As I was headed to the shower, I was nearly overwhelmed by a most unusual and austere sensation. A powerful temptation was hammering me: “You have absolutely no need to head off to the Balkans this morning. You’re exhausted. Go back to bed and sleep. There is really no quantitative measure of responsibility for what you’re doing. No one can say, ‘Jim Jackson didn’t go to old Yugoslavia today, so forty-two people died.’ Since that can’t be measured or quantified, there can be no measurable responsibility either. You’re justified in staying home!” 

Indeed, it was a strange confrontation. The implications of the incident frightened me. It was true: I wasn’t observably responsible for goodness that might or might not come as a result of trip to old Yugoslavia. No other person was forcing me to get up and catch that flight. My responsibility ran along a different line.

I knew I needed to get on that airplane. The simplicity of responding to what I knew I needed to do was the real issue of responsibility. The rest would flow as a consequence of my obedience. I somehow knew that the compelling temptation to compromise—to lie down and go back to sleep—would have neutralized my clear imperative. I also intuitively knew that the neutralization would be contagious and affect my focus and dedication to what I was ultimately trying to accomplish. Exhaustion couldn’t even compare to what it would have felt like to quit. 

For the next few weeks, I couldn’t get the incident out of my mind: There is really no quantitative measure of responsibility for what you’re doing. No one can say, “Jim Jackson didn’t go to old Yugoslavia today, so forty-two people died.” Since that can’t be measured or quantified, there can be no measurable responsibility either. You’re justified in staying home! It scared me every time I thought about it! 

Six months earlier, while traveling in Zambia, I had performed a Needs Assessment Study at the Mwandi Mission Hospital. The hospital was beautifully situated on a wide bend of the river that flowed into the great Zambezi River. I had already asked hospital director Dr. Wezi Kaonga most of my needs-assessment questions, when he related to me some tragic news. His wife was also a doctor in the pediatrics and community-health departments. Dr. Kaonga told me that he and his doctor-wife were getting ready to leave Zambia. Recently their two-and-a-half-year-old son had contracted pneumonia. That shouldn’t have been too difficult for Mom and Dad to handle, since they were both well-trained doctors, and Mom was an experienced pediatrician. 

Without warning, however, the little child died with both of them there. The grief was unbearable. They had succumbed to the overwhelming and paralyzing temptation of concluding, “If we’re both doctors and cannot even save our own baby boy from pneumonia, then we shouldn’t accept the responsibility of trying to save other people’s children.” The mother had already moved out of Mwandi, having declared that she would never again practice in the field of pediatrics. 

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My heart broke for them. It appeared they were allowing the quantifiable results of failure in one situation to define their future responsibilities. 

In contrast to that sad situation of perceived responsibility in Zambia, I was reminded of my good friend Dr. Kunar, who ran a free clinic in Rajahmundry, a city of nearly half a million people in eastern India. He belonged to a family of the high Brahmin caste but had specifically felt the need to take medical attention and help to the untouchables, the lowest-ranking people of India. 

That wasn’t a very politically correct decision, as Dr. Kunar explained to me: “You see, Dr. Jackson, it was a miracle that I’m a doctor in India. I was the first person to graduate from the medical school with that stated commitment. I finished second in my class, even though they did everything they could to turn me out and keep me from passing my exams. The governments of India had not addressed the severe needs of the poor and powerless. But I was supposed to be a doctor to the poorest people in this area, and it’s happening now.” 

That was the same attitude that had made the endeavors of Mother Teresa such a startling phenomenon in India. She might not have been able to change the world alone, but the stone she cast across the waters created many ripples.1 Mother Teresa and my friend Dr. Kunar had each faced insurmountable oppression and resistance in India. Others had demanded that their dedication to their tasks and their devotion to hurting people were really quite foolish, unnecessary, and out of sync with the reality of the culture. 

Yet neither Mother Teresa nor Dr. Kunar yielded to the idea that they had absolutely no need to get involved in helping the untouchables in Calcutta or Rajahmundry. No one could possibly have held it against them if thousands of people died because they never showed up to help. Since those results couldn’t be measured or quantified, there could be no measurable responsibility either. Yet each of them patently rejected that line of reasoning. 

