Loving the Terrorists by David Diggs

Seeing Lazarus
by David Diggs

I could be forgiven for not seeing the blind beggar I passed on the sidewalk one day many years ago. Port-au-Prince is a city that attacks your senses. Smells of hibiscus mix with rotting garbage and diesel fumes that pour from brightly painted public buses that play deafening compas music that clashes with peddlers calling loudly, plying their wares. Pedestrians squeeze past one another on sidewalks clogged with street merchants and street children hustling for spare change.

As I stood on the corner at an intersection near the Presidential Palace waiting for a break in the traffic, I felt a sharp poke in my backside. I turned, ready to defend myself, but discovered a tiny old blind man sitting on the sidewalk with his walking cane extended up toward me. Somehow in the cacophony he had heard me pass by. His big toothless grin and witty chatter made it hard to be angry, especially as he explained that his survival depended on getting people to notice him.

I don't think I ever learned his real name, but the street merchants who shared the sidewalk with him called him Papa Nwa, Black Daddy. His skin was as dark as charcoal from years spent sitting in the sun on the same corner every day. What makes me remember this encounter after so many years was the old T-shirt he wore. He had probably gotten it for a few pennies from one of the ubiquitous rag merchants who sell used American clothing. Emblazoned on the T-shirt was a slogan that was popular in the US in the late '80's. In big block letters it read "SHOP TILL YOU DROP!" It took my breath away to see this beggar wearing what could be the motto for my society's mindless and immoral pursuit of more and more. I knew that in a year he would never collect as much money as many spend in a routine day of shopping.

Jesus told a story of a poor man named Lazarus who always sat outside the gate of a rich man's house. The rich man was clothed in the finest purple, while Lazarus' body was covered with crimson sores that the dogs would come and lick. The rich man ate like a king, while Lazarus would have been content with the rich man's kitchen scraps. One day Lazarus died and was taken by the angels to paradise. The rich man died, too, but found himself in Hades, where he was endlessly tormented. He begged Abraham for pity, asking him to have Lazarus dip his finger in water and come cool his tongue, but Abraham reminded the rich man how well he had lived in his earthly life and how difficult life had been for Lazarus. Abraham then explained to the rich man that a great chasm had been fixed between them that none could cross.

On Earth, the rich man must have passed by Lazarus nearly every day without ever really seeing him. In Hades, one of the torments the rich man endured was that he could now see Lazarus across the chasm that separated them, but he could never make contact.

After ten years spent living in Haiti, I now live with my family back in the United States in a middle-class neighborhood in Washington, DC. Even though I visit Haiti frequently and live in a city troubled by serious poverty, I notice how easy it is for me to not see the poor and forget that they even exist. The poor live on the other side of the city. They live in other countries with exotic names. In our modern, global village, we who are rich no longer need literal walls and gates to separate us from the destitute. We now live largely in enclaves of privilege, isolated from the needy masses by immigration restrictions and municipal zoning. We live as comfortably as the rich man in Jesus' story but are walled in by advertisers who constantly tell us that we still don't have enough. Because we rarely cross paths with any of the hungry Lazaruses of our world and only have our rich neighbors for comparison, we lose our perspective. The fact that 3 billion people in our world live on less than $2 a day is just that, a fact, an abstraction. We don't know these people. They are invisible to us. Even calling ourselves "middle-class" shields us from the uncomfortable knowledge that we live at the summit of the world's income distribution, a world in which the wealthiest fifth consumes nearly four fifths of the resources, while the poorest fifth struggles to survive on less than two percent. We can drive to the mall and shop till we drop without ever seeing Lazarus. This helps keep our American middle-class conscience blissfully clear.

We are comforted by our belief that we are a generous nation, even though our government spends a far smaller percentage of our gross domestic product on foreign assistance than any other industrialized country in the world-just one tenth of one percent. And this tiny trickle of foreign assistance is often given in a way that does more to promote US business interests abroad than to liberate the poor.

For example, instead of focusing on helping poor third world farmers become more productive so they can feed their own populations, the US often donates surplus food in a way that makes it difficult for local farmers to stay in business. These farmers simply can't compete when donated food floods into the local market. As local food production declines, these countries become ever more dependent on American food, much of which must be purchased from US farmers. Buying foreign food drains these countries of their limited dollar reserves and eventually forces the price of food up, leading to greater hunger. In theory, local farmers should then be able to compete with the increasingly expensive foreign food, but in reality, many farmers become completely de-capitalized and are unable to even purchase the seed they would need to begin farming again.

