Exiting My Bubble to Understand the Realities of Poverty

While survey questions can become monotonous, each interviewee has a different story to tell. Within these stories there are new lesson to be learned…
The translator and I were asked to sit in chairs while the head of the household sat on the tiled floor. He was a strong, nice looking man who has four children and rents his home for 300 rupees/month ($7/month). I could tell he was a hard workingman as shown by the mud under his nails and dirt on his face; he is as a lacage worker (it is someone who collects piles of plastic bags for 1 rupee a sack). His wife works in the recycled paper industry, as there were two heaps of shredded papers in the corner of the small room. Their eldest son is 22 years old and is mentally disabled; the other children are 20, 18, and 13 years old.
During the interview I was relaxed until the one question which I personally dread asking arose…
Translator: “I am sorry to ask this question, we are just trying to learn about health problems in Hubli. Please forgive me, but has this family lost any children due to illness?”
I looked down at the sheet; the pen in my hand ready to slid over to check the “No” box. But I didn’t hear anyone speaking Kannada. I looked up to meet the eyes of the strong, large man; the base of them had filled up with water. He glanced down, fumbled with the wood chip in his fingers and drew it in a pattern on the floor…he then mumbled the answer.
Interviewee (translated): “Yes, he was 5 years old. Very ill, long time. I don’t know what it was.”
Under his breath the translator quickly directed me to move on, as he did not believe the interviewee would not be able to continue with the question.
I tried to keep myself together as I held my breath in the silent moment. The toddler who had been periodically coughing onto my forearm as she curiously played with my elbow had rested her fingers on my arm, she had seemingly understood that there was a change in the atmosphere. In the seconds of the small moment, I grew up. As a 22 year old myself, and despite being far from motherhood, I was hit with the reality of raising children in inescapable poverty with little access to health care.
I looked across the room at his mentally challenged son, then to his beautiful teenage daughter and thought to myself how fortunate they had a least been with her. But that didn’t help settle my feelings of injustice for this family, for their lack of rights to access adequate medical attention.
I swallowed my emotion and proceeded with the interview but my thoughts held onto the questions in my own mind of how undeserving this man is and the pain he has gone through in life with his family. He continued to answer the survey questions through the fog in his mind, now filled with the memories of his son.
For the rest of the survey the translator did his best to bring the interviewee back into the present moment. I continued transcriptions but was caught in understanding the complex realities of poverty brought forth from seeing the water swell in the stranger’s eyes.
In my mind I could not find the answer for why I have been so blessed in life and others have not. This man’s daily stresses in life are nothing compared to those of us who live inside a bubble of wealth, good health, and fortune.
While no human can possibly plan out how to spend his last day spent on earth, I must argue that for the thousands of people living in the underdeveloped world their chances of spending one more day on earth are much less than those of us living in the Western hemisphere. It is heart-wrenching to find that many of these parents cannot even afford to take the steps necessary to improve their child’s chances of survival.
I became uncomfortable sitting in his home, knowing that I will walk away never having to experience much of what he experiences on a daily basis. While he is tied down by the bindings of poverty, I have access to great health care, bountiful food, and incredible opportunities to further myself to make a substantial living. This man must take what he is given, continue to pick up plastic bags, and go home each day to find joy through the smiles of his relationships not his personal bought luxuries.
After I exited his home I had a very unsettling feeling within myself and in deep thought I laced up my Nikes and walked away from a world I am far removed from.