Shockingly Distinct

I consider the term “culture shock” to be a generic term that describes peoples’ reactions to entering a culture different from their own. “Culture shock” often causes individuals to ask questions relative to what they know. It is the shock experienced when visiting Europe, or other "Western" cultures for the first time. It is a term used broadly and frequently. In every way, it is valid.

On the other hand, there is a type of shock that strikes a different chord. It is that shock that occurs when baring witness to the poverty that fills our world.

What does “poverty” exactly mean? According to online sources (read: Wikipedia), poverty is defined as the shortage of common things such as food, clothing, shelter and safe drinking water, all of which determine our quality of life. If a person earns or survives on less than $2 per day, that person is considered by World Bank definition, to live in moderate poverty. On less than $1 per day, a person is considered to live in extreme poverty.

Next question: is there really much of a difference between “moderate” poverty and “extreme” poverty?

Fifteen months ago, my answer to that question may have been “No,” although I would not have said so with confidence. Fast forward to today, and I can say with absolute confidence that the answer is “Yes.”

I believe this because there is no experience that distinguishes the rungs of poverty as clearly as a community visit does. Some might call that short-sighted and material. But the distinction between rungs of poverty does not come from what you necessarily see. It comes from what you feel.

It has less to do with house walls made of tarp that you would use to pitch a tent; or the aluminum roof with rocks atop to hold it in place; or the dunes of dust that creep through every crack…into your eyes…into your ears…into your nose…and into your lungs. It is has more to do with the discomfort and strain unleashed on your insides, which, with a single glance, numbs your hope and punctures you emotionally.

The shock from extreme poverty is more than a splash of curiosity or astonishment. It is questioning with desperation.

It is more than, how can someone live like this? It is why should someone live like this? It is more than how did this person end up here? It is why did he or she end up here? And, why did I end up there?

The shock from extreme poverty carries a weight of disbelief.

It is disbelief visualizing how a maze of dirt roads eventually leads to a house, and how the navigation of the land lays solely dependant on the hundreds or thousands of people who have previously navigated that land.

At the baseball field, go 200 yards down, and make a left. Then, go five houses down, and it's on the right. It’s the unpainted house with wooden windows.

The shock from extreme poverty makes you gasp in despair.

It is despair experiencing the effort required to find paved road – to see residents march kilometers at a time with baskets atop their head hoping to find a ride. It is despair to witness the filth – to see infants in diapers with their bodies cloaked in dirt. It is despair to see how hard life is, how hard it can be, and how few options there are for something different or something better. If there are any, there are few.

These shocks are distinct because they keep me from thinking peacefully. They cause me to write, and then consider whether writing about the situation paints the smallest fraction of the reality. These shocks are distinct because they are provocative, and make me wonder in desperation what else is out there:

What does a refugee camp look like? What does a war-torn country look like? What does the rest of the world, the nearly three billion people that live in this reality, look like?

Tough to know at twenty-seven years old. But there is no doubt that what's out there is distinct from what I've seen.