Having, not having, and the space between

Living in a place like Mali, one of the poorest countries in the world, as an American from the richest country in the world, certain nagging questions are just unavoidable. Something I’ve struggled with, and all volunteers must grapple with, is the extent to which we actually live somewhat above the level of the people of the host country. Money is never supposed to be a focus in our service We are supposed to be given enough money to sustain ourselves living fairly simply, and the technical skills to help people help themselves. Peace Corps is quite explicitly not about money at all, but about investing in people and in relationships. Yet economic differences continue to color our interactions with people, and I’ve seen it already in my time in Mali.

 Let me say first that this is not uniformly the case–some volunteers end up in settings where they work with people who are, relatively speaking, better off and able to enjoy some of the little pleasures in life. But for most volunteers, out in small villages, the people that we work with are devastatingly poor by American standards, and still quite poor by Malian standards. No surprise here–Peace Corps asks volunteers to serve where they are most needed, which may well be in some of the most economically deprived areas.

Anyway, let me put this in a bit of perspective. As volunteers we can expect to have, give or take, around $200 a month that Peace Corps has determined is an amount for us to live reasonably comfortably, but not luxuriously. After transport costs, housing costs, food costs, paying a local tutor, and needed household items, there’s still a little left over for the occasional special dinner, new outfit fresh from the tailor, or a cold beer. All nice occasional comforts for an American living in circumstances that seem fairly deprived compared to his life in America. By contrast, a huge proportion of Malians live on less than $1 a day, meaning that for many families the expectation may be to make around $400 a year. So, a gigantic Malian family might have to sustain itself for a year on what I get for just two months, solely for my use.

The difference is glaring and in a situation like homestay, when we are placed directly into the homes of typical Malian families, it becomes painfully obvious. Volunteers have the ever-present internal debate about such “standard’ American niceties as Ipods, laptops, even nice-smelling body wash: to bring it out or leave it packed away? Is a super-awesome dance party with your host siblings, courtesy of your sleek Ipod Nano, worth the constant cry of “Wari tigi!” (“Chief of money, “ the one with the most money)? Of course many of us didn’t think of ourselves as wealthy in the States; for some, exactly the opposite was true. But here, the things that many young Americans enjoy regardless of wealth are astronomically out of reach for their Malian counterparts.

With this difference also comes the painful reality that it’s not only the ‘extra’ stuff that our host families may go without; it’s also the things that are absolutely needed, like medicine or enough wholesome food to feed the family. This became clear to me in my own family. My 10 year old host sister had an open, infected sore on her ankle for about a week due to a farm tool accident. It got to the point where she was limping and grimacing in pain with every step. My host mom finally told me one morning that they were taking her to the doctor, and I was happy to hear that she would finally get some relief. But when I returned a few hours later, it was to hear the shrill cries of my sister, her wound being cleaned with only soap and water–my family didn’t have the approximately 8-10 dollars necessary for antibiotics, antibiotic cream and bandages that the doctor had prescribed. And that’s how things work here: you go to the doctor, and the doctor tells you the supplies he needs in order to treat you. If you can’t buy the supplies, you turn around and go home.

Hearing my sister’s crying was almost more than I could bear, and I went into my room to be alone for a bit. Shortly thereafter, my mom came to bring me my lunch. While I was eating, she handed me a crumpled piece of paper: the prescription the doctor had written, but the family could not afford. “We don’t have money for this,” she said. “You have medicine and you have money. I know you can help.”

This is one of these moments when the Peace Corps training mantras flash in your head: Under absolutely no circumstances are you to give your personal medicine or medical supplies to anyone else. You are not a doctor. Nor is paying for anyone’s treatment a good idea; it’s not sustainable. Don’t set a precedent of giving people whatever they request. It makes sense. My family had asked me for things before, for Band-Aids for superficial cuts and pills for headaches, and I’d just refused. And yet, to know that a little antibiotic cream and a few bandages, which I had in my fully stocked medical kit right there in the village, would ease my sister’s serious suffering, it was the hardest thing to do to say no. Of course I knew I had to, but that didn’t make it any easier to look at my mom and repeat the line I’ve been using periodically. “Peace Corps says I can’t,” I said in my oversimplified Bambara, then uttering a blessing about Allah easing my sister’s pain. “Amiina,” (Amen), my mom murmured, and crumpled the paper back up, not mentioning it again.

 My response seemed so inadequate. In the eyes of Malians, I am the ‘wari tigi,’ and it’s not something I can really fight; my disposable income speaks for itself. And to the Malian way of thinking, everything should be shared; what’s mine is yours. It’s tied deeply to the significance of community here, and it’s something I’ll continually struggle with being in the financial position I’m in now and yet striving to live “at the level of the community.” Everything about my upbringing and my moral countenance tells me, when you see a person having trouble, if it’s in your means, help them out. I know that that’s just not an attitude that you can sustain in Mali; you’d go broke and be everybody’s fool. I have no problem blowing off the average request for money, “cadeaux,“ or “bonboni.“ (candy) that I get on a regular basis. Still, when a true need arises with a person you actually care about, it suddenly becomes a source of tension, separation, and difference.

I don’t want to let my service become about throwing money or things at people–whether that’s in the form of “finding money” from the States for projects (not sustainable!), or regularly giving away my own funds or things. When I give a gift, I want it to be special and indicate the depth of my appreciation for someone, rather than a constant expectation because I am an American with a little extra Peace Corps money. I want it to be about building people’s own capacity, and as cliché as it sounds, helping people help themselves. Yet I know I’ll continue to have a hard time being the “have” in a place with a lot more “have nots.”