I believe we have the moral obligation to help those less fortunate than ourselves. Those less fortunate than me believe it also.

But what is help really? Is walking by them day after day, choosing which one you will give pocket change to helping? We know we don’t give to all of them. They know we don’t give to all of them, so is it helping?

It was once said “Give a man a fish, and he’ll eat for a day; teach a man to fish, and he’ll eat for a lifetime.” How many of us are really willing to take the time, make the effort to help those less fortunate?

I am just as guilty as the rest of us, make no mistake. I refuse to give change to the poor and homeless for two reasons.

1. I am always asked for “spare change please”. I don’t have any that’s spare; eventually I will use it all myself.
2. I actually prefer to stop and ask if they would like something to eat, and that I am willing to grab them something nearby. You would be amazed how many times I have heard the answer “No, just some change please.” I refuse to support addictions in this manner.

Yet neither of my approaches is any better than ignoring the situation altogether. It’s not teaching anyone how to change their current position in life.

Before I start sounding too preachy, I must confess that one of my only experiences in trying to change someone’s life resulted in catastrophe, I am sure leaving neither of us wanting to go through that scenario again, though undoubtedly, one of us would.

—

I saw her there, shaking in the summer’s sun, her skin stretched taut, clinging to the bones of her small, teenaged frame. Her clothes were matted, covered in various splatterings, a canvas of filth that society unknowingly and ignorantly painted. She was rummaging through refuse as I approached her.

As she saw me coming, she quickly went into action, preparing her rehearsed demeanour for the thousand and first time. “Spare change please”, she said, as I came closer. “I don’t have any spare change today I’m afraid”, was my reply, “but I’d be more than willing to take you for some lunch. What kind of food do you like?” I fully expected a refusal, as had been my experience many times in the past, but much to my surprise, I was called on the offer. I invited her to join me, thinking of myself as noble, already prepared to make a fuss if my companion was looked at rudely, refused entry, or condescended to at the eatery. Instead, she wanted me to bring the food to her. It made sense really, and not because she was ashamed of herself in any way. She had no idea whatsoever who I was; for all she knew I could’ve been looking for a convenient way to abduct her, or worse. Smart kid.

I went and got us a nice hot meal, then joined her in devouring it. It was messy fun. I cautiously tried to open a dialogue with her, probing to find out more about her, hoping to encourage her to open up about her life, so I could save her.

A lesson I hadn’t learned yet in life was this: everyone has their own lifeview; trying to inflict our views on another while disregarding or invalidating theirs is offensive and blatantly wrong. Worlds thrive this way; it is in our very makeup. The sooner we can accept that we all have our own opinions formed by our own life experiences, and respect those of others, the better off we will all be. 

I was trying to ascertain what brought her to this low point in her life, already formulating my plan on how to direct her path back towards being a valued member of society. Though I didn’t know it at the time, all I was doing was being a condescending prick.

She had reached her limit of patience with my narrow minded preaching, and was irate enough to be bold about it.

The short version was that she had been repeatedly raped by her father until she couldn’t take it anymore, and simply left. She was twelve years old. She had been living on the streets of Matar for five years, and in that time I garnered from her justified rant at me that she had learned more applicable and useful life skills than many of us ever could hope to learn. She had friends that were her “family”. She had a role to fulfill in her small community. She had learned about people, how to evaluate them, how to manipulate and get what she needed from them, how to be wary of them. She had learned about hypocrisy, sterotyping, judgementalism, and worked diligently to overcome them in her own life, while suffering those very abominable traits from most people she interacted with daily. 

In listening to her, I felt smaller and smaller, as I was guilty of nearly everything she had to say. My eyes and heart were opened to the harsh realities of what our world could really be. I had my own past, and traumatic as it was, I felt sickened to be shown just how uncivilized even we Matari could be to our own. Yet I felt no righteous indignation; I only felt shame.

“So spare me your pity,” she continued on, “People need to change their attitudes. Please.” she added with spiteful sarcasm. ” I won’t hold my hand over my ass waiting for that to happen.”

I don’t remember the exact moment the conversation was over. I don’t remember saying goodbye, or if she just up and left, or if I did.

All I remember to this day was her choice of words, “Spare change, please”.

She’s right you know. We all need to spare a little inner change, please.