the child at my door
And with that last email I sent out the next installment of 'Notes From the Edge' my column for the local PC rag - they were obviously desperate, and would take just about anything, no matter how poorly written. 'Hatz' means 'bread' or, more loosely, 'food'; 'sovaates em' means 'I'm hungry'. 'Hatz' and 'sovaates' should both pretty much rhyme with 'rots', despite the differences in transliteration. 'Shuka' (shoe - ka) is the market. Stress is almost always on the final syllable in Armenian.
Somehow he found out where I live, and he showed up at my door; ragged, dirty, and thin, one grimy paw outstretched. ‘Hatz’ he says. ‘Sovaates em’, with his eyes fixed firm on my face, his face calm. This is his job, he knows what he’s doing. He’s been begging from PCVs for years now, showing up at the various apartments, following us home from the shuka, another small animal intent on survival. I’ve felt his eyes on me before, seen him hanging around the edges of reality, sizing up the chances - and I’ve always pretended not to see, concentrated on the person in front of me and turned my body, waiting my chance to escape without confrontation, acutely aware of the child I was willing into invisibility. Now on my doorstep, eyes looking up at me from under a thatch of dirty hair. ‘Hatz.’ ‘Sovaates em.’
I gave him the money, I coughed up 150 dram in 10 dram notes, the grubby ones I usually save for the old women in Yerevan where it doesn’t make a difference if you give to the beggars. The cost of a Snickers bar, or a loaf of bread. 50 dram more and I could get my hair cut; double it and I could send a letter home. What do you do when a hungry child asks you for food? What do you do with a hungry child when they’re standing at your door and you can no longer deny them? Throw money at the problem, hope it will go away, assuage your guilt as best you can.
Become part of the problem - and I knew this, I knew this all along, but I didn’t know what else to do in the moment. I don’t know where the kid comes from, who his parents are, I’ve never seen him with an adult he wasn’t begging from, or even with another child. I don’t know his name or his age, I don’t know if he goes to school. I’ve been careful not to know, not to get involved. After all, where would it end? Give once and you’re bound forever, you’ve taken that first fatal step. The Armenians don’t want to acknowledge him any more than I do; he is always at the outskirts, near the shop doors, standing outside of groups. Looking in with that steady gaze, being told to move along, move along now. The way the shuka dogs watch food, that same peculiar flateyed stare waiting on the twist of fate. Keeping track of food and feet, alert to the possibilities inherent in both. I don’t know how to help this child, I don’t know if I can help this child. Is he really my responsibility once I’ve bought his bread? If he, then why not the others? Am I my brother’s keeper? Is this my brother? If not, then why am I here again?
I know that giving money, that even giving food is not the answer. It solves nothing but that day’s hunger, it does not touch the problem. He was working to solve that day’s hunger - it’s an important concern when you’re the one that’s hungry. But a child should not have to ask for food, should not be dependant on my whim for the bread in their belly. No one should have to ask for food. That dull taste of despair and desperation in the back of the throat, the lessons learned of hunger. To have to ask, time and time again, for the bare necessities. To be refused, time and time again; to know the way people’s eyes slide off you, the very light bending around your body in it’s effort not to see. There is a fundamental evil here, in the asking itself, the forces behind that asking, the way the asking taints us all. The way I work not to see this child, to erase him from my sight and my mind. What I cannot stand to see, what I do not wish to know. Whatever my answer, we both lose, this child and I - for there are no right answers here, no easy solutions. He doesn’t have the time to wait for the ideal solution, he’s living with the hunger now; his dirty hand outstretched and empty, that five mile stare looking up at you. ‘Hatz.’ ‘Sovaates em.’
Two nights later he was back. As I knew he would be, as the contract of need we had entered into demanded. He with his need for food, me with my need for blindness. The poor are with us always, isn’t that what Jesus said?
I still don’t know what to do.
Endnote: I ended up giving him food every week, pretty much thoughout the time I lived in Alaverdi. I would buy an extra loaf of bread, a can of sardines, whatever else I was getting at the market, and bag it up for him every week. Tomato sauce. Noodles. Cheese. Soap. I gave him clothes sometimes, too. He couldn't read, he couldn't write, he smoked, and teased the street dogs at times, he lived with his mother in a shack on the outskirts of town. He had no friends, he was filthy and dressed in tattered dirty clothes. He wasn't the best kid (I don't want to romantise the reality), it wasn't the best solution, but it was the best solution I could come up with at the time. He's still there, or was when I left, probably still begging from PCVs and doing dirty jobs in the market, he has no future. Every child deserves better than that.