Mother Teresa and Dr. Kunar knew that even though they would never live to see the full results of their efforts, their simple and willing obedience to doing what they knew they should do was the real issue of responsibility. Over the years I’ve tried to keep track of the work of my friend Dr. Kunar in Rajahmundry. No one else really cared about the untouchable rock breakers, who earned the equivalent of four dollars a week, and on average lived to be only twenty-seven years old. Dr. Kunar didn’t have to do what he was doing, but he followed his heart and dedicated himself to doing what needed to be done.

I’m eternally grateful that I got up, showered, and caught my flight to Montenegro that Saturday morning in July. The thought of how easy it was for me to rationalize staying at home rather than doing what I knew I ought to do still frightens me.

I want my life to be defined by instant and complete obedience to what I intuitively know I ought to do rather than cleverly justifying a choice that might ultimately neutralize any intended good I might do.


POVERTY

Poverty is a tragically slippery word. It can be massaged and bent to validate almost any point. Some think that if we would just stop practicing poverty, we wouldn’t have any more poor people. Martin Fisher once made the ill-advised comment, “The great doctors all got their education off dirt pavements and poverty—not marble floors and foundations.” And H. Rap Brown famously said, “You see, the poverty programs for the last five years have been buy-off programs.” 

The English word poverty came from the Anglo-Norman word poverte, and originally from the Latin word paupertat, which means “poor.” At its core, poverty refers to the lack of possessions to meet basic human needs. To further delineate the term, groups like the United Nations and the World Bank create categories of “absolute poverty” and “relative poverty” and varying standards of living. Bookshelves and web pages are packed with theories and opinions about the origins, causes, and consequences of poverty, as well as the proposed cures. It is, however, a shameful day indeed when we discover that by our own behavior, or our government’s behavior, we have been guilty of contributing to the bondage of poverty. 

These few paragraphs can’t possibly tackle the vast subject of poverty in its entirety. But I do want to share what I have personally seen and experienced since my first involvement in international travel and economic consulting. Specifically, I want to pass on the differences I’ve observed between the countries that experience relative wealth and those that experience relative poverty. I have traveled in more than 150 countries and have visited a large number of countries several times. I have had the opportunity to become personal friends with ministers of finance, ministers of health, presidents, prime ministers, and kings and have had the privilege of speaking at many universities in developing countries. Economics is a hot topic in these countries and evokes spontaneous questions and lively discussion if given a chance. 

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In the course of my travels, I’ve come to realize that certain practices separate wealthy countries from poor countries. Countries that pursue the following practices are wealthy or are becoming wealthy, while those that don’t are poor or are becoming poor:

  • Government is willing to allow the people to break the cycle of poverty. Ronald Reagan has been credited with saying, “Poverty is a career for lots of well-paid people.” The inevitable consequence of poverty is dependence. As in the case of subsistence farming, it’s a great temptation for the leaders of developing countries to allow the people to remain poor and dependent. It’s much easier to govern poor people who spend all their energy and time on daily survival. They don’t create any problems for the government, but the country remains poor.    
  • The people are given the right to hold and freely exchange private property. Private ownership of resources includes the rights of exclusive use and transfer.
  • Individuals are free to enter into voluntary agreements and contracts with each other.  
  • The rule of law is established and applied equally to all parties. Making agreements and contracts assumes that a third party will act as an objective enforcer. Contracts are meaningless if they aren’t enforced.  
  • Individuals are free to fail. Everyone in the transaction must be better off, or the deal will fail. If the deal is successful, wealth is created. If the deal fails, the individuals involved in the deal must learn why it failed and discover what will make it succeed.   
  • Society as a whole understands that the pursuit of an individual’s best interests isn’t necessarily greed (i.e., pursuit of self-interest is different from selfishness).   
  • Society rejects the zero-sum mentality, which asserts that when one person gets a piece of the pie, another is deprived of his or her piece. Wealthy societies, by contrast, ascribe to the view that the pie is big enough for everyone. Getting a piece of the pie doesn’t prevent another person from getting a piece as well. Successful transactions create wealth. And people create successful business transactions. Just because someone creates new wealth doesn’t mean that someone else ends up with less. Wealth creation springs from people who are allowed to freely participate in business transactions.   

