Irmao Sol Irma Lua

I walk outside of my apartment building, looking both ways as I begin to cross a busy four-lane street. A bike almost runs me over, and as I stop to let it go by, the young man pedaling hisses at me as if I am his prey. The childish part of me wants to hiss right back at him, but instead, I just look down and make it to the division line. I amuse myself by trying to imagine how the man on the bike would react if I hissed at him.Would he realize how ridiculous it is to hiss at another human being? Would he laugh, misinterpret my hissing as an invitation, be offended, or turn violent? As I walk across the division line, I see an old man with white hair. He looks me up and down and I feel him undressing me with his eyes. I try to think of what would give me a little power in this situation, but I can’t really think of any. As I rush to get out of his sight, a young man driving a car beeps his horn and I see him turn his head 180 degrees to watch me walk by. I think to myself that this must be the reason why there are so many accidents in Brazil.

It’s 7:25am when I reach my bus stop and I am already sweating. I wait for my bus, which takes me through parts of town I will never see from the outside of this enclosed space. I enter the bus, pay $R 1.60 (about $US .80) and sit near a window. The bus has only about 7 people. All of them are fair skinned and several of them have light brown or blond hair. Two stops after I get on the bus we enter Jare…, a town that is down the street from my apartment building and part of a favella(a Brasilian slum). As I pass through Jare…, the people come pouring into the bus from the tightly packed neighborhoods. Now everyone around me has dark brown or black hair and has a darker complexion. I can tell by the smell when we are approaching the lake. From the bus I see pigs and children going through a pile of trash. On the opposite side of the lake, I see a soccer field, horses, an emaciated cow (it is four times skinnier than cows I have seen in the US), and teenage boys bathing in the lake. Near the next bus stop, I see middle-school aged boys playing with an old keyboard. I wonder if they have ever gotten a chance to work on a real computer before. From what I know about public schools here, I know they probably haven’t.

We cross a big intersection and enter a nice section of Fortaleza. There are beautiful gated homes similar to my family’s house in Bolivia. There’s rarely anyone waiting for a bus in this area. These families must own their own cars. I think to myself wouldn’t it be more fair if the families from Jare…, who live in small and overcrowded apartments (if that), had these cars and the people with the beautiful houses had to take the bus? Immediately, after thinking what at first seemed so logical, I feel childish and foolish once again. My childish sense of fairness always seems to be at odds with the way the world works. Everything I see tells me that the world is a zero-sum game---there are clear and obvious winners and losers and winners take all while losers--well, to be honest, I have no idea how they survive.

I am living in Fortaleza, Brazil while participating in the School for International Training’s Culture, Development and Social Justice program. There are many things that I am seeing here that make me feel that the world is just not right. Yet when I think about what social justice is, what it would look like if it were ever realized, and what would have to change to right these wrongs, I am lost. I am so stuck in my own reality --in the way that I have learned the world operates, in what I have learned is possible and impossible, and in my own comforts and privileges that have allowed me to come to Brazil and observe these realities temporarily from a safe distance-- the truth is I can’t even imagine what social justice would look like.

I am often uncomfortable with the very fact that I am studying abroad. My program cost about $US 16,000. This is more than most school districts have to spend to educate thousands of children. How do I justify this exorbitant amount of money being invested in me, one individual, to study and have the experience of living in another country? Is this money really being spent wisely? Am I really worth all that especially when compared to how little is spent on so many children? I find myself trying to justify my privilege. I tell myself that my parents work so hard. I shouldn’t feel guilty about my privilege …right? This is how I try to make myself feel a little less uncomfortable with my enormous privilege-- my enormous mobility, my expensive education, my infinite possibilities,-- when I am surround by those who have no power, no choices, no possibilities. I think what makes me most uncomfortable though is what I would have to give up in order to make the world more fair. Am I prepared to take those steps?

I pass by another busy intersection as we approach Terminal Papicu. There are at least 4-6 children as young as 4 and as old as 14 chasing cars stopped at red lights. They are hungry. I wonder why they aren’t at school. I wonder if for these kids, going to the schools they go to really would make any difference. I question what’s the point of going to school to learn if you are hungry. Again, I watch all of this happening from above, looking outside of a window. The bus empties as we stop at the terminal. I run out to catch another bus that takes me to what Brazilians call the peripheria (the periphery) of Fortaleza. I get on the bus, which takes another 40 minutes to another terminal and catch another bus, which only takes about 10 minutes. I get off at CrËche do Beto, a bus stop named for a man, Beto, who lives and works in the community.

