Gagged by the Past: U.S. Development Workers’ Perspective on Trump’s Global Gag Rule- 762 Signatures and Counting

One day a fellow PCV serving in Botswana reached out to me because she had noticed that I, too, was a vocal advocate for reproductive rights and an opponent of Trump's reinstatement of the Global Gag Rule, which bans employees of foreign aid organizations that receive any federal funding from even uttering the word "abortion." As PC volunteers, this policy directly affects us and many of the organizations we partner with around the world. And so we decided to team up and write an open letter to Mr. Trump - not necessarily with the intention of changing his mind, but with the idea that perhaps if we speak up now, the GGR will not be reinstated later. It was also pretty cathartic. We were able to garner the attention of some big-name publishing sites and collect over 700 signatures from PCVs and RPCVs working around the world. Then suddenly our momentum was slashed and we were halted in our tracks. The Peace Corps is an "apolitical" organization and therefore cannot allow its volunteers to speak out about political issues, we were told. (I often forget that a woman's body is a political battleground and as such any opinion regarding abortion, no matter how informed by empirical data, is seen as inherently political.) So threatened with "administrative separation" (aka being kicked out) and effectively silenced, we were not able to publish our letter on a more attention-grabbing scale. We decided instead to share with family and friends on a more low-key level. If you'd like to take the time, you can find the letter below. Please keep in mind that the words "Peace Corps" do not come up anywhere in the letter, and that is extremely intentional. The letter represents our thoughts as individuals and in no way reflects PC's apolitical take (or rather lack there of) on current events.

https://medium.com/@globalcitizens/gagged-by-the-past-u-s-development-workers-perspective-on-trump-s-global-gag-rule-b5b0a92c1c74#.318y4u9a5

Romanticizing Poverty

Chances are that if you’re a Peace Corps volunteer home for the holidays, you’ve recently talked with a family member or friend that has equated poverty with happiness. During my short visit home, I was taken aback by an incredibly common theme that popped up during the countless “so how’s Guatemala?” conversations I had back home. It appeared to me that many people, who seemingly for the most part enjoy wonderful, privileged lives, got caught up marveling at how happy my host-country neighbors are in the simplicity of their poverty. Most said something along the lines of, “ those people have next to nothing, but they still find a way to be so happy. Not like us.”

                             

It’s true, of course, that many of the people I live and work with live below the poverty line (~$2 USD/day), and yes many of them are the happiest people I know. But this assumption that their poverty is somehow directly responsible for their happiness really confuses me. Do people honestly think the key to happiness is poverty? Because if so, why not just donate all of your things today? Yes the men and women who live in poverty that I’ve worked with are happy, but that is not to say that they wouldn’t be just as happy or even happier making more than $2 USD a day.

If I am misreading these comments, please by all means let me know, but my understanding thus far is that people are essentially assuming a cause-and-effect relationship when it comes to poverty and happiness. It seems that the common line of reasoning is that being poor leads to a simpler life where you don’t get caught up with “first world problems” and learn to be happy with what little you have. This thought process worries me because buying into a causal pathway that diametrically links poverty with simplicity and happiness makes poverty seem voluntary. It’s almost as if you’re saying that the poor chose their destitution because they prefer the simplicity of the lifestyle, when in reality those in poverty are generally stuck in poverty. They probably spend just as much time dreaming about a life of privilege and wealth as many Americans I’ve met seem to spend dreaming of a “simpler life.”

                                    

The most confusing part to me, however, is that people I’ve met readily romanticize the poor in the countries I’ve worked in or travelled to, but I’ve never heard the same applied to those living in poverty in the U.S. Usually the poor people of Kenya, Haiti, or Guatemala are resilient-minded, hardworking folk who have learned to make the most of what they have, while the American poor are lazy or even scamming. Apparently it’s easier to romanticize the poor that live thousands of miles away and vilify the poor that live down the block. I wonder where this paradox comes from. Is it from movies like Slumdog Millionaire where the characters’ capacity for happiness and love seem to outshine our own because of all the hardships they’ve been through? Or is it simply easier to romanticize something so far away from your own reality?