To break the cycle of poverty in a developing country, income must be created. But income can only be created when resources are used to produce the goods and services people need. Countries like Vietnam, Cambodia, and China now understand and encourage that concept, and as a result, they are increasing their wealth. Those countries that don’t allow such practices—like Zimbabwe, Mauritania, and Cuba—remain in poverty.    


ALL THAT IS NOT GIVEN IS LOST

One of the universal principles of stewardship is that I can hold on too tightly and lose everything or become richer by giving away what I have. The spirit of selfishness and hoarding trumps wisdom and blocks me from the subtle insights as to what and when I should let go. The tighter I grasp on to something, the faster it squeezes right through my fingers, and suddenly it’s gone. This principle is equally true for corporations, institutions, and individuals. Stewardship and benevolence just make good sense and good business. 

By watering other people and reaching out to meet their needs, we actually water ourselves. What we hoard we lose; what we give away and plant in the lives of others returns to us in multiplied measure. And in the final analysis, all that is not given away is lost. Project C.U.R.E. is one of the best examples of how this principle works out every day in the real world. 

In the business model and daily operations of Project C.U.R.E., we are dependent upon donations from other people and institutions. The thousands of lives that are saved through the efforts of Project C.U.R.E. are a direct result of the benevolence of others. We work expressly with medical manufacturers, medical wholesale businesses, and end users of medical goods. In a joint effort, we collect, process, inventory, warehouse, and distribute those medical supplies and equipment to needy hospitals and medical clinics around the world. We openly explain the benefits to them and their businesses of our working together. Then we ask them specifically to donate to us from their inventories. They believe in us and  the cause we represent, and for more than twenty-five years they have generously given to us.

The medical industry is very unique in that it deals with extremely time-sensitive inventories. The majority of items we receive are marked with an expiration date. When we receive the donated items, we don’t have the option or latitude to take our jolly-good time to process and deliver them to the needy international recipients. We’re always under the time gun, and we must be good stewards of what we’re given in order to maximize the greatest amount of good for the greatest number of people. 

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 It would be absolutely and criminally ridiculous for us to receive those donated goods, put them on our warehouse racks, and say, “Oh, look at us and see how very wealthy we are with all the millions of dollars’ worth of goods we have in our warehouses.” Those medical supplies and equipment were given to us to distribute to those with imperative need. We accept the responsibility of being trustworthy stewards of those goods. If we hoard the things we’re given, and we simply sit on those valuable gifts until the expiration dates slip past, we’re accountable for breeching our fiduciary responsibilities. 

It isn’t a whole lot different when it comes to the valuable inventories of our personal lives that we’ve so generously received. Like the time-sensitive medical inventories in Project C.U.R.E.’s warehouses, our personal talents and possessions are time sensitive. All of our clocks are ticking—just in case you hadn’t noticed. Your personal inventories are overflowing, even if you don’t feel so wealthy today.

What I hoard I lose. All that is not given away is lost. What I grasp too tightly, I squeeze right through my fingers, and it’s gone. But what I give away and plant in the lives of others returns to me in multiplied measure.

As much as Project C.U.R.E. gives away each year, every time I walk through our warehouses, I see more there than before. By watering other people and reaching out to meet their needs, we actually water ourselves. We can hold on too tightly and lose everything or give away what we have and become richer in the things that matter most in this life—richer in relationships; richer in quality of life; richer in personal expression, experience, and maturity; richer in wisdom; richer in true wealth, which transcends money. 

In the classic devotional My Utmost for His Highest, Oswald Chambers reminds us,

Whenever you get a blessing from God, give it back to Him as a love-gift. Take time to meditate before God and offer the blessing back to Him in a deliberate act of worship. If you hoard a thing for yourself, it will turn into spiritual dry rot, as the manna did when it was hoarded (see Exodus 16:20). God will never allow you to keep a spiritual blessing completely for yourself. It must be given back to Him so that He can make it a blessing to others.