I wake up to the call to prayer. ½ the population of the United States crammed into a country the size of Wisconsin. People are everywhere. Beautiful faces but broken hearts. Hopelessness is the overwhelming feeling you get when you gaze into their eyes. I want to look at them; stare, gasp even when the man with crippled hands reaches out to me. Maybe he will make 40 Taka, 20cents. How do you reveal a God of hope, love, and joy to the millions of Bangladeshi’s who everyday are just trying to survive? I want to ask about the slavery that happens here…am I too scared? Maybe I’m scared of the truth. “This is the real deal”, Justin whispers to me as we walk down the crowded streets. I want to grab his hand but have to resist. Even as a married couple we are not allowed to display any type of affection in public. Instead I walk a step behind him avoiding eye contact with any male older than me. I want to understand. The western context in which I was brought up in holds me back from engaging at a deeper level. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to hold the old woman and laugh with the children. Instead I walk silently with my head facing the ground, careful of where I’m stepping. Garbage everywhere. Babies lying on the sidewalk, I don’t know if they are dead or alive. A single tear rolls down my cheek…I can still hear the call to prayer. This is the real deal...