Solidarity ain't easy
For the past few years I have toyed with the idea of chucking it all and moving to Africa, selling my possessions and giving everything I have to the poor.
Funny, I never realized that if I actually did that I would become poor myself. I was just looking for relief from the tension of having amidst people that have not. Well, I discovered that I can easily become poor, but I am much worse at it than any other poor person I met last summer. For starters, I worry.
I worry about when I'll eat next and how long I'll have to wear dirty clothes. I worry about stretching my money and not knowing what expenses will come next week. I worry about justifying the money I do spend and then end up feeling guilty about it. I worry . . . a lot . . . about me, and I wish that weren't the case.
I'd like to think of myself as caring about others, serving them, giving to them. This makes me happy. But this summer I had little to nothing to give.
I am white and not from Mozambique, so the assumption was quite the opposite.
Children, teenagers and adults asked me for money, for food, for beer. Some asked with a sense of entitlement, others asked with the practiced, pitiful pleading.
When I had food I shared it, most of the time. (If I had only one granola bar and 15 children I usually didn't pull it out.) And I wondered, am I rich to you? I am sure they assumed I had a job, a house, a car. I had flown all the way over there so surely I must be wealthy. But I am not.
I didn't have enough money to sustain the life to which I am accustomed in the U.S., and I lacked the skills to live the typical Mozambican life. I didn't belong among Mozambicans or ex-pats. I'm what the development and aid workers call "self-funded" which means volunteering without pay. This was a novelty there. Most "volunteers" have an income, however meager.
And thus I began to question: What am I doing here? What good does it do to give all you possess to the poor if you become poor in the process? Is this solidarity? Because it feels like stupidity. How can I help you if I am equally if not more concerned about the next paycheck and loaf of bread.
I wish I could say I had a breakthrough, that mid-way through the summer I suddenly realized that God would provide and I really didn't need to worry. Sure, there were moments, flutters of that reality, but it never sunk in and stayed.
I read the words of Jesus, that we are not to worry about what we will eat or drink or what we will wear because he clothes the lilies of the field with indescribable beauty. Aren't we worth more than flowers and won't he take far better care of us?
And then I spied holey shirts with shoulders peeking out. I saw women layering thin swatches of fabric around their chilled bodies, numb from the cold. I spotted a little boy with one hand rolling the rim of a bicycle tire and the other tugging at the shot elastic waistband of shorts that repeatedly slipped and exposed his bottom. Was this more beautiful than Solomon in all his splendor?
But I suppose Jesus didn't actually say we wouldn't miss a meal or wear thread-bare skirts. He just said not to worry. And he's right. The worry doesn't add one hour to our lives. In fact it likely eats them away.
So, what if we are hungry? What if we are cold? What if we are dizzy from thirst and two hours away from water? What if we are weak with malnutrition and live next to the woman selling her tomatoes? Maybe she will give us one, we start to think, hope and dream. She has so many, and I have none, and no way of getting one, unless she gives it to me.
Maybe the Mozambicans I met don't think that way. Maybe these are just my thoughts because I am bad at being poor. I hoard and covet and stash an extra orange in my bag for later.
I don't know what good it did for me to share in their poverty. Then again, I never truly did. I knew I had a ticket out of there at the end of August. Yes, I would be leaving new friends and a simpler way of life, cooler weather and a more accurate worldview. But I was eager to get home, to finish a degree and get a job, to provide for myself. I didn't like being on the receiving end and hated having nothing to give.
Funny, I never realized that if I actually did that I would become poor myself. I was just looking for relief from the tension of having amidst people that have not. Well, I discovered that I can easily become poor, but I am much worse at it than any other poor person I met last summer. For starters, I worry.
I worry about when I'll eat next and how long I'll have to wear dirty clothes. I worry about stretching my money and not knowing what expenses will come next week. I worry about justifying the money I do spend and then end up feeling guilty about it. I worry . . . a lot . . . about me, and I wish that weren't the case.
I'd like to think of myself as caring about others, serving them, giving to them. This makes me happy. But this summer I had little to nothing to give.
I am white and not from Mozambique, so the assumption was quite the opposite.
Children, teenagers and adults asked me for money, for food, for beer. Some asked with a sense of entitlement, others asked with the practiced, pitiful pleading.
When I had food I shared it, most of the time. (If I had only one granola bar and 15 children I usually didn't pull it out.) And I wondered, am I rich to you? I am sure they assumed I had a job, a house, a car. I had flown all the way over there so surely I must be wealthy. But I am not.
I didn't have enough money to sustain the life to which I am accustomed in the U.S., and I lacked the skills to live the typical Mozambican life. I didn't belong among Mozambicans or ex-pats. I'm what the development and aid workers call "self-funded" which means volunteering without pay. This was a novelty there. Most "volunteers" have an income, however meager.
And thus I began to question: What am I doing here? What good does it do to give all you possess to the poor if you become poor in the process? Is this solidarity? Because it feels like stupidity. How can I help you if I am equally if not more concerned about the next paycheck and loaf of bread.
I wish I could say I had a breakthrough, that mid-way through the summer I suddenly realized that God would provide and I really didn't need to worry. Sure, there were moments, flutters of that reality, but it never sunk in and stayed.
I read the words of Jesus, that we are not to worry about what we will eat or drink or what we will wear because he clothes the lilies of the field with indescribable beauty. Aren't we worth more than flowers and won't he take far better care of us?
And then I spied holey shirts with shoulders peeking out. I saw women layering thin swatches of fabric around their chilled bodies, numb from the cold. I spotted a little boy with one hand rolling the rim of a bicycle tire and the other tugging at the shot elastic waistband of shorts that repeatedly slipped and exposed his bottom. Was this more beautiful than Solomon in all his splendor?
But I suppose Jesus didn't actually say we wouldn't miss a meal or wear thread-bare skirts. He just said not to worry. And he's right. The worry doesn't add one hour to our lives. In fact it likely eats them away.
So, what if we are hungry? What if we are cold? What if we are dizzy from thirst and two hours away from water? What if we are weak with malnutrition and live next to the woman selling her tomatoes? Maybe she will give us one, we start to think, hope and dream. She has so many, and I have none, and no way of getting one, unless she gives it to me.
Maybe the Mozambicans I met don't think that way. Maybe these are just my thoughts because I am bad at being poor. I hoard and covet and stash an extra orange in my bag for later.
I don't know what good it did for me to share in their poverty. Then again, I never truly did. I knew I had a ticket out of there at the end of August. Yes, I would be leaving new friends and a simpler way of life, cooler weather and a more accurate worldview. But I was eager to get home, to finish a degree and get a job, to provide for myself. I didn't like being on the receiving end and hated having nothing to give.
posted by Catherine's Blog at 5:57 PM
