I am starting to remember last Sunday more and more fondly as the week goes by. Why? You may ask - did something fun or interesting happen on Sunday? The answer to that is no. Nothing happened on Sunday. It was a wonderfully unproductive day that I got the better part of to myself. I even got to take a nap. It being Sunday, many people, including Uncle, who seems to be there every time I turn around, were in church. He made a great effort to guilt me into going, but the fact is that I hate church. I am already trying to plot how I can be absent from the neighborhood this coming Sunday, as I gained reprieve last week by telling them 'maybe next week'.

I know someone will make me stand up and give a speech. One pastor who was there last year, and who I hear will be there this week, actually studied at an evangelical college in St. Louis, where I grew up. Last year when I was there he gave part of his sermon in English - just for me. In reality, there are very few people here who talk to me about Christianity, but I get the distinct impression that those who do believe that somehow repeated exposure will convince me of my folly. the church experience here is exactly like my church experiences as a kid in America - the pastors give the same sermons, they use the same inflections, they sing the same hymns. The only difference is the language, and not being able to understand only makes it marginally more bearable.

I am sure I will have no choice but to go at least once before I leave, though. I can withstand Uncle's attempts to guilt me - my current strategy when he starts talking about god is to ignore him. But, when others ask me to go, they tell me how much everyone wants to hear my voice, and I suddenly feel like I would be letting down hundreds of people. There's still something about it that sometimes rubs me the wrong way - it's difficult to explain, though. Maybe I'm just sick of hearing about god altogether.

There are individuals here who have worked for the betterment of the Chin community, for their protection, and have received little such thanks or recognition. I feel like there is this pre-determined role I am expected to fill, where I can stand up and give a wonderful speech and make everyone feel better, or perhaps wave a magic wand and fix the problems here. I also feel like the only reason I have been put into this role is because I am American. Mind you - this is a broad generalization, and certainly doesn't apply to everyone, and the truth is that tomorrow I'll feel differently about it all. The guys here at the office are wonderful and really work so hard, and have always treated me as an individual. But when strangers come up to me and tell me they think I am the pillar of their community - it understandably makes me uncomfortable.

This is part of my experience that I've struggled to understand the most. Uncle tells me that the first missionaries to Chin State where American, that they brought the word of god and civilized them. He tells me that America is their "second god", a notion I find disturbing. He says how grateful they are that America will now take 5000 Chin to resettle next year, and thanks me for that. I tried to explain how ridiculous it is to think that I had anything to do with that, but he doesn't listen. I've only slowly started to realize what this is and why it makes me so uncomfortable. I am a stubbornly independent, liberal, godless, non-patriotic American. The notion of people relying on me for any kind of emotional or psychological support quite frankly scares me. In fact, I find a greater portion of my life has been lived with the intent to avoid such obligations. And yet here I find people looking up to me because I am American; they ask me to make speeches and look at me as if I am supposed to say the right words to make them feel better. They thank me for helping them without even knowing what I am doing here. They even tell me that the whole of the Chin community (18,000 strong) is counting on me. What am I supposed to do with that?

Later that afternoon I find Uncle inviting me once again to go out with some friends of his who have shown up. I'm sure he said "tea", but we somehow ended up at the Chinese restaurant ordering beer - against my strong protests. I remember meeting his friend last year, but don't remember his name. I have a dreadful time remembering names and usually just pretend. I remember his face though - he has rather unusual dark blue eyes. I make a joke to myself that there must have been a missionary in the woodpile, but I don't share. I'm sure I'm the only one who finds that joke funny. I also recognize the other man, who I interviewed shortly after his arrival here last year. He spent two years in prison in Burma. They tell me he has a card from the International Committee of the Red Cross, but the UNHCR still won't interview him for refugee status. He will be eventually - but victims of torture aren't considered vulnerable or priority cases here. It could be another year before they'll see him. They ask me what I can do to help, but of course, there is nothing.