Traveler Films

I hope you will take a few moments to watch this teaser trailer and a few more to pray for peace in Israel and Palestine. If you are interested in supporting this project in any way, [especially through prayer] you may email me: shepherd@shalomsalaamfilm.com

shalomsalaamfilm.com
twitter.com/shalomsalaam

Music // Amal by Psalters
Editing/Motion Graphics // Shepherd Ahlers

I met the woman in this banner. Her name is Anuradha Koirala. She is a modern day abolitionist and the founder of Maiti Nepal, an organization that rescues girls from the sex trade in Nepal. One of the goals for our journey and for the film was to bring awareness of the prevalence of sexual slavery and trafficking in places like Nepal.

The stories we heard were harrowing. Unfortunately we could not film any of the survivors or the workers at Maiti Nepal. We were just able to talk to the spokesperson and founder, which was a great enough honor to us. She encouraged us to find stories and tell them any way we could. At this point we are only able to graze the surface of the horrible and dark reality of this perverse trade in human flesh. Bringing justice will not be easy. It takes hard and dangerous work to bring justice for others, and the joining of so many hands to stop the injustice from ever occurring.

But it is exactly the kind of work that our Savior calls us to carry out in his name. It is time for the people of God to get their hands dirty as they wipe away the tears of the oppressed and the enslaved. To hear their cry and not turn away.

“Now no one call me with the name I love the most, now I am pretty. And now I don’t have friends. I am alone in this world which I have not seen because I have not moved out of my room since I arrived here way back in April 14th 2006.” [read the rest of this story on Maiti Nepal]

Click the banner image to support Not For Sale, the organization that is currently supporting Maiti Nepal and doing a huge amount of work to end human trafficking around the world.

Last night was spent with my family recalling the past years achievements, and looking forward to new ones for 2010. I wasn’t with my family last year at this time of the new year, making resolutions and laughing about memories. Something else had called me far away. Something on the other side of the world. Something beautiful, and painful.

When it was my turn to share I told them about that new years away from them. I was at a party, and I served the drinks and interviewed the guests. Only our guests were all homeless and all children. There was laughter, but it was bittersweet. There were memories, but painful twisted ones on the part of the children. Can I go back to that? My life right now is so good, and my plans seem so perfect… but there are children dying alone on new years while we enjoy family and friends. Where is justice? Perhaps the God follower can answer. For my part I know that my New Years Resolution must be this:

“Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of wickedness, to undo the straps of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover him, and not to hide yourself from your own flesh?” [Isaiah 58:6-7]

“Jesus said that we are the salt and the light of the world, and I find myself praying that I will not forget why I am doing the good I have set out to do.

It is because He said if we did not take care of the orphans and the widows we were far from his heart. “Let the little children come to me, the kingdom of heaven belongs to them.”

Read Day 12: Blowin’ In The Wind for the rest of the story.

“Today our world cries out all around us. Suffering and brokenness, hunger and exploitation cling with desperation to worn prayers for rescue. An entire people remain without rights, aching at ever continuing news of the murder and abuse of their loved ones. The Tibetan plight continues…and they are not alone.

Maybe prayers go unanswered most when our voices remain silent and our hands remain still.”

-Patrick Covert

I am nearly finished with an edit of the fourth episode of the series. I had to go back tonight to read the travel blog and reflect on the thoughts and emotions of that time. It is one of my favorite parts of the journey for many reasons. The time we spent with Mr. Buche at the Tibetan refugee camp in Pokhara being not in the least of them.

“Life is a book.” he said as we entered his house and he sat us down to Chai and a plate full of delicious crackers… “Those who stay at home read only one page.”

Read: Day 13. Builder of a Nation.

going to back to Nepal for the rest of the night.

Nepal has the greatest potential for hydro power of any country in the world, but half the time the entire country is in a blackout. Why?

Made for an official presentation to the World Bank Oct 28th. Edge Outreach trains ordinary people to do extraordinary work, bringing hope and pure water to developing nations around the globe.

Credit goes to John Lefan for equipment and assistance.

edgeoutreach.com

I have begun adding some of the stunning photos from the Nepal trip to the Traveler Films Flickr page. Enjoy a preview of the final slideshow here.

