Stepping Up is Stepping Out

“I have begun to notice something in my work.” Reverend Kaaya purses his lips and mulls over his point, searching for the proper words with squinting eyes. “The rich men of the village never want to give to the poor. They are afraid that if they give to them, they will become poor as well. Everywhere I go, I see it: the poor giving to the poor.”

Kaaya chews on this point after our six hours of hill hiking, delivering home based care to HIV positive members of his village on Mount Meru. Attending to not even 20 of his 150 HIV+ ‘clients’, his words sucker-punch me, a near KO for KO, as the weight of my thoughts tips dangerously atop wobbly legs. I see his point everyday (don’t you?) and my overloaded cerebrum isn’t sure how to intercept his unintended accusation – for I am a rich woman in our global village.

I fall to defense mode – I do give to the poor - but am reminded of a Bible story (or was it an Economics lecture?) of the rich man damned for giving a dollar and beggar woman rewarded for giving a penny. (Luke 21:1-4). It’s the proportion given that matters not the amount, and proportions are easily distorted when they depend on undisclosed data of total stock. (That is, do I really think any poor person has ever believed me when I say “Sorry, I don’t have any money today.”? I have money everyday. “Sorry, I do not want to give you my money today” would be more accurate and respectful.)

All day long I burst with questions, eager to partake in Kaaya’s intimate relationships with his clients. With specific consideration of the language barrier, I note the importance of asking pointed questions and following up if the answer isn’t clear; from experience, rephrasing and offering clarification can mean the difference between potentially enormous misunderstandings and moments of true revelation. *

Otherwise drained by the hardships of orphaned children and sickly widows, Suvya’s situation left me feeling feisty. Suvya, a healthy looking HIV+ widow, was being evicted by her landlord as we yelled a respectful “Hodi!” of arrival into her home. Unemployed but skilled in batik printing, she had potential to pay back the $60 due since January under more forgiving financial circumstances (anyone- never mind a woman – securing a small business loan is a laughable effort). So I sat with Ibrahim the landlord for a few minutes and proposed a plan: could he hold off on collecting her rent until December and give her a small loan to start a batik business, in return for a repayment with generous interest in a year’s time? Smiles passed all around our circle until we clarified the terms and Ibrahim suddenly realized the loan would come from his pocket and not ours.

Although I had not expected a successful negotiation, frustration still hit as I watched a chance for everyone to be better off – or at least be decent – float away up into the mountain fog. But Ibrahim cannot wait to collect interest when he needs cash for the short run (and neither can Suvya, she as she begged for $60 from us to help her out ‘for now’). And so the story goes, we measure the promised rewards of our present sacrifices against the weighted risk we may never reap those rewards, and usually play it safe.

The following morning I opened my eyes to a smoky pink dawn of 6:00 am, as my body has programmed itself here, still a bit fatigued from a heavy hike. Skipping clumsily around the house, I hung my fully soaked underwear on the line outside (as the hand-washing of a ‘load’ took me two hours last time, I wait until I absolutely have to wash to wash!), collected the leftover foods and meds of yesterday’s hike, and grabbed my kanga – a chilly morning (asubuhe baridi!) – to race down Themi Hill and jump on a daladala into town. In typical Tanzanian fashion, I was invited to church by Anna and Jane, of TUPO, and ended up spending nearly 12 hours with my surrogate mothers and their children, grandchildren, and neighbors.

The afternoon was a warm embrace, startlingly different than yesterday’s vibes of isolation. Family and friends had gathered to celebrate a baptism. We all sat beneath a tent – makeshift from recycled UNHCR tarps, branches and rope - where a woman began to clap and sing and everyone became the choir. A clergywoman blessed the child with a sermon of our collective responsibility for her life, and wrinkled faces of the bibis (grandmothers) shouted rapid-fire “lelelele!”s of approval. We shared cold drinks with warm sentiments – I am addicted to Tangawizi ginger soda - and paraded by the baby with a donation on our way to be served lunch, plates as overflowing with delicious chakula (food) as this family was with unconditional love for their girl.

