[ALMOST FORGETTING ABOUT POVERTY]
“Yes, I can finally see the airport!” From the airplane window I can see a tiny little building in the middle of nowhere. The building is covered with a deep orange glow from the early morning sunrise.
After almost 24 hours of traveling from door to door, I am so ready to get out and hug my kids for the first time in four weeks. At the passport control I show my negative PCR results, old-school on a piece of paper. No QR code or TR code needed, unlike what the lady told me at the service desk in Amsterdam, where she said that she cannot check me in without those codes. I move on to the luggage area and surprisingly manage to get both my suitcases very quickly, unlike my fellow passengers who I left behind confused, as the luggage belts did not indicate which belt belonged to which flight. On my way out I let my suitcases go through the final scan. The lady in charge was sitting behind a tiny desk. She let her one eye take half a glimpse at the computer screen, while my suitcases passed through. I quickly grab my bags before she calls me back to ask me about the PS4 that is in my luggage.
Once on the road back home, I am overwhelmed by the yellow-ness around me. Four weeks of green Dutch grass have settled in my eyes and I need to adjust. I am slowly dozing off, and all I can think about is a hot shower to wash away the long journey.
As I could see our house from afar on top of the hill, I had a flash back of last years return from the Netherlands. That time, our house was covered in smoke as there were field fires all around the area. Gabriel had to leave me with my suitcases outside in the yard to go help stop the fire, cause firefighters are…let’s just say a not well established service in Namibia.
“Luckily nothing crazy this time, or wait, what did Gabriel say just now? Our geyser broke this morning? So, I have to take a cold shower? In winter!?” In my heart I am deeply grumbling, immediately followed by guilt, because I am back in Namibia, back being a missionary, surrounded by poverty. I am well aware that many of our families that we work with never have any hot water, not even during the coldest winter nights! With a lack of excitement, to say the least, I start boiling water on our gas stove in three big pots. I am telling myself in the meanwhile to make peace with the fact that this geyser problem will most likely take at least a week to be sorted. Halfway the boiling of the water I suddenly hear a weird “ploff” sound. I know that sound all too well! Our gas bottle is finished. Ok, then let’s use the water kettle.
In my heart I am deeply grumbling, immediately followed by guilt
After a good night sleep and something you can call a ‘water dip’, it is time for breakfast. I open our closet. The choices I have for my bread were butter or jam. For a moment I close my eyes, thinking about my last morning in Holland when I opened my parents closet for breakfast. Egg salad, cheese, brie, mozzarella, different types of meat, chocolate paste, hagelslag, ontbijtkoek, beschuit (sorry for the non-Dutchies). My heart is almost mourning for the fact that I know it will take a long time before I get a taste of all that again. Another complaint raises up in my heart, followed by another wave of guilt. “I have food for my stomach, be grateful!”
After breakfast we drive to the shops. On the highway I see people walking, because they don’t have money for taxi’s. I am wondering what type of scene it would cause in the Netherlands when people are walking on the highway like that. I also see some bikers. Joh, the way I enjoyed biking around on the Dutch cycling paths, with the summer sun on my face and the breeze in my hair. I felt so free!
I found a man frozen to death two days ago
Then our car passes by the state VET, exactly the same place where we took our dog last year after a porcupine shot his spikes in her mouth, nose and eyes in the middle of the night. We had to sit in line all day, but at least they helped us for free. Gabriel pointed to the gate of the VET. “Do you remember that man that is always begging for money here? I found him frozen to death two days ago, right here”. Gabriel said it in a way as if he was talking about how he brushed his teeth that day, and I had to look at his face to see whether he was serious. “You found him dead? How?” He explained that he had seen the men three days ago, sitting down at the gate shivering from the cold. “I saw him and was wondering how he would make it through the night, because I saw on my phone it was going to freeze. I knew there were some people helping him, because lately he had new clothes on every time I saw him. I didn’t think more of it. The next day I saw him laying down on the same spot, his body wasn’t moving. A police officer had just arrived and was poking him, trying to wake him up. The next day I red in the newspaper that the man had died right there”.
Not sure what to think or how to feel I am taking my phone. Facebook is open so I mindlessly scroll through the homepage. I see lots of holiday pictures coming by, of beaches, campers, mountains, dinners and sunsets. And then some news about Schiphol chaos, angry farmers, too many refugees and electric cars.
I suddenly realize I haven’t been exposed to poverty for four entire weeks
Only being back for 24 hours I suddenly realize why I feel so much guilty about everything. I haven’t been exposed to poverty for four entire weeks, except for the drunken homeless man who came straight to me at the train station in Utrecht to tell me that he loved me. I am not so sure why I didn’t feel guilty or compelled to do something then. Maybe because I felt that I had ‘the right’ to not care for once? Or maybe because it was just a brief moment that only lasted 5 minutes before he turned around? Or because of my faith in the Dutch system that these people receive at least some kind of help? I just know that the moment the man walked around the corner I forgot about it, like it never happened. In Namibia though, poverty is everywhere, all the time. There is no way of forgetting about poverty, no way of closing your eyes for it, no guarantee that someone else might be helping. Being poor is deadly in Namibia, for so many children and adults. Two worlds, so different…
Being poor is deadly in Namibia
I take a deep breath. “Let me get ready for the next 24 hours”. As much as I long for hot water and many breakfast options, I pray that I remain grateful for the blessings I have. Poverty is real! Poverty can not be forgotten, even when I am somewhere where it is not that visible. May I never forget that there are people out there who are way less privileged than me.
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