And then I felt like a jerk.
January 7, 2010 | Filed Under Uncategorized
Christmas Eve day I woke bright and early to hail a taxi and go out to a suburb of Dakar. I was shooting/reporting a story for UNICEF on how (if) the economic crisis (doubled with the food crisis, doubled with the earlier fuel price crisis) was hurting families in the area.I got to the ‘burbs (burbs here do not have the same connotation as they do in the US. The distance from the town center and lack of infrastructure usually means the further out you go, the less monetary income the families have).Anyways, I get to the burbs and meet up with Filbert, who is associated with a local NGO and has arranged for me to meet with a family that is having hard times. (Side note: What many people might not know is that many if not most international journalists are useless voyeurs with expensive equipment until they have someone like Filbert there to help them. End Sidenote).So on the way to the family, Filbert tells me that the family has agreed to meet with me, let me photograph them and talk to them, and they do not want anything in return.BUT Filbert says.. umm.. these people are really on hard times.. and they’re taking the whole day (a day they COULD use to search for work) to talk to you. SO you should probably give them something like 2000 CFA (ummm about 4.50USD). This is where many things go through my head..1. Taught in J-school NEVER to give people ANYTHING for a story (SECOND SIDENOTE: this is not J-school).2. Damn it.Already gonna have to pay about $8 to get there and back for the day. Add it to the growing expenses?I grumble to Filbert a few times how this ain’t in my budget, and you know.. poor, me. That type of filth. Then I laugh, tell him I’ll give them 2,000, and Filbert leaves me alone with the family.So, Mamadou shows me into their house. There are four small rooms and an open-air dirt area as the common living room. There are 18 children all together, because Mamadou lives with his wive and their five kids, his 3 brothers and their wives (except for the one who died during childbirth a few months ago) and their kids, and his sister. And his mom.They used to eat two meals a day, now it’s down to one. I ask if the kids cry when they get hungry (some of them are as young as one and two). He says if that happens, someone goes to the boutique, gets a bag of cookies (small bag here - 100 grams or about two servings). Then they put the cookies in hot water, stir it up to make a paste, and give the kids some. The paste part makes the food go around more.Then they put the cookies in hot water, stir it up to make a paste, and give the kids some.Ok.. now here’s the part where I tell you how much I hate ‘feel sorry for Africans’ stories. Because I do. Thing is, Mamadou’s problem isn’t an African problem, and I don’t think my stories are supposed to encourage a bunch of people to rush in and save Mamadou. Because first of all, I also get to see a lot of love in these places and a lot of amazing families, and that can beat the hell out of a pocket full of cash sometimes. It makes me also think about what it means to share. I’ve got something, so I share it. Mamadou and his family have something, so they share it. Just because you can see and touch what I’m sharing, doesn’t mean what they have to offer isn’t just as important…It’s just a wake-up call that so many of those things you are truly born into. I don’t feel guilty, I dont’ feel ashamed.. I just feel grateful and compassionate.Oh.. but then I DID feel guilty for complaining about the money I didn’t want to give them. It WAS christmas eve after all. 
..Here’s Mamadou: 
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