(excerpt from the travel journal)

I have been home 3 weeks. I feel like I should have lots to say but I feel very little inspiration to write this. I suppose it is part of the journey to return home and find yourself falling into routine because it is there. It is a difficult line to walk, I have so much stuff and I do so little with it all, and most the time it is what distracts me. I get caught up in stuff.

(excerpt from the travel journal)

The mornings are cold in Nepal.  Wrapped in my sleeping bag I can feel the cold only on my face. Right outside our window Thamel, the tourist area of Kathmandu, is already awake with street-side chatter and vehicles honking.  It is always hard to get out of bed but the noise helps me wake up.  Today is the 8^th, my Birthday… and our last day in Nepal, I think to myself.  We pack up and then climb to the ‘Rooftop Restaurant’ of our guesthouse for breakfast.  Amidst munching on eggs and toast, and sipping fresh squeezed orange juice and Nepali tea, we call a contact here and learn we won’t be able to meet today. Our morning is now open.  There is no time to make plans with another contact so we move to plan B which is visiting the famed Monkey Temple or Swayambunath Stupa to get some religious footage.  On our way to withdraw some money at an ATM and get a taxi we come across three women with little babies; they thrust empty bottles in our faces and ask us to buy milk for their little ones.  We have been told about this act.  It may be just an act, but is rakes at our hearts.  We keep walking, they walk with us.  We withdraw the money, they wait outside for us.  We tell them no and so sorry.

After half heartedly haggling with the taxi driver over the fare we jump in his tin can of a car and grind our way up the mountain, or hill as they call it here.  At the gate we are surprised to learn that a one hundred fifty Rupee fee is required for each to enter the temple, we pay it.  Tourism has completely taken over here.  Sellers of souvenirs babble for our attention as kaki monkeys watch us warily.  Suit clad Nepalese businessmen pose in front of a statue for a photo.  Westerners and Nepalese alike throw coins at a gilded statue of Buddha which sits on a pedestal in a shallow pool of water.  As we move towards a broad stone staircase leading up to the main temple area I glimpse the ragged forms of three women sitting on the steps.  Closer examination reveals a small baby cradled in each woman’s arms.  I stall at the foot of the stairs.  A white woman next to me swats a way a salesman like a fly; he quietly walks away.  I notice a monkey nearby; I think he is staring at me.  DAaaahhhh!!  Whatever! OK! I will walk up the stairs. 

Thankfully an old Nepalese couple is giving the ladies money as I walk by.

Atop the stairs I see more statues, more prayer wheals, more monkeys, and more white tourists. I think I am about ready to go.  The old Nepalese couple are gently tossing rice at each little shrine and statue they pass by.  The tourists look on, take pictures, and sniff back their winter colds.

“Let’s get out of here.”  I tell Patrick.  “I’ve seen enough.”

We climb back down the steps, only this time we are caught by the beggars’ gauntlet half way down.  They greet us in both Nepalese and Tibetan motioning for food or money… mostly money.  We try to ask them their names and if they are from Tibet.  I am not really sure of their answer; mostly we get needy mumblings, suppressed smiles, and silence.  After trying to talk with them a while we settle on giving them some of the granola bars we brought with us. They seem to realize that they won’t get much else out of us and quietly move on.  Back down at the base we are now surrounded again by businessmen laughing, taking pictures, and tossing money to the gilded statue.  This is so broken, I think to myself frustratedly.  They are literally throwing money at an idol while the hungry and poor sit not paces away! Then it hits me:  I do the same. We do the same.

How do I attend a $10 movie when a homeless man is freezing under a bridge?  How can I spend over $400 for a gaming system for Christmas when my neighbor is being evicted?  How do I pass up my hurting friend to catch the next episode of LOST?  These are just as real and deceiving as a gilded statue.  It is up to you how far you go with this analogy; but as for me, when I get the chance to choose between the idol of entertainment and the uncomfortable plight of the poor.  I hope, by the help of Jesus, I choose the poor.