There’s a small sign that says Irmao Sol Irma Lua (Brother Sun Sister Moon) nailed onto the white wall of the house. I enter Beto’s home, which feels and functions more like a community center than a private home. I see baby Gabrielle, who is 2 years old, chasing a blue ball around the main room. Gabrielle and his two brothers (ages 4 and 12) and his mother (who doesn’t look more than 26) moved into Irmao Sol Irma Lua two months ago because they had no where else to go. Gabrielle is usually unsupervised and roams around freely. I run to play with him. He begins to giggle when he sees me. Within a few days, he has already learned that I simply cannot say no to him running around in his black undies. I play futebol with him, chase him and let him chase me, throw him and up in the air and catch him, and don’t let him put random dirty objects in his mouth.

Irmao Sol Irma Lua

I go and visit the aula de formaticas (computer class). There are five computers which do not have internet access. There is a teacher who is 25 and who taught himself everything he knows on the computer. There are five students: four boys (ages 16, 17, 18, and 18) and one girls (age 14). Two of the boys have already graduated high school. They are all learning how to type. I watch them as they read their instruction manuals and copy the lessons. They type with their index fingers. I think to myself how great this program is that it enables these five kids to come hear every morning to learn how to type and hopefully learn other computer programs as well. But at the same time, I think to myself how I learned how to type in the 3rd grade and by the end of 3rd grade I could type 37 words per minute (I cant believe I remember this). I am 10 years ahead of these kids in terms of my ability to type and my exposure to computers. I think of the computers at Duke, the thousands and thousands that are there for our use at the library, in our dorms, and even in the (what is that called—oh right the Bryan Center), in addition to the thousands of computers owned by students. I leave the class not wanting to distract the kids, who really are more my peers.

At 11am I walk a few blocks to Pastoral da Criancas, another NGO, which serves lunch to women and children in the community. I snack on cashews which cost $R1.50. Lunch isn’t served until noon, but women and children begin to line up as early as 11am. They are hungry. They bring plates and spoons or containers in plastic bags. The children are excited. The mothers look exhausted. I sit next to one of the mothers. As I try to talk to her in my pathetic Portuguese, I see how thin her arm looks next to mine. Many of the mothers are missing teeth. They usually are the thinnest and have the poorest health. They are all so young and they have so many children. I see Pastor Yvone and she gives me a hug good morning. There are about 4 other women who serve the food, which is always rice, beans, farofa, and some small serving of meat. It costs them about $R100-120 to feed 120 women and children they serve each day. Many of the women and children sit and eat right there and others return home with their containers filled. 10 minutes after the food has been served, the room is empty and quiet.

Each day, the same children and women line up to get lunch. One of the mothers I have been talking to invites me to visit her home. She lives by the rio. When it rains the rio floods her home. She tells me she doesn’t have a cement floor. Her house is made of boards of wood that are somehow held together. I step over a puddle of water and enter her house. There is a large bed and right next to that is a small bed, which her two sons sleep in. There is a small black and white TV. There are two backpacks hanging from a nail in the wall. In another room there is a small kitchen, with a stovetop, a small table, 4 cups and 4 plates, and a small bed for her daughter. The space is so small I can’t believe three children and two parents, one of whom is sick with epilepsy inhabit this space. Their entire house is smaller than my room is at home. In fact its smaller than some large single dorms at Duke. We talk for a while and she tells me that she receives assistance through a government program called Bolsa Familia. She receives $R15 for each child per month. I think to myself how do you feed a child for a month with $R15 (about $US7.5). As we leave I thank her for letting me visit her home. She says goodbye and asks me if it is very different from my home. I feel a pang in my stomach, stare at the ground and say yes it is.

I go and visit a school. The principal tells me that there are 2,400 students who attend the school in morning, afternoon, or evening shifts each 4hrs long. I ask how many pass the Vestibular (the entrance exam into public, free, university). She tells me only about 2 each year. The chances these kids won’t go to college is 1199/1200 and these kids are considered lucky to even have a school to go to even if it is only for 4 hrs a day. The artistic grafitti on the walls says " Dereitos equales: Nem Mais Nem Menos" another sign says "Muda a cabeca para Mudar Mundo" another says Educar para transformar" and another says "ser estudante e ser sujeto do seu proprio processo educativeo, sentido-se interpelado pelo desejo de construiur o seu conhecimento com o forma de humanizarse." Sometimes I feel like these words on the wall are lies. The thing that angers me is that they should be truths. They should be possible but here it is hard to imagine another reality as possible. Having a school to go to, finding food and work, just getting through the day is hard enough for most people here. I walk back to Irmao Sol Irma Lua with Franslyvania, who is Gabrielle’s oldest brother. I stare at the ground as we walk and notice that half of Franslyvania’s sandal is missing. Sandals cost only $R5-8. It is unbelievable to me that there are families that cant afford to buy their son a pair of sandals. But if you don’t have $R1 for lunch or dinner, you most definitely don’t have $R5 for sandals.

