poverty in a different way

"The following content was contributed by a guest blogger. The opinions expressed or implied herein may not be the opinions of Green Communities Consulting."

By Emma Moonlight

In September 2012 I went to teach in one of the nine refugee camps on the Thai-Myanmar border. The last few days before I went to camp I was, I have to admit, incredibly nervous. Not of the people, not of the language barrier, not of the living conditions in general, but mainly about whether I would get drinking water. Whilst I knew that thousands of people lived in the camp and had done for many years, so logically my fears were unfounded, I was still worried.

What strikes me now, though, is how quickly I adapted to my new life. To me, the living conditions weren’t that bad. Or at least, I’d expected worse. But then again, I am one of those people who are perfectly happy trekking through jungle or up mountains and spending three weeks in a tent. That’s just me, though.

No, what I experienced wasn’t people starving, children wailing, or complete destitution. It was poverty in a different way.

While I was there, one of the teachers at my school found out that she was pregnant. When she told me, she had a smile on her face but was struggling to hide the tears in her eyes. I was later told that, as a refugee, she didn’t want to bring a baby up. She wanted to be able to offer her child a future. She wanted knowledge that her child would be able to get a decent education, have the opportunity to find work, and, most importantly, live a life free from persecution. As a refugee, she couldn’t guarantee her child any of that stability.

The majority of refugees I worked with had enough food (don’t get me wrong – it wasn’t necessarily always healthy or varied, but it was food), they had a roof over their heads, and they had access to education. For adults, though, there was a void. There was absolutely nothing to do. People left the camp’s school system (if they’d entered it in the first place) and entered the kind of dull, endless vacuum that comes from years of living in limbo, waiting for something to happen. They had no way of knowing what that something might be, or when it might come; let alone who might make that decision for them.

Some of my English students were working as primary teachers in the camp. The wages were pitiful and they detested the job – they had never had any aspirations to become teachers. One of them had started a law degree at university before having to flee Myanmar. Teaching, however, was pretty much the only thing to do during the day and the only way to guarantee that they would have something on their CVs if and when they can eventually leave camp. 

This wasn’t poverty the way the Western media portray it when running news stories or charity campaigns. These were people who simply exist, carrying out their daily activities with a complete lack of control over their lives. They had no choices whatsoever to make about their future, no options or decisions to make. The future, when it was discussed, was done so in terms of ‘in an ideal world…’ and ‘if I eventually leave here…’ These were big ‘ifs’; many others chose not to openly voice their fears.