Privilege

I woke up from a sound that seemed like a prolonged wail. "Paaaaaaaaaayshaaa". Loud and shrill it echoed outside amongst the dust. This was not a wail, but a screech for survival. The parade of women started early in the morning from the harbor and into city announcing "piexe". Elongated wails of which I assumed were religious when I arrived were not religious at all, but an announcement of fresh fish for sale. And indeed, brightly colored fabric formed swirls and knots which covered these stoic women merchants with tubs of fish balanced elegantly on their heads. It was only 8 am but the heat and the sun oppressed. Music from some unknown tinny origin buzzed like the mosquitos that were ever present in any cool spot. The colonial colors were bleached by the sun and tinted by the red dust. This fertile land had betrayed its people. With time my daily shock to the conditions here lessened; however, my sense of injustice grew.
Roosters and hens pecked around the trash and polluted puddles that surrounded the apartment buildings. The war has been officially over for three years, yet the struggle to survive continues daily. It's amazing though how they persist. I don't think I would have the strength as a person to forge through conditions like this and not be embittered by the wealth that is hoarded by a few ignorant greedy people.

It has been over month since I left home and come back to this strange country. This infernal heat and humidity surrounds you, and pulls on you. Each day I work like never before and can’t help but realize that I had the privilege of lower-class American childhood. In a place like this, I feel I lived like a prince. I come with privileges: monetary resources, and the mere fact I can leave and go home, but most of all, my skin color. My skin is the most expensive suit one can have here. This sickens me; something so worthless distinguishes between who is valuable and who is not.