The plunder of the poor

Suddenly I find myself sitting in the courtyard of a brothel.  A couple of women who work at Sari Bari live in this brothel, and we were in the process of mediating a conflict. It was the sort of interaction that is so messy and complicated, and layered that you can’t possibly discern what really happened.

We ended up talking to the brothel owners son (who manages the brothel). If there was going to be a stereotype of “a brothel owner’s son” then this guy might be it. Confident. Pleasant enough (although we all know that we are playing the “let’s get along game”). A bit punk-ish. Long hair, muscular. He walks in like he owns the place (but then again, he does).

Over the course of the interaction I couldn’t help but notice the multiple gold rings on his fingers, and the thick gold chain around his neck. This is a culture where gold is the ultimate sign of wealth. Gold is an investment. When you have extra money you buy gold. And when you have a crisis and you need money, you use your gold as collateral to secure a loan, or you sell it. People wear incredible sums of money as jewelry (someone recently told me that their gold earring were $500). I cannot imagine the monetary value of all the gold he was wearing.

And I can’t help myself (or I don’t want to).

I judge.

I condemn.

How can you do that?

You are literally wearing the plunder of the poor on your hands and neck.

Money that you have taken.

Stolen.

In the form of exorbitant rent.

In the form of oppressive/excessive interest.

The plunder of the poor.

Stolen.

From women, who are trying to feed their families and educate their children.

From women who work in the sex-trade out of desperation, and circumstances that were (almost always) unjust, and out of their control.

From women who have been objectified and violated in almost every imaginable way.

You are literally wearing the plunder of the poor.

Oh, I judge.

Cause he owns a brothel

And is decked out in gold like a Christmas tree.

And if I label him as the bad guy, then I won’t have to acknowledge all the ways that I have plundered the poor.

I won’t have to acknowledge the unjust systems that I support and that I’m a part of.

I won’t have to think about how I spend money, or who I’m oppressing or taking advantage of.

I judge him, because  then I have categories of right and wrong. Because then there is a very convenient “bad guy” and I am every so clearly not as bad as him.

which let’s me off the hook.

These are the thoughts that flood over me.

As I find myself suddenly sitting in the courtyard of a brothel.