I am calling this "Part 1" because I know there will be so many more examples and reflections to follow. It's sure to develop as a disjointed series, because there are so many examples in the world and in my own life of certain privileges that some people gain over others through no effort or merit of their own, but by the happenstance of their own identity and luck of birth/upbringing. The privilege that I benefit from personally has only been highlighted even more since moving from the US to Tanzania, as I compare my own experiences to that of other "foreigners"/"immigrants" and locals in each country.
I know I haven't blogged since I first arrived over a year ago, and I may back-up in a future entry to provide more explanation to why that is and try to catch up on the time that has lapsed in between, but for now, I guess today I finally had something I wanted to say.
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It's the beginning of the rainy season here in Mbeya. One big difference between my place of origin (the San Francisco Bay Area in California) and my new home in Mbeya, Tanzania are the weather patterns... specifically the rain. Here in Mbeya, you go for months without a single drop of rain during the dry season. By October everything is parched and desperate for moisture. Roads are dusty, cows stop producing much milk, the Maasai have to guide their herds far from home to find sparse grass, and many of my friends are in the habit of filling any vessel they have available with water when the taps are running because with frequent water shut-offs they have no idea when the water is going to be off or on and for how long.
But then the rains come... and boy do they come. For months, it will rain (almost) daily. It's not just a dreary sprinkle all day long, but often sunny skies in the morning and then BAM! - a deluge of rain as though the heavens have just opened up. There is no steady moderation of rain, but more of an "on"/"off" switch... often the rains stop just as abruptly as they have started. The good news is that you can often just wait out the worst of it because you know there will be a lull after the skies have emptied.
So this evening I am walking out of the office and the first drops of rain for the evening start coming down. I make it to my car just as the full force of the deluge really begins and sit and wait until it eases up before making my way home. As I sit in the parking lot, I see three young women (two sharing one umbrella) trying to pick their way around puddles as they walk across the parking lot - not an easy feat with giant muddy potholes and two of them connected like conjoined twins attached by their umbrella and trying to coordinate their steps so that they don't fall in to the deep puddles with their nice work shoes. The rain lightens a bit (enough that my windshield wipers will be able to keep up) and I go to leave the hospital compound, greeting the guard and returning my parking card before bidding him farewell. "Wikendi njema!" He is standing in the rain with no jacket, under the protection of an umbrella as he collects the parking cards from people leaving the hospital campus. I drive down the road through deep pools of water as the water flows down the hill alongside the hospital like a river, flooding the lowlands. With the dala dalas (mini-buses) and larger buses passing on the other side of the road, I have no choice but to stick to the muddy waters on my side of the road. I drive carefully, trying not to splash the vendors and passengers waiting at the dala dala stand along the side of the road. I head to the traffic circle, turn onto my favorite road (because it's nicely paved, has "sidewalks", and no potholes) and head up the hill to my neighborhood that sits at the base of Mount Loleza and overlooks Mbeya town. Along the way I pass a middle-aged woman and ask her if she needs a lift. "Unataka lifti?" No, she says, she's just arriving at her destination at the next compound up ahead. I turn onto my street (quite full of potholes) and over the hump that keeps the rain from rushing down the driveway. I drive through the gate, thankful that someone has left it open and I don't need to get out to open it myself, park, and run into my house, figuring that an umbrella is more hassle than it's worth for the few meters I have to cover.
All of that to say... this is what privilege looks like. We all have to deal with the rain. We all get wet. Privilege is having 4 umbrellas (office, car, home, and an extra for guests who might need it) while others only have the protection of a kanga or kitenge (a thin piece of fabric, quickly soaked through). Privilege is having a warm, safe, rugged vehicle to power through muddy puddles and slippery roads, dry and warm while others walk in the rain and wait for dala dalas, picking their way around the lakes and rivers forming in the road and hoping that no cars are going to splash them going by. Privilege is living at the top of the hill in the neighborhood where the wealthy and the politically powerful live while the rivers of rain flow down to flood the lowlands and the houses that are built there. Privilege is running into a water-tight, warm house, built of strong material, listening to the rain fall on the roof, but safe from any ill-effect that the sudden onslaught of water could bring. Sure, the rain falls on us all, but privilege can make the difference between getting a little wet and suffering very real consequences.
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