That morning was probably the most hopeless I felt during this entire trip.  But what happened in the second half of the day was the sunlight after the storm.  We were able to see that God was indeed at work through his Church and how beautifuly that played out in the lives of the cast aside.  But that is for another post.

 Caleb/convicted money thrower

(excerpt from the travel journal)

I’m furious. I’m sick. My stomach’s churning. I can feel my heart pounding. Exhaustion weighs so heavy on my shoulders, on my spirit. There’s no way you can read this with the passion I feel right now. No way you can know.

So much hurt. I’m hurting. We ate with another street kid. Just another street kid. Just another street kid I walked past. Just another street kid sniffing glue, dendrite. Just another filthy pair of child hands with a crumpled, filthy paper bag pressed tight against his filthy face.

But my pounding heart turned my steps. Deep sorrow clung to my legs like a stubborn beggar. He was probably sniffing to forget the hunger, to ward off the cold.

Retracing my steps, he was already coming my direction. I give a “Namaste” and a smile and he’s already begging. “Food?” He wants Nepali chicken dal bhat. I’m eager to go with him to find a meal. My heart set to fleeting rest.

But as he shovels his dirty, street-smudged face, a sickness swells inside. Just another meal for just another street kid. This is so wrong. This is messed up. By tonight he’ll be sniffing again. Inhaling the toxic air to get through another night. Anger swells at this egregious, blatant injustice. So wrong. This is wrong. For my brother or your son, we’d not sleep, not eat again until he was rescued from these filthy streets.

I’m furious this isn’t ending. Who’s doing anything? Is anyone doing anything? Does anyone care?

And I’m sick. I’m furious. Because I know how easy it will be for me to go back and just live my easy life. So comfortable. I’ll be busy, so busy. School, work, projects, friends. I’ll be eating in my school cafeteria again. So far from the street kids and beggars. So far. Sick, because I know how easy it will be to forget. To just go on.

“It’s too much to think about. You’re emotionally exhausted. You can’t fix everything. You’ve got to press on so you can help him someday. You can’t fix everything.”

Is that what you say? I can’t help but wonder if that’s what you’re thinking. Is that what you’re thinking? Because maybe there’s a voice inside trying to make myself feel better with thoughts like that.

Well it doesn’t.

Enough.

I can’t do everything. Will I do anything, about anything? Anything? Anything? Anything?

I don’t know what to say. Part of me just wants to forget for a while. To sleep.

But should I ever forget, I pray that one forgetful day as I eat some warm meal in some warm restaurant, I catch a glimpse of his face in some puddle of my mind, and I feel completely sick. And I can’t finish.

Maybe if you’d stared into his eyes. Watched him eat. Seen the smile stretch across his face as he talked about dendrite. Stared deep into his eyes. Maybe then you’d feel the same.

There’s no way you can know.

And forgive me. Forgive me if you do. His face is just one of millions. Maybe you’ve eaten with him. Held him. Stared into his eyes. Then maybe you know.

Maybe then.

I can’t sleep.

Patrick

(excerpt from the travel journal)

Tiring hope renewed, we’re off again. Once more our ascending journey mirrors our emotion. We’ve heard of a remnant, a refugee people, living nestled away amongst the thick green, hills which fade away in softening folds of gray.

A day earlier we met several street vendors. Carefully unwrapping their hand-made jewelry wrapped neatly in dark red cloth, we were compelled to listen, their gentle manner and smiling faces winning our audience. As we gazed over endless designs of beads and bracelets, long shadows gave way to deepening darkness, and word of an outcast people was brought to light. We heard only the beginning but wanted to know more, and soon excited plans were underway to visit their village. Packing their crafts with as much care as their presentation, our time together came to an end. Finishing last, the oldest woman, her kind round face adorned with deep lines of wisdom, noted that she was like my mother, deep lines turning to gentle smile. Everyone agreed, and now I have a mother in Nepal. …You can sleep a little easier tonight mom and dad, there’s a mom right here looking after me.

…So hope drew us to the hills again.

