“I have a great friend…a refugee from Sudan who lives in Salt Lake City. Do you know Salt Lake City?” This sincere questioned was raised from the 31 year old, eloquently dressed father of two. For some reason, prior to answering that I was familiar with Utah, albeit never having stepped foot in the constructed state boundaries, I was internally pondering my thoughts of the sign, “Virginity is Wealth” that crookedly hung on the trunk of a huge mango tree at the primary school we just visited. “Yeah, I know where Salt Lake City is,” I strangely responded. “My friend is always complaining that life it too expensive in America. What do you think” commanded Vincent.
Infinite thoughts swam through my head, and I was brought back to yesterday’s lunch where I paid the equivalence of 44 cents to chow down on a “rolex.” The greasy contraption consists of a fried egg with tomatoes, onions, and peppers that is wrapped in a fantastically delicious chapatti. While I dined on a broken rock alongside the wrecked main road, I intermittently covered the “sandwich” with the clear flimsy plastic bag it came in to dodge the dust and pebbles that kicked up from the trucks on that overly congested, yet eerily quiet main dirt road. Instead of directly answering my pal, I eccentrically queried about the daintily narrow road our truck sped down. “This road was created during the war, so the government could track down the rebels. That’s why it looks so skinny. So what do you think about money in America?” It was apparent this dude wanted me to speak on financial issues in my homeland.
A dyadic discourse emerged where the two of us kindly and frankly compared the few similarities and countless differences between our lands. My comrade Vincent shared that the four members of his family can “surely” get by on 75 bucks worth of beans for a year. Just recently I began liberalizing my spending habits. The excuse that I’m an unpaid “student” has sheltered me from dishing out cash on various occasions. Was that simply a protective measure when friends, strangers, drunkards, and peers ask the “munu” for money? Yes, I am clearly a student who currently receives no income, and am entering a work world where the dollar bills won’t be flowing like burritos in the Mission. However, when analyzed through a contextual framework, I am absolutely financially and materially loaded compared to the grand populous in northern Uganda.
How do I deal with the consistent, chronic money requests that I’m presented with? Dr. Josh Miller shared a key piece of advice, “When I’m international, I tell people that I don’t donate to individuals specifically.” What about when my local friend and research mentor asks me for the equivalent of eight bucks so his 17 year old daughter can have a procedure to remove “a growth on her vagina”? What about the helpless 37 year old chap whose swollen right index finger was oozing with a greenish/yellow puss as he innocently looked my way? What about the HIV positive patients who can’t afford the 44 cents fee to see the doctor at Lacor Hospital? How about my teenage neighbors who’ve constructed their mud hut with bare hands who candidly request I reach out to people in California to sponsor their education? What about the Italian munu who works at my internship organization? Her job description is essentially identical to many locals, but her income is 12.5 times higher than theirs? Some may justify that she works for a Western NGO, but how does that injustice speak to the fully aware Ugandans? And it what way will that perpetrate the racial divide between the whites and the “other”? In my eyes, it’s a simple microcosm of the volumes of racial inequality this world consistently partakes in. I sense parallels between the judge’s unjust moronic and asinine comments when justifying Johannes Mesherle’s murder of Oscar Grant.
Vincent and I had just returned from a training session at the Loyo Ajonga Primary School that was situated deep in a rural village. The newly built school was constructed by the United Nations High Commission for Refugees. As we stumbled up in the dirty pick up, I noticed our meeting was to take place under the confines of the torn, filthy and crusty white UNICEF tent. The manual Vincent facilitated from entitled, The Income Diversification Project of CARE: Bangladesh’s Rural Maintenance Program, was provided by “support from the United States Agency for International Development.” Money, huh. At this point, as much as I dislike admitting, it absolutely seems to spin the globe. What would life be like without it, or without the hideous and vulgar greed associated with it?
So it’s no wonder that Vincent’s buddy constantly struggles to financially make it in the U.S. After all, a Whopper at Burger King is an utter delicacy when one is familiar with dishing out 75 bucks for a year’s supply of beans.
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