To Give or Not To Give Money

Sub-headline: The one bit of Peace Corps guilt that sticks

Volunteers often have reading material. Books and magazines spread from Peace Corps Volunteer to Peace Corps Volunteer like notes pass from teenager to teenager in middle school. But every once in a while, an attention-grabbing article pops up in circulation about Peace Corps life. I’ve read three attention grabbers: What the Peace Corps Taught Me About Failure by a volunteer in Senegal, a blog post titled The Real Peace Corps by a volunteer in Ethiopia, and Peace Corps Guilt by a volunteer in Paraguay. Though I enjoyed all three, the last article left a bit of a sore spot. Most likely because it is true, Peace Corps guilt does exist and I just didn’t want to admit it.

Ester Katcoff, author of Peace Corps Guilt, details several variables of volunteer guilt: (1) taking time for ourselves, (2) not sharing personal possessions, (3) being too fancy, (4) being unsustainable, (5) and failing to save the world.

Roughly my entire cluster of PCVs in Savannah, the northernmost region of Togo, agreed with every variable. But I wasn’t completely sold.

I never feel guilt in taking time for myself. Yes, I came to Togo to help the people of interested countries in meeting their need for trained men and women and to perform cultural exchanges. But if a women’s group stands me up because they need to work in their fields or men catcall me as I walk on a street or I’m missing my sisters more than ever, I firmly believe I deserve the right to enjoy the latest superhero film in the comfort of my home—even if it's the middle of the day.

I never feel guilt in not sharing personal possessions. I share pencils, paper, crayons, glitter, beads for bracelets and necklaces, old magazines, fabric for clothes, etc. I offer tastes of American dishes and beverages. But do I share my MacBook Pro or Nikon D80 with my Togolese neighbors and friends? Absolutely not. Why? Because I paid for both electronics with money I earned in America. They were not just gifts given to me.

I never feel guilt in being too fancy. I live in the capital of Savannah, thus life is already different than life in village. The married couple I replaced once told me to dress well and people will respect you. This of course I have known since I graduated from Central Michigan University; however, it was a fitting reminder that even though I am in Africa the rule still applies. The first eight months at post I hand washed all of my own clothes. Then, a nice woman asked to do my laundry so she could send her daughter, a student at the University of Kara, money for fees and miscellaneous expenses. Nowadays, she stops by my house every two weeks (or whenever I need her) to wash my clothes. Do I feel too fancy? Not at all. She works to gain money for her daughter like my mom once worked three jobs to pay for two daughters to attend university and one to go to high school.

Despite what's in the previous three paragraphs, I'm not made of ice. I do feel guilt. And it comes when children and friends I know ask me for money and I don’t want to give it.

In New York City, I often saw people who were either homeless or simply poor asking for money in the subway. Though it made me sad, I never gave them money unless they included a special performance with their request: a song, a dance, a witty limerick, a rough sketch, etc. In Togo, it’s really no different. I see children everyday with tin cans tied with string dangling around their necks hoping someone with give them 25 franc cfa here, 100 franc cfa there like in Slumdog Millionaire. I never give them money. I barely flinch as I shoo them away. Though if I have leftover bread from a restaurant, I don't hesitate to pass it on. 

With familiar Togolese friends and children, it’s an entirely different ballgame. A guilt either too tough to swallow or one I bury deep hoping to forget.

Last Christmas a friend asked me for money. His name is Robert and he was two months behind on his rent. Christmas is an uncomfortable time to say no to friends in need of money, not to mention his family lives in Burkina Faso. So I gave him six-mille franc cfa (approximately $12). He told me he would pay me back, but he never has and he never will. Even though I am glad I gave it to him, even that day, last Christmas, I couldn’t help but wonder: What would he have done if I weren’t here? Would he have found a way to pay for it himself or would he go door-to-door asking for 100 franc cfa here, 100 franc cfa there like the children with tin cans? I will never know.

This morning, the guilt almost too great to swallow hit me again. At just after 8AM, a child knocked on my door. Not thrilled to have a visitor so early in the morning, I opened the door slowly. To my surprise, it was a familiar face. His name is Jonas. Jonas helped with the second world map project I completed at Bon Pasteur Elementary School. This year he started middle school. How exciting! Today, however, was less than exciting. After we exchanged salutations, I asked him why he was not in school. And the rest of the conversation went like this:

“I’m not in school because they sent me home,” he said.

“Why did they send you home?” I asked him.

“Because they want my school fees,” he replied.

“Where are your parents?” I asked.

“My parents are dead,” he replied.

“Well, who takes care of you?” I further asked.

“My grandmother,” he replied as he looked at me with heart-wrenching eyes.

In truth, even after 18 months of service, I didn’t know how to respond. I so wanted to remain strong and refuse to offer money but I just couldn't tell him no. So instead I told him to “have courage” and I would see him soon. As he exited my compound, I slowly closed my front door and stood staring at the ground. I felt wretched and so many thoughts entered my mind.

What are you doing? He is a good kid. It’s only twelve bucks to help him continue his education. But you’ve been so firm about not haphazardly giving Togolese money. He has to work to gain money. But he is a good kid!! And his help with the world map project was voluntary. Everyone has problems, what makes him so special?