                                           

The danger with romanticizing poverty is that it tricks people into thinking that there’s no need for change. “Why complicate their lives with globalization or modernization? Just let them be happy in their simplicity.” But the truth that I have seen with every house visit I’ve done is that there is no simplicity in poverty. There is no simplicity in a 21 year-old mother of three, denied of financial autonomy, clean water, and food security trying to figure out how to keep her family healthy. There is no simplicity in a 14 year-old girl with untreated schizophrenia being stripped of her basic right to education. Poverty is not a simple thing- it is a complex multitude of emotions, circumstances, and contexts that can’t be captured in one stereotypical, glorified depiction. When we romanticize the poor and simplify poverty, we hobble the desire to find realistic interventions for alleviating poverty.

The “happy with what little they have” mentality is dangerous because it confuses making the best out of harsh circumstances with willfully choosing those circumstances – the bottom billion are happy with what they have (by the way who is actually surveying these populations and uniformly declaring that poor people are happier than wealthy people?) because they usually come from such disadvantaged lives that the simple making it through the day with food on the table and a roof above their heads is a blessing, not a given. But please don’t confuse this with the happiness you are thinking of. Imagine being content with your day not because you excelled at work or made a new friend, but simply because you and your family survived. Many of the women I work with are so overcome with the sheer challenge of survival that they don’t have the time to find the things that make us in the developed world happy – things like friends, pastimes, or forms of personal expression. The truth is romanticizing poverty is a privilege that only people who do not live in poverty are lucky enough to have.

Friends and family back home are by no means the only ones guilty of romanticizing the poor. Social justice think tanks and public health nonprofits tend to characterize the poor as ‘resilient and creative entrepreneurs.’ This is clearly visible in the explosion of emphasis placed on micro-financing in recent years. This characterization is by all means probably true to a large extent and I really do believe micro-financing has the capability to mobilize and empower the poor in ways top-down interventions never could, but the over-simplification of the poor as ‘untapped potential’ is harmful in more ways than one. It results in too little highlighting of the need for legal and social mechanisms to protect the poor who are actually quite vulnerable consumers. If you or I make a poor business decision or rash purchase, chances are that we’re much more likely to recover from the economic downfall than someone living below the poverty line would be. A romanticized view of the poor also distracts from the importance of sustainable interventions – if you view poverty as a choice rather than a reality, you are probably less likely to invest the thought and time that it takes to ensure a project is fully sustainable.  The idea that the poor just need a catalyst – a donation of money or resources for example- completely disregards the complexity of the social, political, and geographical contexts that keeps the poor living in poverty.  Instead of romanticizing poverty, we would do better to admire the strength of the poor while understanding our role as individuals, institutions, or government in ending poverty. 

Fiambre

Since my time here in Guatemala, I have tried some euphemistically "interesting" foods - spaghetti tacos, pacaya, mineral water with Worcestershire sauce and lime- but none compare to the oddity that is fiambre. Fiambre is a traditional Guatemalan dish that is prepared to celebrate Día de los Santos (November 1). It typically contains over 50 ingredients, mostly a mix of different processed meats and pickled vegetables, and is served cold. Apparently this strange jumble of food originated from the tradition of taking dead family members their favorite dishes to lay on their graves. And after years of mixing and adding new ingredients, fiambre was born. Over the years, families began mixing all of these different foods together, probably to ease the burden of their trip to the cemetery. Because of this every family's recipe differs slightly, but all fiambre typically contains every type of sausage you can imagine (including a curious blue one), cold cuts, pickled baby corn and onion, beets, hard boiled eggs, and a variety of cheeses. The version that I was invited to prepare and eat with my work partner's family included the following:
-chopped parsley
-white wine vinegar
-capers
-pimientos
-pickled onions
-pickled asparagus 
-pickled Brussel sprouts 
-garlic
-shredded chicken 
-chorizo sausage
-linguiça sausage
-green beans
-salami
-ham
-peas
-carrots
-celery
-cauliflower
-beets
-cabbage
-mini gherkins
-Spanish olives
-radishes, quartered
-hard boiled eggs
-pacaya
-sardines and anchovies
-parmesan cheese
-sliced American cheese 

