A man walks in front of me. Blocking my path forward, his intent to deliver his message is clear. Wearing no shirt, his skin is tanned and wrinkled from the many months and years he’s spent in the sun. Covered in dirt, likely from going without a shower for days from sleeping in the street. His posture and stature is bent forward as if he could collapse any moment. He motions an empty hand to his mouth, and in English he opens his mouth with the few teeth he has left to say one word,
“Hungry”
I would assess this man to be 60 years old, but likely he’s much younger. A by-product of the rapid aging the street has inflicted on him. I do not know his story, yet I see individuals all over the world experiencing a similar accumulation of unfortunate suffering.
In Nicaragua, I’ve been exposed to this familiar scenario across new demographics. Experiencing similar encounters with women, men, and children. Young boys and girls no older than 8.
“Hungry”
Every time I stare at this level of suffering in the eye, I struggle mentally. Conflicted with how I make sense of this reality.
There’s no winning for me here, I leave the situation a little more empty in my heart despite the way I carry myself.
I get off easy sometimes, projecting apathy. I refuse to engage, avoid eye contact, and maintain an indifference. Not accepting any responsibility, they leave me alone. A few shallow and defeated last requests in Spanish fade as I move out of earshot. Words which I don’t fully understand, but comprehend as some last minutes details to further communicate their plight. As I walk off, they disappear from my world, but not without me taking a piece of them with me.
An awareness of my privilege sets in, and I start to drown in guilt. I see that I could have helped that one person this time, but also see that I can’t help that person every day. Nor could I ever satisfy all these requests. Being approached at least 5 if not 8 times a day. I’ve trained myself over the years to normalize the observation of this suffering in the street in hope to minimize the weight of discomfort it causes me.
I know feeding this man solves one problem for one person one time. Furthermore, I know that if I made a habit of responding to these requests, I would run out of money to feed myself. My own income sources are currently uncertain.
Then there is the next man, child, or person who needs food, money or whatever.
For a moment, I wonder what they would do in my situation if the roles were reversed. I catch myself over investing in a struggle that isn’t my problem. Asking myself the same question. How do we fix this?
A bottomless question to a complex problem.
Life is structured in a way where we are the sum of the choices we make. Many people are incapable of, or never learned how to make good choices. At least a number of good choices to cancel out all the bad ones.
There are many of reasons why this could be, but many of those factors are things we were born into and can not control. Sometimes we get lucky, leveraging the few opportunities we have access to in our environment.
Why am I not this sunburn, shirtless, dirty man telling anyone I’ve never seen before that I’m hungry?
Why am I on this side of the situation?
What am I supposed to be doing to help?
Why do I feel such responsibility to this problem?
Writing this, I find myself sitting in front of a hot meal. Which I’ve bought myself, with money I know is waiting for me. Looking at my food as I take bite after bite, wondering what I did to deserve this. I know the work I did and the sacrifices I made to get here. But why me?
My thoughts sit on the guilt. But they also shift. I remember the counter experience I’ve faced.
The times I helped those who’ve asked, and the times I’ve offered what I could. In those times my charity was perceived as an invention to negotiate. At that moment, my solution is never enough.
What was a request for some food has become a request for more food or different food. The parameters change suddenly. An escalation of the struggle, emerges with new details. As they also need food for their baby, they need money for their family, or medication for their mother. My attempt to solve has dug me into a bigger pit of responsibility, and I’m further from solving the problem than I was before.
I’m no longer a person helping them, but the solution to all the problems.
It’s becoming clearer I’m not their solution, and nothing I can do in this very moment will solve anything. Not long term.
I start to take a complete turn of perspective. I start to ask myself, what is in it for me?
I’ve discovered my sincerity is being weaponized. Providing me with an opportunity to feel better about myself by paying my way out of these feelings. Good, I just gave this guy money. Now I don’t have to feel bad.
This doesn’t make me feel good over time either, as years latter their struggle won’t have improved, and likely nothing was solved other than temporary numbing my own sadness.
