Concept of the Day: Community

There is a girl who comes often to my door asking for leftovers. Sometimes she comes by herself, sometimes with her little sister or a friend, and once or twice she has come with her mother. She is beautiful, the girl. The kind of beautiful that makes you a little sad. She has a resemblance to her mother, although the mother is not beautiful, and doesn’t look like she ever was. I have not asked her name, because it would make no difference, but I did ask once where she lived, and she pointed south, towards a dangerous neighborhood called Afghanistan (I mean no disrespect, but it is called that way because it is a war zone of sorts). She said that her father worked, but they are three children, plus the mother, and the food is never enough. It struck me as odd back then that, besides beautiful, she is very clean and polite. This is not normal among beggars.

Let’s put aside the debate to whether or not food should be given away like that: to people banging on your door, claiming to be hungry. This debate is good for zones of the world where food is commonplace and you can always find something cheap, even if not too nutritious, to calm your stomach. That is not the case here, people with steady nine-to-fives are having trouble feeding even themselves, let alone a family of five. I understand this. I have gone through the toil of scarcity myself. It is not good to be hungry and I do not wish anyone to go through that experience. And that is why I help however I can, even with a piece of fruit or leftover rice, without further moral considerations.

The true debate I would like to engage in is not related to food.

One noon, the mother of the girl came by herself and knocked on the door. Just like her daughter does, she asked for a glass of water first, as if the water was the only purpose for her visit. After she drank it, she asked me if she could use the bathroom. I recoiled, because the question was very unexpected. My husband, who was close by but out of sight for the woman, noticed my hesitation and yelled “NO”. This gave me the perfect excuse to shake my head and say “I’m sorry” about a thousand times before I closed the door.

It felt bad, but it felt right. After all, I don’t know this woman, I have not had a real conversation with her, and I don’t really think I could.

The day after, the girl came knocking again. Looking at me from her short height, eyes big and wide as if asking for ice cream, and jumping from side to side, she said: “Could you lend me your bathroom?”

I’m not young enough to believe this to be a coincidence. And that brings me to my question, or, to put it better, my social doubt: I know this girl represents no harm, I know she is good, she radiates kindness and openness and youthful passion and hope. But it’s not her I worry about. She answers to her mother, and it was most obviously her who sent her, I don’t know for what reason. To be honest, I felt a little scared for the rest of that day.

Then again, I have had the horrible, bursting necessity of peeing while on the street and I know you’d give anything to be close to a friend’s house just so you can go and relieve. The thing is that I’m not their friend, and somehow they either confused me with one or have the usual practice of entering the houses of strangers.

The word COMMUNITY comes from a latin term that entails the ownership of equal rights and duties. They are almost my neighbors, geographically speaking. I see them both often. I know they walk the whole town asking for food in different sectors each day. I know they practice a Christian-derived religion because of how the mother dresses, and I know for a fact they need all the help they can get. Sometimes I even thought about the possibility of sitting down with the girl and talking to her about her dreams and prospects. I’m not rich, but if I can spare a book, a notebook or some clothes, I’d rather give them to her than anyone else. But I cannot, under any circumstances, allow either of them inside my home.

Why?

This is the doubt that eats me from the inside everytime I see her. Is she not common with me? I don’t feel we are common. I feel she lives in a level I cannot share or even understand. The possibility of my mother sending me to ask strangers for leftovers during my childhood is far from real. And the thought of sending a child of mine to do it, well… I’d rather not find out.

I understand necessity, what I don’t understand is why they thought I had given them that much confidence. And the saddest part is, the girl is paying for my lack of trust towards the mother.

My home is for my family and friends, and even with family I have reservations (I’m not too good with critics, you know what it’s like). I like to help. I help because I have respect for all living things, but if this woman (the mother) had had such respect for me, she would’ve never asked.

• Image credits: Pexels on Pixabay