Even some of our individual generosity seems self-serving. For example, giving away our old clothes and other junk to charity is often motivated more by our need to clear out space in our attics and closets and garages than the desire to help the poor. If we didn't give some of our stuff away we would eventually have no room left for the new things we want to buy. Some of what we give these charities ends up in their thrift shops. Most of it, though, gets sold to private brokers who then sell it in the third world for just pennies a pound. Our cheap used clothing floods into many of the worlds poorest countries, undermining local production and eliminating jobs.

Consider the country of Zambia that, according to Jon Jeter of the Washington Post, once had a thriving clothing industry. "But when government officials began opening Zambia's economy to foreign trade 10 years ago in exchange for loans from international donors, tons of cheap, secondhand clothing began to pour into the country, virtually duty free… Within eight years, about 30,000 jobs disappeared."

Ironically, much of the used clothing that floods into the third world was originally produced for US consumers in third world sweatshops. Years ago, Haiti's clothing was made by local tailors and dressmakers. Now nearly the entire Haitian population is clothed in used American clothing that Haitians call pèpè. Meanwhile, Haiti's highly skilled tailors and dressmakers are left with so little work that many have no choice but to look for a job in one of the Port-au-Prince textile assembly plants. If they are "lucky" enough to land one of these jobs, they will spend long days doing repetitive, low-skilled, assembly line work for slave wages and no job security.

Along with pèpè clothes and shoes, Haiti's open-air markets are filled with other used American goods. You can find pèpè furniture, pèpè appliances, expired pèpè prescription medicines, even pèpè dentures. The Haitian economy is not the only thing that gets buried under this wave of American junk. Haiti's culture and self-image suffer, as well.

Most people in Haiti live in the countryside and have no access to electricity. In the evenings after their work is finished they often entertain themselves by sitting together telling folktales and riddles. But much of the rapidly expanding urban population of Haiti now has access to electricity. A family can buy a used television for a few dollars. This gives them access to Haitian programming, which is dominated by old American TV re-runs and action films dubbed into French. Haiti's urban children are more familiar with Rambo, the Terminator, and old Dallas episodes than with their native folktales, proverbs, and riddles. Imported American television programming becomes a window into a world of unimaginable material extravagance, a world where violence, greed, and individualism are glorified.

Living in extreme poverty is already degrading, but then being forced to live off the material and cultural castoffs of a people you both envy and resent is deeply humiliating. Haitians can hardly be blamed if they begin to feel like the dregs of humanity. In our global economy, the poor are increasingly exposed to the lifestyles of the rich and famous. But it is like seeing through a one-way mirror. They see us, but we don't see them.

If our only failure were our blindness, we wouldn't do such harm. But so many of the political and economic decisions American politicians, corporate leaders, and consumers make have huge unintended consequences on the lives of the poor all over the world. There is little the poor can do to influence those decisions or make their voices heard. We are like a blind and deaf giant, unknowingly crushing people with nearly every move we make and unable to hear their cries.

That is why there was broad ambivalence in the world over the September 11 attacks. While many in the third world condemned the attacks as completely immoral, they could also understand the rage that generated the attacks. What many see as American indifference and arrogance toward the rest of the world has made our nation deeply hated in many quarters.

In Haiti most of the anger is turned inward, leading to hopelessness, self-doubt, and even self-hatred. I remember being stunned years ago by a sign of this self-hatred. I was overhearing an argument between two of my Haitian neighbors. As their exchange grew more heated, they started insulting each other. There were the standard insults. "You rat!" one yelled. "You vagabond!" the other responded. The insults became vulgar. Then one yelled at the other, "You Haitian!" Since then I've heard many instances of Haitians using "Haitian" as an insult. So deep is the humiliation and self-hatred many Haitians feel, their nationality becomes a cutting epithet.

As Freda Catheus, a Haitian woman who heads one of Beyond Borders' partner organizations, recently lamented, "We [Haitians] no longer accept our color. We try to dress like people from another culture. We spend the little bit of money that we have to change the color of our skin, the texture of our hair, the way we talk. We try to forget our own language, our own stories, everything that is really ours. We've come to hate ourselves, our culture, and everything we used to value."

But Freda and many other grassroots Haitian leaders are resisting this tendency and instead are working to lead their Haitian brothers and sisters to develop strategies for depending less on castoffs and degrading forms of charity. They are working to awaken Haitians to their own resourcefulness and self-worth and encouraging them to stop looking to the wealthy West to supply their needs.

