Privileges

by Kimberly Chong (Panama)

I didn't expect to find Colombia

“Raise your hand if any of your relatives is a professional,” Mr. Jairo, the owner of an NGO, asked to 40 children. No one answered. “I don’t like telling you this, but I bet none of you wants to be like your mother when you grow old,” he stated. When you travel to a city that’s 2600 meters closer to the stars, you think you can reach the rest of the Milky Way with your bare hands. You wouldn’t expect misery to be a part of the constellations, to be closer than the stars, right by your side. “Half of their mothers are prostitutes, that’s why they do drugs.” Mr. Jairo explained me after the class. “They need something to forget the repugnance.” Cigarette smoke filled the room as he was exhaling. “That’s how much they love their brats.” The many experiences I listened to and lived shaped how I see that place now. Travel with Purpose is the motto the volunteering organization with whom I traveled to Colombia had advertised. They claim that you never know a country until you live their reality with your own skin. Otherwise, you’re just a visitor. I thought it was only a marketing strategy. Oh, little did I know. “I once met a 12-year-old northern punk that owned a company. He approached me in English, French, German and Spanish.” A grey-haired father said with melancholia in his voice. “Ariadny, my baby, doesn’t even go to school. She can’t read nor do basic math. She’s twelve, too.” He sighed. “That’s how I realized that from 119th street up, schools teach leadership, and from 119th down, subordination.” It’s curious how, at first, I had decided to join the program for one reason: money. In my mind, six weeks of traveling were a great bargain for the price given. However, my motivation took a wild turn during a seminar, the kind that opens your eyes to new forms of viewing the world. “Tourists and volunteers are both travelers, but by no means the same.” Mayra, my organization manager, started. “See, a tourist spends money to see the most beautiful places a country has to offer. Locals try hard to mold a pretty lie for them. They don’t pay attention to history, needs, politics or poverty; it’s none of their business, since they are just passengers.” She paused to let it sink in. “On the other side, a volunteer invests his heart and mind to make positive changes.” A proud smile curved her lips, “No matter how small, if it impacts someone’s world for good, that chain will keep going infinitely.” With sparkly eyes, she concluded, “That’s what a real global citizen does: acknowledge and care.” So, I was tasked to teach emotional intelligence through art to both children and elders. At least, that was what the agreement said. As we were coordinating schedules, Mr. Jairo commented, “The suicide rate of elderly is higher every year. The other day an old man jumped off a bridge. That’s why Saturdays are the most important for me.” That’s how a more-than-a-three-paged contract, a commitment, became devotion. Not only I was teaching, but volunteering was teaching me to love a country that’s not mine, to consider strangers as family and to appreciate what really matters in life: wealthiness. “Don’t you believe me? I’m rich!” Kennedy, my host, cheered in the middle of a public transportation. “I’m healthy, as well as my family and friends. I eat three times a day. I have a roof to sleep under,” He kept listing his privileges, most of which I used to take for granted, “What else do you need?” Looking straight to my eyes, he asked, “Do you believe me now?” In my head, the memory of Mrs. Araceli announcing lunch to hungry children in the institution passed by. Her saying to the children to be careful with the crackers because they were weeks-expired but still delicious made me pale. An announcement so irrelevant to them compared to the satisfaction a good old snack provided. “I believe you. If you’re rich, I’m a millionaire,” I answered. Even if we were joking, I cried all night thinking about what misery and privileges truly mean.