Irmao Sol Irma Lua

At 4pm, the same women and children who lined up at Pastoral da Criancas line up outside of Irmao Sol Irma Lua. Everyone brings pots and containers. Today there is more excitement because Beto’s father donated milk. I pass out two cans of powered milk to each family. The kids scream "Leite Leite" and run around outside with their cans. I think to myself it’s like they just won the lottery. I get that same pang in my stomach and I leave to hide in the bathroom for a few minutes. I don’t want the kids to see me cry. I get angry at myself for feeling pity, which seems like the most worthless emotion when I am surrounded by very real needs. No one wants my pity, they want me to help change their reality. I am angry with myself for feeling this worthless emotion. When I return, the other volunteers have returned carrying the Sopa Amiga, a government program that makes soup for the hungry. The soup is made in the center of the city and it is up for NGOs to pick up the soup and distribute it (the poor simply don’t have enough money to get to and from the center to get the food). The soup is contained in these huge barrels. They are so heavy I can’t pick them up to help carrying them inside. The Soup is boiling hot. People distance themselves as they pour the soup in their containers to avoid it splattering and burning them.

When people leave, I go inside to talk to Beto. I don’t know how he does this everyday. I ask him how he does it and tell him that it has been making me very sad and I just don’t know if I could do this everyday. I tell him it upsets me that I see the same women and children and everyday they don’t have food and everyday they go to Pastoral de Criancas for lunch and then here for dinner. He tells me that it is difficult and it makes him sad also, but at the same time he knows that if he didn’t bring Sopa Amiga here that these people would go without food and they would be in even worst situation than they are. I ask him about long term change and about the possibility that by providing soup everyday he is creating a dependency which might hinder long term change. He says that he worries about both those issues a lot but that it is difficult to deal with these long term issues when people come to you with their children and they are hungry. He tells me that he has created macrame courses for a class of 6 women in the community and that he hopes to create mason training for some of the men and one day to create a brick laying business so that these men can then have employment. He tells me that the macrame class is small because of limited materials. It is hard to invest in these long term projects when the community’s immediate needs are so severe. I ask Beto how Jezelda’s children eat and live with only $R15 a month. I ask him as if there must be some other way that they survive. He turns to me and says very simply, they are hungry. I keep looking at him wanting him to tell me that there is some other answer, there is some other way.

Beto says goodbye to me and sends two chaperones, two of the male volunteers, to walk me to the bus stop. They wait for me to get on the bus and wave goodbye. I get on the bus, pay $R1.60, hug my bag and stare out the window for some answers. All I can think about is baby Gabrielle. I wonder if when he grows up he will have a scar from his allergy never being properly taken care of. I wonder about him, but mostly I worry about him. His chances seem so dismal. Feeling hopeless, I say a quick prayer for him…but at this point I have little faith that prayers will do much to help Gabrielle. Everything is against baby Gabrielle. It seems so simple to me; All he needs is a home, adequate food to eat and grow, a school, sandals, a doctor a few times a year, cream for his allergy, someone to play with and to clean his lollipop when he drops it on the dirty floor, someone to make sure he doesn’t touch the dog or go out into the street. I think about how well cared for, how protected I was and still am.

I get off to change buses. I buy a grande cafezinho $R2 so I don’t fall asleep on the bus. I wait in a long line for the bus to take me to the Center of Fortaleza. I think about Duke and how far away that reality is from where I am right now. I think about how each year, my parents invest $US40,000 in my education. This always seemed to be an absurd amount, but I always justified it with the fact that I am totally worth the investment because I’m going to do great things with this education. Right? I can’t help but wonder if I really am worth all that. That $ US 40,000 is about $R80,000 in Brazil. How do I justify my education? Why has so much been invested in me and my development? Am I really worth all of that? Why is so much being invested in me and so little invested in so many others? It seems like simple math doesn’t it? I’m afraid it just doesn’t make much sense. I wonder if this money was invested in the public school that Franslyvania goes to and that Gabrielle will go to in a few years, I wonder how many more students would pass the vestibular each year?

-Lissett Babaian, October 2006