Frank Deralus, who serves as an instructor in an adult literacy center funded by Beyond Borders, is one such leader. He recently reflected on this issue of pèpè by drawing an analogy from the story of a blind beggar in the Bible:

Look at the story of blind Bartimaeus in Mark 10. The people around Bartimaeus seemed satisfied that he remain a blind man who begged for the rest of his life. They might help him find his way to the road each day to beg for scraps - rags to clothe himself with - things that other people didn't want, just like many of our leaders seem to be content to let us Haitians beg for scraps from other nations. But one day when Bartimaeus heard that Jesus was close by, he cried out for direct help. He was tired of living on pèpè. Those around him told him to shut up and not to bother the Lord with his problems. But he persisted in crying out all the louder. This is exactly what we Haitians need to do, be persistent and cease to tolerate pèpè and demand justice instead. Jesus spoke to him saying, 'Come to me.' He wanted Bartimaeus to participate in the process of becoming whole. When Bartimaeus arrived, Jesus said, 'What do you want?' We Haitians need to participate in our becoming whole and stop depending on pèpè. We need to become clear about what we want and don't want and not let those around us shut us up and keep us from becoming whole.

Frank's stance reflects the sort of attitude that is encouraged in programs supported by Beyond Borders-"Don't just passively wait on others to help you; you may not get what you really need." This is why Beyond Borders has come to focus on bringing Haitians together to learn from one another, think together, and discover what great things they can accomplish with God's help. In literacy centers, in Reflection Circles, in Open Space conferences, in leadership exchanges, and in our efforts to promote more collaboration among Haitian groups, we are always seeking to help Haitians discover their own worth and power and working for the day when they no longer have to survive on our crumbs.

By refusing to accept our scraps and demanding justice in their relationship with us instead, the poor not only help themselves, they also help us. As long as they are satisfied with the crumbs we toss their way, we'll never be forced to confront the fundamental evil of this wall of wealth we have built around ourselves.

Beyond Borders takes groups to Haiti to meet with Haitians who are working for meaningful change and justice. Though these visitors certainly offer encouragement to the Haitians they meet with and cheer them on in their difficult work, the central aim is not for the visitors to help Haitians, but for Haitians to help us.

Haiti is like Lazarus sitting at the gate of America. We are separated by less than a two-hour flight but live on opposite sides of the economic universe. Stepping outside our gate and spending a few days on the other side of the wall that divides us is more than an expression of solidarity. The experience can awaken us from the American Dream and show us the emptiness of our worldly pursuits and the vitality of life lived for love. A week in Haiti can be the beginning of a life dedicated to bringing down the walls of injustice.

By allowing us to witness their struggle, our Haitian hosts demonstrate their human dignity. Poverty tends to dehumanize people not only in their own eyes, but in the eyes of others, too. The poor become invisible to us. Being with them is an ointment for our blind eyes. Something of deep spiritual significance happens when the rich and poor sit down together around the same table, something that is profoundly liberating for those of us who are rich. In the presence of the poor, Jesus can open our eyes to see God.

In a recent visit to Haiti, I saw another American slogan, this one on a bumper sticker on the back of an old beat-up American car that had been exported to Haiti. The bumper sticker read "Whoever dies with the most toys wins." In a few words this bumper sticker captured the object of our empty, materialist game.

Jesus tells us that we have it all backwards, that whoever dies with the most toys loses. "But for you who are rich; you have had your time of happiness," he says. "Alas for you who are well-fed now; you shall go hungry." (Luke 6) Jesus could be speaking to us in his words to the church of Laodicea: "You say, 'How rich I am! And how well I have done! I have everything I want.' In fact, though you do not know it, you are the most pitiful wretch, poor, blind, and naked." (Revelation 3)

Jesus sees through the guise of our wealth and knows our inner neediness. He invites us to step outside these prison walls we trust. Outside, we will see him in the guise of a needy Lazarus. Knowing that Christ is ready to meet us in our relationships with the poor can give us the courage and patience to really see them and hear what they have to say. We will no longer rush past them and be tempted to throw them our scraps to pacify them and relieve our consciences. Instead we will dedicate ourselves to understanding the forces that have kept them impoverished and join their struggle to bring down the walls of injustice.

Our money is a beautiful false god that boldly promises peace, security, and contentment. The more we obey this idol, though, the less it delivers. Many discover money's lie too late. The True God sits waiting outside our gate like Lazarus. He may even poke us in the backside to get our attention. He tells us that it is in giving up our lives that we find real life.

May God grant us the courage to turn and see Him and be with Him in the humility and humanity of the crucified Christ.

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