Where I live, expensive cars whiz past on the highways of a developed nation.
Where I live, all of the fast food places from North America deliver.
Where I live, having a maid is not a luxury; it is commonplace.
Where I live, people have PhD’s, successful businesses and old money.
Where I live, the mall has Forever 21, Cinnabon, Lacoste, Gucci, Armani, Louis Vitton and Hugo Boss.
Where I live, a 3 bedroom flat is worth 2 million dollars.
But where they live, they squat on government land.
Where they live, they don’t have sanitation measures; they defecate on the street.
Where they live, they are lucky to eat once a day.
Where they live, those passing by don’t look at them; they stare at their feet to avoid seeing the helplessness.
Where they live is all around where I live.
I “see” them everyday, as I sit in the car staring at my feet, at the clock, at my phone, at anything besides them as they walk up to my car window holding a newborn infant and asking for money for food. Until the light changes, I stare elsewhere because if I don’t look, I don’t have to feel as bad. I can think to myself in the way I’m supposed to think: continuing to give to beggers fuels the billion dollar mafia-esque begging industry. It promotes the idea that a life can be made off of dependency. The money probably wouldn’t even go towards food for the child, but rather to the mob boss, or to smoking or drinking. So, I think to myself, it’s really better for me NOT to give. I think this, the light changes and I drive away.
Then sometimes, I look and that notion of doing what I am “supposed” to do becomes a lot harder. I see a five-year-old child, malnourished and dirty, asking for 20 cents so they can eat chapatti. “They probably don’t even get the money. They probably give it to their begging boss to make a quota.” The thought enters my head, on schedule and rehearsed. As I continue to look, I start to think, “Yes, but what happens to them if they don’t meet that quota?” or “Does it really matter? What the hell were you going to do with the 20 cents?” Sometimes this train of thought wins, sometimes the light changes before I give in. Either way, I am left feeling helpless and ashamed.
It’s the children that always get to me. They’re the ones that I tear-up over – it’s their innocence; it’s the thoughts of their future. But, in reality, it’s the old beggers that have it the worst. They are the ones truly with nothing. Their families have left them at some point. Likely, they lived paycheck to paycheck through their working years, and because there are no old-age pensions here, they are left in their old age handcuffed without a key. Their bodies are brittle and worn: the men are unable to do manual labour, and the women can’t even prostitute themselves. Begging is their only means of survival.
I “see” this everyday. But, on the days I really see it, I feel it too. I was born on the right side of the world with the right family. Why?
Where I live, all of the fast food places from North America deliver.
Where I live, having a maid is not a luxury; it is commonplace.
Where I live, people have PhD’s, successful businesses and old money.
Where I live, the mall has Forever 21, Cinnabon, Lacoste, Gucci, Armani, Louis Vitton and Hugo Boss.
Where I live, a 3 bedroom flat is worth 2 million dollars.
But where they live, they squat on government land.
Where they live, they don’t have sanitation measures; they defecate on the street.
Where they live, they are lucky to eat once a day.
Where they live, those passing by don’t look at them; they stare at their feet to avoid seeing the helplessness.
Where they live is all around where I live.
I “see” them everyday, as I sit in the car staring at my feet, at the clock, at my phone, at anything besides them as they walk up to my car window holding a newborn infant and asking for money for food. Until the light changes, I stare elsewhere because if I don’t look, I don’t have to feel as bad. I can think to myself in the way I’m supposed to think: continuing to give to beggers fuels the billion dollar mafia-esque begging industry. It promotes the idea that a life can be made off of dependency. The money probably wouldn’t even go towards food for the child, but rather to the mob boss, or to smoking or drinking. So, I think to myself, it’s really better for me NOT to give. I think this, the light changes and I drive away.
Then sometimes, I look and that notion of doing what I am “supposed” to do becomes a lot harder. I see a five-year-old child, malnourished and dirty, asking for 20 cents so they can eat chapatti. “They probably don’t even get the money. They probably give it to their begging boss to make a quota.” The thought enters my head, on schedule and rehearsed. As I continue to look, I start to think, “Yes, but what happens to them if they don’t meet that quota?” or “Does it really matter? What the hell were you going to do with the 20 cents?” Sometimes this train of thought wins, sometimes the light changes before I give in. Either way, I am left feeling helpless and ashamed.
It’s the children that always get to me. They’re the ones that I tear-up over – it’s their innocence; it’s the thoughts of their future. But, in reality, it’s the old beggers that have it the worst. They are the ones truly with nothing. Their families have left them at some point. Likely, they lived paycheck to paycheck through their working years, and because there are no old-age pensions here, they are left in their old age handcuffed without a key. Their bodies are brittle and worn: the men are unable to do manual labour, and the women can’t even prostitute themselves. Begging is their only means of survival.
I “see” this everyday. But, on the days I really see it, I feel it too. I was born on the right side of the world with the right family. Why?
What can you, I, everyone do? Accept that there is little, Graeme, to reform a system that supports such horror - but know that, in what you are doing there, you ARE making a difference! Will it stop such daily tragedy? No! But you have, and will, affect people in a truly positive way. Even by sharing this blog...
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