Solid-Dairy-Ity

            In my last post I pointed to a stark contrast between our living conditions in Plettenberg Bay, South Africa, and those who live in the surrounding townships.  This contrast has been rather easy for most of us on this gap year journey to notice.  Those students and program leaders who have noticed it, have to some degree had feelings about this contrast.

            Feelings have ranged between pity, sympathy, compassion, and guilt. 

Questions inevitably arise: 

            Why do I get to live in such comfort and health while they live apparent misery?   

            Why do I get to do such fun activities in this area when most of the people I work with won’t ever be able to afford those things?

            Why did TBB set up the trip this way?  What I am supposed to learn from this experience?

            How do I set the balance sheet right?

            What can I do so that I don’t feel so guilty about all of this?

            How do I show solidarity to these people? 

These questions have gotten me reflecting on my own journey, and the various examples I have been shown in my life by those living and non-living who have devoted their lives to closing this gap in inequality.

There are those that have chosen to give up some of their resources to be closer to, to be able to understand better, the plight of the poor.  Of these people I think of Giovanni di Pietro di Bernardone (better known as St. Francis), who in the 12th century turned away from the possibilities of a wealthy life as a silk merchant, giving it all up, even his clothes, to ‘rebuild the church.’  I think of Dorothy Day of the Catholic Worker movement, a socialist of middle-class descent living in New York who dedicated her life to helping the poorest of the poor during the Great Depression of the 1930s by opening up houses of hospitality where people could find shelter, a warm meal, and a bit of comfort.  It was her creed to ‘live simply,’ and I suppose that by doing this, she felt she was standing in solidarity with the poor and homeless whom she helped. 

There are those on the other end of the spectrum as well – those who don’t believe that giving up what you were born into or blessed with shows true solidarity.  I remember reading a book about ethnography of the homeless population during grad school.  It was a critique of those who choose to ‘go homeless’ for some period of time in order to chronicle the lives of homeless people and gain a better understanding of what it means to be homeless.  The author suggested that these undercover ethnographers will never truly know what it's like to be homeless when the first step taken is choosing to be homeless. 

            Similarly, I heard once from a homeless man’s mouth that he felt it was a “slap in the face” when people chose to give up what they had to live more humbly and be closer to the poor.  He felt that consciously choosing to give up your resource was a far cry from being a victim of structural injustice.  “They will never know what it is like, not to be able to choose a life of wealth and comfort.”  In this sense, ignoring one’s privilege, or one’s power, does not equalize the playing field.  The power imbalance is still there, despite whatever outwards appearances you have chosen to upkeep.

So then how do we show true solidarity? 

Is it choosing to stay back from a hike or a swimming-with-the-seals expedition, knowing that the sick in the townships can’t go? 

Is it inviting them along and paying their way?  The other day after a run along the beach about 15km east of Plett, I was confronted by a woman who had just finished her housecleaning duties for the day.  She was headed back home to one of the townships and was wondering if I’d seen the taxi headed back to Plett.  I told her no, but that I was headed that way, and was happy to give her a lift.  Meg, my running partner for the afternoon, and I had planned on stopping somewhere on the way back for some hot chocolate.  We asked our new carpool friend if she didn’t mind the stop.  She obliged, and we invited her in to join us for a drink.  As we drove home, each slurping our drinks through straws, I wondered what she thought of these two white foreigners who had the luxuries of a free day to run on the beach, the car to take them there and back, and the money to buy gas and groceries.  Were we helping this woman’s cause any?  Were we pitying her?  Were we just rubbing our wealth in her face? 

At this point, I’m not quite sure how to show true solidarity.  Personally, I lean toward a place where recognizing the power imbalance is the first step.  Recognizing my own privilege and power, and not ignoring it, not letting it slip away so that I remain in my bubble of ignorance and joy, is the second step.  Yes, the suffering is hard to think of, and my privilege might foster feelings of guilt, which, whether founded or unfounded might be harder to endure, but what’s that in comparison?  It seems then once I’m at this point that it becomes a bit of duty or responsibility, to not ignore or shun my privilege, but to use my resources to the best of my abilities to equalize the playing field and restore a bit of equality in the world.  And I have a feeling this has less to do with charity and money than it does to do with liberation (Freire's idea of humanitarianism vs. humanism applies here...).

p.s.

Is it even worth trying to define what true solidarity is?  Maybe solidarity means something different for everyone: maybe solidarity for each individual comes when their positive action to reduce inequality matches or outweighs the guilt they might have for being on the upper end of the unequal playing field.  For some people that might be giving some of their income tax return to charity.  For others, solidarity might mean refusing to buy certain products or standing in picket lines, and for others, it is giving up all that you own to be able to better relate to the poor.  I suppose that this means different things, for different people, at different times...