Plus I'm sure that I'm forgetting some others. All in all, I absolutely despise fiambre, especially day-old fiambre that has been sitting in its own juices. But I do admit that fiambre is yet another incredible example of the complex history and traditions of daily Guatemala. So if you ever get the chance, I say take a bite! 

z 

Sumpango Kite Festival

First World Guilt

When I was about 14, I had my braces taken off and for the full next week I could not stop passing my tongue over my newly unadorned teeth. Compared to the metallic, pokey surface of my braces, my liberated teeth felt overly smooth and slimy, as if I had a mouth of pure gums rather than modified bone. It may seem like a strange analogy, but this is exactly how visiting Guatemala City felt to me. Leaving the rough, sometimes prickly campo for the shiny and new capital city felt as if I had shed my braces in favor of a fresh, white smile. As we drove through the clean, un-littered streets lined with multi-level buildings, I stared at this brave new world with the same fascination and confusion as 14 year old Alexis compulsively licked her own teeth.   

                                      

Over this past weekend, a group of us volunteers were afforded the opportunity to visit the Forbidden City. (The capital is a Peace Corps red zone for various security reasons.) Armed with private transportation and two certified chaperones, we were graciously allowed to explore designated spots of the city like the true tourists we are. We visited the Popol Vuh and Ixchel museums, the Central Park, and an incredibly bourgie area of town called Cayala. In between destinations we were instructed to roll up the windows and lock the doors - in case a band of criminals decided to embark on a high-speed, cross-vehicle robbery of 10 broke Peace Corps volunteers Fast and Furious style. Based on Peace Corps rhetoric and the strict rules prohibiting us from entering the city, most of us were expecting Gotham. Instead we got a clean, bustling city with the occasional graffiti. But we weren’t brought to the areas that most locals would consider the real Guatemala City, we were brought to Cayala.

  

Walking through the polished streets of Cayala, I felt as if we had been dropped straight into The Truman Show and was physically affected by a feeling most travellers and international workers know well- the inherent pang of first world guilt.  Cayala would outshine the nicest areas of many American cities I’ve visited and the surrounding empty lots give it the creepy feeling of a constructed make-believe world. Looking around at the designer stores and classy restaurants nearly everything stood out in stark contrast from my life back in Itzapa. The cows and horses being led through the streets of Itzapa were replaced by giggly cherubs on bikes, their parents nowhere to be seen because there was nothing to be worried about in this land of perfection. The feces and trash that cake the streets of Itzapa were replaced by perfectly manicured cobblestone. And the hardworking, leathered men and women in Mayan traje were now posh families straight from an LL Bean catalogue. 

     

As I wandered around in complete bewilderment I couldn’t help but wonder what my host mom would make of this place. Would she look at the over-priced restaurants, artisan furniture stores, and boutique olive oil shops with admiration? Or would she spit on the spotless streets as if they personally affronted her and her poverty? Just being in Cayala made me feel guilty as if I was somehow betraying her and the women I work with. I wondered if they’d think less of me for spending what amounts to their monthly salary on two sushi rolls and a Sapporo. First world guilt, or at least my particular brand of it, I think is better characterized as embarrassment. I feel embarrassed by my choices – a 150Q sushi lunch over a 20Q comedor meal- and my ability to make those choices so readily. 

First world guilt, like any guilt derived from privilege, is a curious thing. It can make you stick your head in the sand and completely deny that you benefit from any distorted advantages: “I’ve worked hard for what I have!” (Yes, we know, but that doesn’t negate your privilege.) It can also lead you to do crazy things like become a vegan or give up your life at home for two years in the Guatemalan campo.  So is guilt a pointless, self-destructive emotion or is it an evolutionary psychological mechanism that drives us forward? Either way, I think that staying in touch with our guilt and understanding its roots is an important way to ensure that our actions are motivated by the desire for real progress and aren’t just a way to relieve our sense of embarrassment or shame. Guilt without action is pointless, but action doesn’t necessarily dissipate our guilt leaving us forever stranded on an infinite moving walkway of good deeds and empathy overload.  It’s a fate I feel personally doomed to and even trapped by, but am secretly grateful for the sense of purpose it’s given me.

