There are three Taiwan sights etched in my mind. I question my reaction as well as everyone who were witnesses. I do not have any answers. I recognize there are thousands and thousands more, but my question concern these three.
The black and white polka dot dress would have been perfect for an eight-year old going to a party. As we arrived at the 7-11, she was standing alone in the dress with hollow eyes, scraggly hair with streaks of black and gray, sagging skin with bruises and contusions looking for a handout or the touch of another human being. It was impossible to tell her age given the toll taken by time and abuse. She could have been forty or in her seventies. As it was, everyone avoided eye contact and walked by without a word.
The crowds in a pedestrian shopping area in central Taipei flowed around an object in the street’s center. As I arrived at the point where the crowd parted ways, I found myself looking at an ageless man prostrate on the ground. Everything was gray, brown, or black. From his clothes rumpled and dirty, to his hair, matted and streaked, to his pillow. He was strangely still. Looking back, I saw him sit up, adjust the dirty lump of a pillow, and lay down again. There was no basket asking for help. He had given up. From the crowd’s reaction, myself included, so had we.
The downpour had begun to ease. With no umbrellas, we darted from cover to cover, working towards the train station. As I started my run to the entrance I noticed a curled up figure sleeping on a wet piece of cardboard. You could see old man’s rhythmic breathing. He was visible dirty beyond description. It felt as if he had to be cold. As I passed without stopping, I could see water dripping from his nose.
“Oh, how your servants love this city’s rubble and weep with compassion over its dust!” (Psalm 102.14) This may be true somewhere but not here, not today.
