The shoe-shiner

Why is it that no matter how quickly I get my thoughts down on paper, it takes at least a week for me to transfer them here?
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When I was young, my big midwestern heart was not prepared for pretty much anything hard and cold in cities. I did not yet understand the fast movements and clipped tones, and the harshness of socio-economic disparities of any kind - especially conditions of the homeless population - left me having 7-year-old existential crises. I've thought of that girl, those moments, in various cities of my adult life. She would have been unable to cope with the man who holds the door at the cornershop in New York, his palm outstretched as he says "God bless you," nor the women holding their infants in the markets of Amman, looking at you with desperate eyes, nor the boys in Mali, not even her age, starting a long list of blessings before they reach you, shuffling away at the simple phrase, "God did not will it." As I walk briskly past these fellow humans, only ever handing over an apple or leftovers, I feel the distance between myself and that girl. My fear in those moments, when I can shake my head at a child without stopping the conversation I am having, is that I have lost her completely.

I have been in Beirut for the last few days, a long weekend attached to a conference for work. While it was entirely possible to stuff myself with good, cheap Lebanese food, I've indulged in sushi and Italian, lavender lattes and old fashioneds, letting the foodie in me flourish. This evening I was taking myself to an Indian restaurant when a kid walked over with a small wooden box, asking to shine my sandals. I smiled but declined, walking past without meeting his gaze. He continued a pace behind, repeating, "Please, Madam, just 1000 (about 60¢). From Syria. Please." I walked on, head shaking but glanced over at his face. Saying no is an entirely different matter when you have to look a person in the eyes and watch the hope dim.

In that moment, the contents of a couple nights prior sloppily spilled out in my mind. I remembered a guard erroneously accusing a Syrian refugee of theft, how he was put in a chokehold, dragged away, pushed against a wall and slapped. As if this boy was not worthy of fair treatment simply because he'd been forced to flee his home. As if the circumstances fate had rolled made him more of a dog than a man. I had not taken more than one step as this thought, and the shoe-shiner at my side, had me questioning everything about my life, just like that little girl. Not three yards back, I had believed that the work I was doing was enough, but in that moment I knew there never was - or would be - an 'enough.' I sighed as I stopped, as his words eagerly shifted from 1,000 pounds to 5,000, and I pulled out the smaller note. "It's for food," I chided, as if I had any right to tell him what his needs were. As if I could ever understand.

We shook hands, kissed cheeks, and I said goodbye as I turned away. He immediately fell into step, begging for a little, just a little more. The anger that flared in me as I said "Halas, go!" - fueled by self-righteous fervor - was immediately doused by the cold prickle of shame running through my limbs. If the dice rolled for him have left him shining shoes, those same dice provided me with countless privileges and opportunities, and I have no right to feel that anger, to deem him worthy of less than $1.00. I continued my walk, eyes clouded by thoughts of the fickle unfairness of fate. I tried to console myself with the knowledge that it is impossible to save every single person within a lifetime, and with the belief that what I do will have an impact, leading me to a tangental criticism my own automatic use of the word 'save,' exploring symptoms of a white savior complex that I consciously reject.

Tomorrow morning I will have conversations about health systems in places of crisis, discuss issues of practicality and real life utility. I want to say that maybe I need an exchange like this evening's to push me, remind me why I am here. But that thought does a disservice to the shoe-shiner, implying that it is good he has to struggle in impossible circumstances because he can do something for me, especially as I have done all but nothing for him. When I started this blog, I was often sure I could find concluding remarks, nice wrapping paper with matching ribbons. As I continue, though, I find there is often little to conclude, and when I reach out, there are only more questions.

Peace & love
Elyse