Tis the Season

Slip back into the nostalgic past of middle school fairs, or if you’re from NOLA like me, crawfish boils. Food stands, death-defying rides (looking at you, Zipper), arts and crafts booths, and throngs of joyful families basking in the momentary bliss of funnel cake and raffle tickets. Now replace the foods you know with pupusas, fried chicken and tortillas, and all manner of meats being grilled on the plancha. Take the sweet, childish rides you once knew and exchange them for the same ones, just twenty years older, covered in rust, and plastered with caricatures of nearly naked, extremely bodacious women. And finally, multiply the crowds you’re used to by a factor of 5 and imagine inhaling an atmosphere composed entirely of B.O. and farts as you squeeze through a vast sea of seemingly unmoving people. Now you’re at a Guatemalan feria!

                                                    

Currently, Guatemala is in feria season – a wonderful time where small towns and big cities get to leave behind their troubles and celebrate their home pride with gusto. Most ferias in Guate are a multi-day event that includes a parade, a concert, and of course the aforementioned fair scene. Intense crowds, the cries of vendors auctioning off their products, and the smells of fried foods are just some of the things you can expect to encounter at every Guatemalan feria. And let us not forget the Ferris Wheels of death. As rusted and rickety as they are, I can only imagine that they were retired from use in the States and sent to Guatemala for another few years of perilous diversion. It is impossible to describe fully the overwhelming blend of smells, sounds, and emotions one can experience in just an hour of feria.

   

Guatemalans celebrate the various patron saints of their hometowns by hosting these enormous parties around the days the saints first appeared to the Spanish colonists telling them to settle in the spots that hundreds of years later would become the towns I know and love today. Town members go all out to celebrate these metaphysical miracle makers. Town streets can be seen adorned with colorful decorations, churches hold elaborate mass ceremonies, families host large feasts, and nearly all governmental offices and services are temporarily shut down. Ferias are extremely important cultural and religious festivities in the lives of Guatemalans. They are dreamed about, planned for, and the focus of sentimental storytelling throughout the year. With their focus on history, religion, giving thanks, and enjoying the latest trends in music and pop culture, feria represents the past, present, and future all in one. The nuances that exist in each feria – the foods served, the products sold, and the colors used to embellish the streets – represent the identity and individuality of the place. All in all, feria is a time for drinking, eating, dancing, playing, and of course praying.

   

During my first year in Guatemala, I’ve had the pleasure of attending three ferias thus far: Xela (aka Quetzaltenango), Totonicapán, and San Miguel Dueñas. Within my first hour at Xela feria, I was robbed blind of nearly all of my valuables, including my phone, wallet, keys, and Twix bar. I want to be clear: it was awful. I felt dumb and helpless, and very lost and scared in a foreign city with no money and no means of communication. But it was also an incredible reminder of how fortunate I am to be surrounded by people that go above and beyond to look after me. I am forever indebted to my mom for wiring me money and canceling my cards, to my friends for buying all my food and drank, and to Don Rafael who offered to drive me three hours home in the pouring rain. You all remind me how truly beautiful the human experience can be.

                                                        

Other than that blip, my time at the three ferias was amazing! In Xela, I almost vomited on a crowd of unsuspecting Guatemalans as I raced towards death on a Ferris Wheel that likely reached speeds capable of breaking the sound barrier. In Totonicapán, I accidentally marched in the parade, lost and confused as I tried to find my way to the bus terminal. Let’s just say A LOT of people waved at us and they were probably laughing with us not at us. And I got to bring my indigenous host mom to Dueñas to celebrate feria there with my ladino host family. My time at feria has been a small, but extremely powerful look into the gorgeous complexities of Guatemalan life. Eating and blundering my way through the celebrations provided me a firsthand account of the true joy Guatemalans take in celebrating their history and religion. Talking to excited feria-goers opened up a world of fellowship, where no matter your origins we are all Guatemalans.