The Paradox of the Do-Gooder

(repost from 2012)

I am a do-gooder. A relatively affluent, white American that moved to Uganda to do good, to save lives, to create change.

And I’m not the only one. There are many like me roaming the streets of Uganda. Or better yet, driving in large, white Land Rovers along the streets of Kampala.

We spend our days — sometimes 10, 12 hours — at the office pouring over project proposals, sitting in meetings, evaluating data in our grand heroic effort to create change. We do so with a keen eye, ensuring we are respecting the dignity of the people we serve, protecting their rights, and depicting them as capable, empowered agents of change.

And then we leave the office.

We walk (or drive) back down the bustling streets. We pass the child waving excitedly, crying “Hi muzungu!” We ignore them. We just want to get home, we’re tired.

We pass the woman at the shop on the corner, she greets us. “Hi, how are you?” We pretend not to hear and continue walking. We can’t be bothered, we have proposals to finish and are already behind.

We arrive at our large, gated house whose monthly rent exceeds that of the per capita income in the country. Our security guard opens the gate at the sound of our repeated honking. We drive in, slam the car door, and begin to enter the house, stressed from a long day.

The guard cautiously approaches, stopping us, asking how the day was. We reply curtly. “Fine.” He then tells us his sister is in the hospital with malaria and asks if we can give him his salary early, since he needs to pay her medical bills.

Annoyed, we debate if we should help, knowing he’ll ask again once we do it this time and we’ve started a precedent, a slippery slope. We respond by lecturing him about how we can’t always be here to help.

He nods. Begrudgingly, we hand over his monthly salary of $60, emphasizing that we’ve recorded it, half-expecting for him to ask for it again at the end of the month.

And then we go inside. We turn on the cable television, pull out our MacBook Pro, plug in our iPod to charge, and go to the kitchen to find the maid didn’t put away the dishes again. “Ugh.”

We return to our computer and begin typing away at our latest proposal. “Our organization actively works to respect the dignity of all people. We work to bring the voices of the marginalized to the center, empowering them to define their destiny and development through participatory dialogue. Their voices and needs cannot be ignored.”

Click. We close our computer, satisfied with our good work. It is good work. That will likely impact lives and maybe even transform communities.

But at some point we must ask ourselves — are we really doing good? Are we respecting the people we serve? Are we truly listening to their voices? Or just from 9–5?