Mansion

((I spent the last week alone in our volunteer house while my roommates were taking a trip to Nairobi. During that week, I thought a lot about how much space and privilege I have as a volunteer here. Houses, even small ones, seem ENORMOUS when you're the only one living in them. This is a reflection I wrote on the subject.)) 

I live in a mansion.

This mansion has four bedrooms.

This mansion usually has no running water.

This mansion has two couches, two bathrooms, and many wonderful books that have been collected and passed down from decades of volunteers.

This mansion houses four, but would probably comfortably house twelve if occupied by the neighbors, using their definition of “comfortably”, not your average American suburbanite’s definition.

This mansion often loses electricity.

This mansion is surrounded by a concrete gate, with spikes and bits of broken glass menacingly threatening any potential plunderers from attempting a hop over.

This mansion is a sanctuary, where English is spoken, athletic shorts and tank tops can be worn, computers can be used, and I can feel good about the “sacrifice” I’m making by boiling a few liters of water to make it drinkable, by washing clothes by hand. “Wow, you’re so badass.”

This mansion is a trap, where I can forget that I live in Tanzania and get lost in a world of books or boot-legged, $1 movies bought on the street.

This mansion is a fun house, where children in the neighborhood eagerly knock on the gate as if entering Disney World. The toys sent from random relatives back in America make their soda-bottle footballs and “roll the wheel with the stick” toys seem like, well, sticks and bottles.

This mansion is so close to the neighboring houses that it seems like the Kiswahili conversations are happening right beside by bed.

This mansion is a symbol, a symbol of simple living and commendable sacrifice from the eyes of many westerners, and a symbol of immense privilege and luxury from the eyes of  the neighbors who walk past this mansion daily, hawking peas and vegetables to make a living.

This mansion sits in stark contrast to the house I just visited with a small group of neighbors after we attended the early morning mass. One room, one mattress, one sick woman who couldn’t afford a cast for her broken arm. We prayed with her, we sat with her, we were just with her. I felt like part of something.

I am part of something.

And then I crossed the dirt path and turned the key to unlock the dark black gate that shines as white as my skin and stepped into my mansion, into my trap and my sanctuary. I turned my head and smiled abashedly at the small group of Tanzanians, my friends, as they waved me into my home, and I thought… why do I deserve this more than you?

You may think it’s a hovel. You may congratulate me for my work. You may think I’m off saving the world. But the world has fences. The world has gates. The world has mansions sitting in the midst of shacks.

Sometimes it’s difficult to see the good in that.

Sometimes it’s hard to understand why my skin affords me that luxury.

I guess all I can do is try to keep the gate unlocked and not get trapped inside.