In the eight weeks from the middle of June 2012 to July 2012, I and seven other missionaries lived in what was referred to by the mission office as "bedbug haven." It was an apartment built for four but, as mentioned before, there was twice that number living there. Plus bedbugs.
Quarters were cramped. There were three rooms, none of them very big, and connected them was some sort of hallway that managed to have kitchen appliances, a sink, a washer, a dryer, and an ironing board stuffed into it. Common it was to need to squeeze by someone (or several someones) as they were working food or laundry in order to go from one room to another. Eventually my companion and I relocated to the third room, along with all its weight equipment and other random junk, but before that change I slept on a couch and another missionary slept in a large closet.
And there were bedbugs. Can I stress that enough?
Understandably, tensions were high, and all of us did at least one thing that we later regretted. I carried a chip on my shoulder against some of them, and so did they, until a little while later when we were able to get some fresh air and reflect. One by one we bumped into each other again and saw that we were very different from how we had remembered each other, and we apologized and moved on.
There are two missionaries from Bedbug Haven that I have yet to bump into and may not ever have the chance to (both went back home before I was able to) but I don't- I can't- hold anything against them.
What I'll always remember from this episode in my life is that people get better, and even when you live with them for eight weeks you still don't always see the best side of them. People are who they are, but when their circumstances get the worst of them don't mistake that for who they would be in a better situation.
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