Somehow he found out where I live, and he showed up at my door; ragged, dirty, and thin, one grimy paw outstretched. ‘Hatz’ he says. ‘Sovaates em’, with his eyes fixed firm on my face, his face calm. This is his job, he knows what he’s doing. He’s been begging from PCVs for years now, showing up at the various apartments, following us home from the shuka, another small animal intent on survival. I’ve felt his eyes on me before, seen him hanging around the edges of reality, sizing up the chances - and I’ve always pretended not to see, concentrated on the person in front of me and turned my body, waiting my chance to escape without confrontation, acutely aware of the child I was willing into invisibility. Now on my doorstep, eyes looking up at me from under a thatch of dirty hair. ‘Hatz.’ ‘Sovaates em.’
I gave him the money, I coughed up 150 dram in 10 dram notes, the grubby ones I usually save for the old women in Yerevan where it doesn’t make a difference if you give to the beggars. The cost of a Snickers bar, or a loaf of bread. 50 dram more and I could get my hair cut; double it and I could send a letter home. What do you do when a hungry child asks you for food? What do you do with a hungry child when they’re standing at your door and you can no longer deny them? Throw money at the problem, hope it will go away, assuage your guilt as best you can.
Become part of the problem - and I knew this, I knew this all along, but I didn’t know what else to do in the moment. I don’t know where the kid comes from, who his parents are, I’ve never seen him with an adult he wasn’t begging from, or even with another child. I don’t know his name or his age, I don’t know if he goes to school. I’ve been careful not to know, not to get involved. After all, where would it end? Give once and you’re bound forever, you’ve taken that first fatal step. The Armenians don’t want to acknowledge him any more than I do; he is always at the outskirts, near the shop doors, standing outside of groups. Looking in with that steady gaze, being told to move along, move along now. The way the shuka dogs watch food, that same peculiar flateyed stare waiting on the twist of fate. Keeping track of food and feet, alert to the possibilities inherent in both. I don’t know how to help this child, I don’t know if I can help this child. Is he really my responsibility once I’ve bought his bread? If he, then why not the others? Am I my brother’s keeper? Is this my brother? If not, then why am I here again?
I know that giving money, that even giving food is not the answer. It solves nothing but that day’s hunger, it does not touch the problem. He was working to solve that day’s hunger - it’s an important concern when you’re the one that’s hungry. But a child should not have to ask for food, should not be dependant on my whim for the bread in their belly. No one should have to ask for food. That dull taste of despair and desperation in the back of the throat, the lessons learned of hunger. To have to ask, time and time again, for the bare necessities. To be refused, time and time again; to know the way people’s eyes slide off you, the very light bending around your body in it’s effort not to see. There is a fundamental evil here, in the asking itself, the forces behind that asking, the way the asking taints us all. The way I work not to see this child, to erase him from my sight and my mind. What I cannot stand to see, what I do not wish to know. Whatever my answer, we both lose, this child and I - for there are no right answers here, no easy solutions. He doesn’t have the time to wait for the ideal solution, he’s living with the hunger now; his dirty hand outstretched and empty, that five mile stare looking up at you. ‘Hatz.’ ‘Sovaates em.’
Two nights later he was back. As I knew he would be, as the contract of need we had entered into demanded. He with his need for food, me with my need for blindness. The poor are with us always, isn’t that what Jesus said?
I still don’t know what to do.
Endnote: I ended up giving him food every week, pretty much thoughout the time I lived in Alaverdi. I would buy an extra loaf of bread, a can of sardines, whatever else I was getting at the market, and bag it up for him every week. Tomato sauce. Noodles. Cheese. Soap. I gave him clothes sometimes, too. He couldn't read, he couldn't write, he smoked, and teased the street dogs at times, he lived with his mother in a shack on the outskirts of town. He had no friends, he was filthy and dressed in tattered dirty clothes. He wasn't the best kid (I don't want to romantise the reality), it wasn't the best solution, but it was the best solution I could come up with at the time. He's still there, or was when I left, probably still begging from PCVs and doing dirty jobs in the market, he has no future. Every child deserves better than that.
posted by meg at 5:37 PM
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