Above all thoughts and questions I had, the inevitable question took precedence over all: Will it stop? That is, if I give Jonas money for school, will the other two students who helped with the project come knocking on my door and ask for money? Am I a terrible person for thinking it's all just a domino effect?

It isn’t like in America where donations to charities can be made anonymously. Most host country nationals think volunteers have money and even with shame, they will ask for financial assistance from volunteers they barely know. It's not only their fault. Here is a country that has had so much assistance from foreign lands that for most it's all they know. But when do we as volunteers say no? What impossible situations remove the guilt and leave volunteers with the satisfaction of helping a friend? Is it not so different from America after all? Does this guilt only exist because it’s a third-world country and we are Peace Corps Volunteers?

In the end, I chose to split the cost of Jonas’ education with my site mate Katy Todd—since we completed the world map project with Jonas. The decision, however, doesn’t bring any answers to any of these questions and I fear the guilt to give or not to give money will always remain a question. 

Until next time...

PS - If you have answers, do share. 

Wasn’t I Supposed to Gift You?

In a culture where gifts are hardly if ever given on birthdays, rarely on Christmas, and few have even heard of Valentine’s Day, you might question when do people give and receive gifts?

In French, gift translates to cadeau. In Togo, this word is more often than not a thorn in any PCVs side. The term is most definitely applied too loosely. Everything is a gift. Tipping a taxi-moto driver an extra 50FCFA, cadeau; paying for another round of tchakpa for your Togolese friends, cadeau; or buying a bowl of tomatoes and the vendor throws in a few extra, cadeau. In Togolese society, it’s ill mannered, even offensive to refuse a gift—and even more so if you’re a foreigner. I’ve often heard PCVs politely pass on gifts even though deep down they are fully aware it’s a battle they can’t win. Besides, gift refusal makes it hard to integrate, right? 

Most PCVs do their best to return the kindness either by bringing a loaf of bread home to their host families in village after a business trip or by printing photos in America for Togolese counterparts and friends so they may savor the memories of working together.

In Dapaong, I have no host family. I live in a compound with four other tenants. One family I know well (a married couple with a baby girl) and the three other tenants I rarely see. For this reason, I rarely return from a trip with a bag full of bread. Yet I still gift the family I know. I’ll oftentimes make Moringa juice and offer a bottle, or I’ll cook an American dish and propose a taste. Does the family reciprocate? Oh yes.

Before the mother left with the baby to return to the University of Kara, we were quite close. The father and I don’t often cross paths because our work schedules are considerably different. And once, after I hadn’t see him in over a month, we talked in front of my house for a while and then out of the blue he asked me if I liked beer—he works at a brasserie. My first thought, “Uh not the beer from here.” But I said, “Yes of course!” He asked me which kind of beer I prefer and I said Castel. Little did I know his intension was to gift me seven beers. Not buy seven beers from a local bar, but bring me seven beers to drink alone. Seven beers…just because. Does he think I’m an alcoholic? Nope, just a nice gesture.

Roughly one week ago he gifted me again with an entire watermelon—yep it’s watermelon season. Since there isn’t a chance I could eat an entire watermelon alone I shared it with my site mate Katy Todd. Although it was a very sweet gift, literally, I couldn’t help but wonder: When do I gift him? And with what?!

Well, two days ago, I got my answer: a chicken. I was finishing up with a carpenter who I’d been working with over the last three weeks on remodeling the Dapaong workstation. And as a gesture of our friendship, he gifted me a live chicken. Again, since I live alone there’s no way I could eat an entire chicken. And more importantly, I didn’t have the first clue as to how I’d kill and cook the damn thing. So, I decided to “re-gift” it and give it to my neighbor. Genius.

After I biked home from the Dapaong workstation with the live chicken in a bag attached to my bike, I walked over to my neighbor’s house, clapped, said “Excusez!” and presented the gift. Even though I told him it was a gift, I also suggested we dine together. To my surprise he proposed to eat the chicken that very night. Why not? Saves me from sweating in my kitchen one night. Eh voila, the plan was set.

For most of the day I thought about the relief of not cooking and eating a delicious chicken with pâte. Again…little did I know I was in for a real treat.

Around 6:30 that evening, he knocked on my door with hands full of black bags. Of course he brought the chicken, but he also brought two bottles of wine and guinea fowl, a northern specialty. You’ve got to be kidding me?! I was supposed to gift you. Come on man!!!

The lime-green price tags on the wine bottles immediately caught my attention. Four mille five hundred franc CFA each! Twenty bucks easily!!! I don’t even spend that much on wine in this country. He told me one bottle was for us to share and the other was for me. I said I couldn’t accept it, but that didn’t go over very well. Stubborn man. So we ate a little, we drank a little, and he excused himself and left me with three-quarters of a chicken, some guinea fowl and one-and-a-half bottles of wine. Bullshit. But I grinned from ear to ear and thanked him several times as he walked out of my house.

The next day, he called and thanked me for a wonderful evening.

This country.

Until next time…J