Already waiting for us when we arrive, we are warmly ushered into the home of Mr. Buche, one of around 600 people here at this Tibetan refugee settlement. We’re overwhelmed by his hospitality and gracious welcome into his home. Steaming cups of tia begin our conversation and we soon are drawn deep into the history of Tibet and its people. A teacher by profession, Mr. Buche’s stories capture our attention, revealing the longings of a people without home.

His story begins in the early days in Tibet. Life was easy then, people lived in community and used the barter system. Peace laid their heads to rest in the evening. But the rich land and natural resources proved irresistible for Tibet’s hulking neighbor and struggle ensued. Resistance of the small nation could not remain definite, and finally China’s brute force prevailed. Those who could escape now live as refugees in settlement camps, living without citizenship and possessing few rights. He described how as a refugee he could not own land, could not travel abroad with ease, and could not engage in many jobs. Moreover, the refugees own hardship is only intensified as even in 2008 protesters of Chinese occupation were beaten, tortured, imprisoned… even killed by their unwavering captors. Deep sadness set in as we heard how many children were left orphans as their parents went away for the protest in the morning and simply never returned… An unsettlingly common remembrance for the Tibetan refugee.

With personal story continuing, we heard of his family’s night flight as a young child and his eventual schooling in India. Finding inspiration in a newspaper quotation, his life course was set…
“A teacher is the builder of a nation…” The builder of a nation. An ambitious yet fitting vocation for a young man caught in the midst of national unrest brought on by a colonial appetite.

For the last 30 years, Mr. Buche has lived out this very task. Though one man, the plea of an entire people teem as his voice and passion raise for home.

The builder of a nation.

“The Spirit of the Lord is one me, because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to release the oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor,” (Luke 4:18…)

Here at the beginning of Jesus’ ministry, he sets forth the outline for the rest of his life, an outline for what this new kingdom looks like fleshed out on earth. He looks for and calls out a peculiar people, a people not of right birth, or right class, or even of right religious ritual. Instead he crafts a people who do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with their God. A people genuinely concerned about their neighbor regardless of how different from themselves. A people burdened by suffering and passionately committed to righting wrongs. A people who care for the outcast, oppressed, and hungry…who take care of widows and orphans. A people who extend invitation to the stranger and take in the hurting. A whole people of holistic redemption. The builder of a nation.

As we left, we are overwhelmed once again as we are gifted with beautiful, light scarves. Sometimes given as gifts to holy men, this ‘katha’ is a symbol bestowed to honor a guest…and for us, to remember, to never forget our Tibetan neighbors and family…

Today our world cries out all around us. Suffering and brokenness, hunger and exploitation cling with desperation to worn prayers for rescue. An entire people remain without rights, aching at ever continuing news of the murder and abuse of their loved ones. The Tibetan plight continues…and they are not alone.

Maybe prayers go unanswered most when our voices remain silent and our hands remain still.

“Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: 
       to loose the chains of injustice 
       and untie the cords of the yoke, 
       to set the oppressed free 
       and break every yoke?
    Is it not to share your food with the hungry 
       and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter— 
       when you see the naked, to clothe him, 
       and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?
    Then your light will break forth like the dawn, 
       and your healing will quickly appear; 
       then your righteousness will go before you, 
       and the glory of the LORD will be your rear guard.
    Then you will call, and the LORD will answer; 
       you will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I. 
       “If you do away with the yoke of oppression, 
       with the pointing finger and malicious talk,
     and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry 
       and satisfy the needs of the oppressed, 
       then your light will rise in the darkness, 
       and your night will become like the noonday.
     The LORD will guide you always; 
       he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land 
       and will strengthen your frame. 
       You will be like a well-watered garden, 
       like a spring whose waters never fail.

Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins 
       and will raise up the age-old foundations; 
       you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls, 
       Restorer of Streets with Dwellings.”
(Isaiah 58)

The builder of a nation. Oh to live this gracious calling.

Tashi delek

Patrick/ trying to speak

Author’s Note: The history between Tibet and China is admittedly more complex and lengthy than the one described above. Rather than an exhaustive chronicle, this post represents the story of one man and an intricate global conflict as viewed through his eyes. However, this first person perspective often offers a depth of insight that no textbook can offer.