This year I went on my third mission trip to Nicaragua and it felt different than my other two trips. All the compassion, malnutrition and horrible sights were still present but there was something I couldn’t put my finger on. Something FELT different. Was I becoming insensitive to the desperation?
The first trip I went on (2006-entering my senior year of high school) we spent the majority of the week-long trip hosting a camp for kids from the dump. That’s right..the kids live amongst the trash in the capital’s DUMP. We were paired with one of the kids to be our “amigo” for the next several days. After spending day after day with Belki, who I like to call “Nicaraguan’s Annie” (she was sort of a tomboy and even had freckles through her dark Nicaraguan skin), I couldn’t shake the feeling of complete depression thinking that Belki would be heading back to live under cardboard and eat scraps from left overs. I was torn apart when Belki left me, head sticking out the broken window of the back seat of a yellow bus. It’s funny but I can actually remember thinking that she was my best friend, just in another life. As I watched as the ‘kids from the dump’ drove away from the camp, where they’d had some of the only days in their lifetime that wouldn’t be centered around wondering if they would eat, I vowed never to forget Belkis. I still haven’t. Of course we sent her a $20 once or twice in the mail with hopes that it would get to her. It’s hard to send something to someone who doesn’t have an address. Much of Nicaraugua doesn’t have an address–something I’ve learned along the way.
Brooke and I in Puerto Cabezas, Nicaragua.
The next mission trip to Nicaragua, my sister, Brooke was exposed to the horrible sights of the tragedy along with me. I re-lived all the shock of 6-people families living in shacks with a single bedroom. Different setting (off the gulf coast this time) but same awful poverty. I cried, I laughed, I went home transformed.
This year our group traveled to a poor region on the Pacific Coast of Nicaragua. Knowing what to expect, I was in charge of the home outreach and approached each family with confidence we could bring comfort. I found myself surprised I didn’t shed any tears when I saw the conditions the families were in. Then again, how could I feel pity for these people who had shelter and a plank to sleep on, when hundreds of families only dozens of miles away didn’t even have a tarp to sleep under?
Me pulling teeth on my second trip to Nicaragua.
Was I getting used to this desperation? Was I being human or was I being insensitive? I have to believe that my feelings, or lack thereof, were protecting myself. When you see such hopelessness time and time again you can’t help but put up a wall–there is only so much your emotions can handle. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to children running away with your can of soup with the same reaction I would have if I won the lottery, or seeing hundreds of people lined up to get their cavity-stricken teeth pulled, to end the pain. What I do know is that these people, these Nicaraguans who have so little, have found a way to cope. Through their suppression, they have found a way to accept their lifestyle but it doesn’t mean that the rest of us should.
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