Despite the language barrier I am attached to Anna and Jane because of their maternal grasp on me. Singing along in church, I felt a very pure happiness that could only root and flourish in the absence of the usual agenda and to-do lists. I was OK taking the risk: committing only a morning to Anna may turn into an afternoon or an entire day. And no, I cannot back out or go home. I accept the hospitality graciously and finish what I started.

Joining voices with her congregation, I realize that I am often like Ibrahim in my inability to commit to solving problems in the long run. I cannot underestimate or devalue the positive impact that short trips like Mission Mexico and RealBreak in Guatemala had on my choices to pursue a career in international public service. (Or the hopeful value of this short 5-week HIV Outreach Programme I am running here!) Although I potentially had a positive effect on a few individual people in this world – whether a home or a hug –I made zero impact on poverty in rural Tijuana, did nothing to secure a bright future for orphans in Guatemala City and will not eliminate AIDS in Arusha.

Like Ibrahim, until I can make a long-term commitment – invest my time to one cause and one project for years – I will never accrue the interest necessary to make a significant impact. (It’s like the inherent illegitimacy of a post-2004 BoSox fan – if you’re not willing to ride through the ups and downs, you lack substance.)

I frame the controversy in my mind as quadrants of longevity and proportion. Dumping lots of money (even proportionately lots) onto a problem without a detailed, long run vision won’t work. Crafting a genius long run plan without the courage to risk investing yourself fully won’t work. And certainly, piece-meal funding and band-aid projects will do nothing, if not have a negative effect.

It seems we invest proportionately fully – if even foolishly – in people who we feel responsible for, namely ourselves. I’m paying $950 to climb to the top of Mount Kilimanjaro when I simultaneously have the opportunity to fund the secondary school education of two street boys at CCF. Is either more valuable in the short or long run? Whose standards define the value? What risk is involved in assessing the value of each being reached fully? Who’s manning this calculator?

The poor giving to the poor isn’t the conundrum that Kaaya makes it out to be. The tendency is simply a next best alternative, since living hand to mouth offers no concept of investment for the future. There is no guaranteed future. Immediate individual value extracted from collective efforts is greater than that sought in a long-term, independent pursuit of wealth. In the same way, wealthy world politicians (and everyday folks) continue to make compelling speeches (and blogposts) full of beautiful long-term visions, and fail to commit proportionately fully to the goals set out.

And so the poor give to the poor, and the rich give to the rich. The poor like Ibrahim rarely risking a long-run investment (Will she really pay me back? I’ll just take what’s due now.), and the rich like me rarely risking a proportionately heavy investment (What better things could I be doing with my time? I’ll just do a few months of this now.)

Can we find an overlap between the reigning realms of capitalist and communal mindsets? What is the identifiable common denominator between lives lived so differently? Clearly, and sadly, in our history it is not enough to all be human, to all feel pain, to all be capable of love. But I see hope in the quadrant where a rich person’s ability to design effective, long term visions crosses a poor person’s ability to commit fully to a plan. So now, who takes the first step out of their box?


*[A classic and comedic example to share; my need to speak more clearly. A conversation with Jonas, ANGAZA receptionist (local Voluntary Counseling and Testing (VCT) Center), in pursuit of site manager Beatrice:
“Jambo, Jonas! Habari yako?”
“Nzuri Sana, Keti (Kate)! Habari asubuhe?”
“Salama! Asante! Natafuta Beatrice”
Jonas: confused look. “They are not here. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Beatrice isn’t here?”
“No, sorry, not here”
“Will she be back?”
“I don’t know”
“Ni nasubiri. I will wait.” I wait. I decide instead of frustration I may as well have a fun wait. “Jonas, want to see the Programme?” I begin to explain the Arusha Youth Testing Day concept. He looks so excited, he smiles, “You must show Beatrice!”
“Is she here?”
“Yes she’s just in her office now, let me go get her”
?!?!?]