I'd begun to fear that Kinshasa had left an unexpected mark on my soul. While that may seem a dramatic statement, the fear was real. I have seen some street people here in Abidjan, but in my day to day, not many. The ones I do see remain on the periphery. They barely have time to make it to my window before the taxi is speeding off again. It's become too easy not to register them. To turn away.
Occasionally I've made eye contact with a child or a woman, but the most they get out is a Mama or a Tantine before something stops them, stops us from going further in the exchange. And to be honest, my first thoughts are always a comparison to the kids in Kin. Nothing matches their need and so I have half a thought that those in need here are somehow less in need. In reality, need is need right? Less is less and it's never more or enough.
Part of my denial might be due to the fact that I am feeling less able to give being that we find ourselves in dire straights at least once a month. My own financial situation has never really stopped me before however. No matter how tight it gets, I can always look to the end of the month for a reprieve. Having coins on hand again should make it even easier to find room for charity. But every coin represents a ride in a taxi, shortening a 45 minute walk to a mere 20 or so, a luxurious relief from the blistering sun of midday. In effect, it seems I've found several reasons not to give, the biggest of which is due to an unfair comparison.
I've been contemplating the effects of spending so many years surrounded by the unimaginable. Nothing I have seen here even comes close to the city streets there. And that's not taking into account the situation of the rural population in either country. But it doesn't mean the need here is less important or less devastating to those stuck in the cycle of poverty. I just couldn't get myself to care all that much. Hence, the concern over the fate of my soul.
But there's a boy.....I have been seeing him every morning on my walk down to the carrefour. Sometimes we exchange a glance and I can see words forming on his lips, but neither of us have yet offered as much as a greeting. He wears the same clothes, torn dirty jeans of an undeterminable color and an oversize shirt open at the collar. I checked out his shoes today, something that used to be a deciding factor in who and how much to give. Do they have shoes, i.e. flip flops? Do they match? Barefoot kids got the first priority, mismatched or only 1 shoe next and finally those with covered feet. An arbitrary way to assign need. Surely all of their stomachs were bare.
The shoes, i.e. flip flops, on this guy matched and seemed to be the brightest thing on his body. It did not erase my urge to ask him if he was hungry or my wish to I send him off to my house with a note for Christine to find him some breakfast. He appears to be about Nabih's size and so I began to entertain the thought of at least giving him a "new" pair of pants.
When I asked Nabih to get some of his clothes that no longer fit, a fairly easy task as Nabih himself is in need of clothing, he happily complied. The boys asked who it was for and I described the child I see each morning who has been wearing the same clothes for weeks. You mean the one by the fruit stand? Mohamed inquired. As I thought about, I realized there were a few children in our neighborhood who seemed to wear the same dirty, oversize clothing every day. No school uniforms for those kids.
In my mind, the boy by the fruit seller is connected to an adult. And I'd always assumed some of the other children I'd seen were wearing those clothes as their "work" clothes, apprenticing at the bicycle repair stand or other equally useful,potentially dirty job. I imagined they saved their "good" clothes for school or church or other outings. I realized not only wouldn't it be so easy to give away a pair of too small sweat pants and a no longer worn shirt (word would surely get around that the white lady was giving out free clothes and my door might never be quiet again,) but I also don't really know anything about this kid. Just because he doesn't seem to be attached to any adults doesn't mean he isn't. He's clearly going somewhere every morning at the same time. Maybe he's off to work, just like me.
I spent the rest of my walk reflecting on this book I'd read a few months ago. Overall it invoked some pretty mixed feelings in me. In the end, I'm not sure if I liked it or would even recommend it, but it did bring up questions. I suppose that makes it worthwhile reading at the least. (Something about the website is a complete turn off for me. Maybe I think giving should be as invisible as the thread. Then again, here I am publishing my own thoughts about the struggle with giving.) The author befriends a boy as their paths cross seemingly randomly. She can't explain the connection any better than I can determine why this child, of the many in my neighborhood, has reached in and spoken to my heart. Over the course of years they eat together, take trips together and she begins to play a greater role in his schooling. She even meets his family to be sure she isn't stepping on any toes when he invites her to meet his teacher at a conference. Somehow she manages to be there for him, respect his family and worry about him without crossing lines. I wondered if I could do that. Doubt crept in. It's only just now that I realize I already have.
I've given out bits of nothing to street kids and then gone home to my house and listened to the rain on the roof, wondering all night if they had somewhere dry to be. There weren't any families to meet or teachers to conference with. Luckily the man in my life has the same soft spot as I and so I haven't been faced with the conflict or sense of choice that she ultimately was.
I do have other challenges though, namely my salary which I can't seem to make stretch to the end of the month no matter how frugal I am. It impedes my ability to be sure I can commit. I've never really managed to quiet the voice of a long ago Kinshasa friend (Yes, but is it sustainable? I hear her asking in her overly indignant, development world voice.) There are rules about giving. The best kind of giving is one that will lead to some permanent change for the receiver, rendering future giving unnecessary. It's hard to achieve that in the life of a child alone, especially when instinct wants to restore childhood rather than supply a fast track to adulthood, even if it means more security in the long run.
I do believe in spontaneous giving and one off giving. Sometimes the most you can do is a one shot affair. And I think that's ok. But if I am going to see this boy everyday and live with him in my neighborhood, than a one shot deal isn't really acceptable. If I make an effort, it has to be a real one. The problem is, I'm not sure how real I can be right now.
Islam has some beautiful teachings about giving. Specifically it suggests giving to those in need, beggars, women and children. It does more than suggest actually. Since we're talking about recognized hadiths (oral teachings of Mohamed) or words from the Quran itself, I guess it is more like a commandment to provide for those less well off than yourself. Being ever merciful however, a series of degrees are outlined to ensure one does not become overtaxed. Give money or items first and if you haven't a material thing to ease someone else's suffering, use your hands to create something which will then lead to being able to give. If neither of those options are available, being kind and even smiling all count as charitable acts.
I remember that one a lot when I am feeling financially restricted. Seeing someone by offering a greeting or smile can be a bright moment in an otherwise dismal day. I've been on the receiving end of that often enough to know it is true. (A search to find some written support for that didn't yield the results I wanted, but I did find this fascinating post.)
I remember spending my Lingala lessons learning to say Where do you sleep? and Where are your parents? and other useless phrases most street kids can't, or won't, answer. The most I've ever gotten is a vague reference to a quartier. Over there...somewhere. Since Abidjan is thoroughly French speaking, I have all the tools I need to start with a cheery Good morning and maybe a Where are you going?
Despite my newly collected pile of cast off clothing, that's probably the best first step. I'll give it a try tomorrow. Bonjour and a smile.
