privilege – A Life Overseas |

The Privilege of Freedom of Movement

Lebanon has never been an easy place for us to live. We’ve been here long enough that we’ve passed through some really difficult times – suicide bombings, the garbage crisis, threat of war. This year has been an absolute doozy. 204 days (and counting!) of Revolution. Economic collapse. And now corona. Schools closed at the end of February (and are still closed). Shortly after that, parks, restaurants, and shops followed suit and closed their doors.

Even in the midst of all these crises, we are able to recognize our privilege. I know that using the word privilege has a lot of baggage, but I also believe that not acknowledging it causes more harm than good. We are privileged by nature of our skin color, the families we were born into, our passports. My prayer is that we always use our privilege to call out injustice and for the benefit of the oppressed, but that’s for another blog post.

Anyways, one example of our privilege here: we have foreign bank accounts and foreign credit cards, so even if it means we have to book a quick trip outside Lebanon to pull out cash from the ATM, we still have access to our money. While we are struggling with the skyrocketing cost of living, it’s nothing compared to those who have to deal with the rising cost of food while at the same time not getting their salaries, or having their money held hostage in a bank account.

Another privilege that I have often felt so ashamed of is our freedom of movement. Even in the worst of times, when car bombs were exploding every week, we always knew in the back of our heads that we could jump into our car, drive to the airport, buy a ticket to almost anywhere and get out. It’s not a privilege we think about often, but I think it’s always there, in the deep recesses of our mind. We are free to leave whenever we want.

It’s put in sharp relief when I sit with my refugee friends, who have the complete opposite of freedom of movement. They are stuck. They can’t go home, they can’t go somewhere else. It doesn’t matter that they aren’t allowed to work, that their children’s school decided to close its doors to Syrians, that they need medical or psychological care that they can’t get here – they are stuck. I do my best to sit with them in their grief, in their “stuckness,” and to empathize as much as I can with the unfairness of the cards they have been dealt… but the privilege is still there. I hate it, but the reality is, I could leave any time.

Until we couldn’t. In early March Lebanon stopped flights from most European cities, and then shortly after the US did the same. (And now the airport will be closed until at least June 8.) So even if we wanted to buy a ticket somewhere, not many places would let us in. Our border to the south is completely closed and under heavy military guard, to the east and north we have Syria, which is not accessible for Americans, and to the west the sea. So that leaves out a road trip anywhere. We don’t have plans to leave, or even want to leave, but all of a sudden, as the travel restrictions came one after the other, I could feel the signs of my PTSD coming back…. headache, shortness of breath…. wait, aren’t those also the symptoms of corona!?

I wish we’d never heard of this blasted sickness. I hope the measures people are taking will stop the spread. I pray that no one else suffers or dies from the virus. But I’m also thankful that because of corona – even if only for a fleeting moment – I learned what it feels like to be stuck, with no freedom to move, a reality that millions around the world live with on a daily basis.

I’m not saying that a few weeks of being stuck is at all comparable to a lifetime, and even in our stuckness, we are still healthy and safe. But I hope that this small taste allows me to love and care for my truly stuck friends in a deeper way, even when I get the privilege of freedom of movement handed back to me, for no reason other than the passport I hold.

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Nicolette grew up bouncing around the U.S. and the world but has finally settled in Beirut, Lebanon, where she and her family have been serving since 2008. She is the director of Safe Haven, a home for abused and disadvantaged girls, and is involved with refugee ministry and community outreach through her church in Beirut. Nicolette blogs about life as an expat in the Middle East at www.calebandnicolette.wordpress.com

White Expat Privilege

So this happens. A lot. I get into a taxi and say “ni hao” (“hello” in Chinese).

The taxi driver’s eyes get wide and he says, “Waaahhh, your Chinese is SO good!”

My daughter, on the other hand, could get in the exact same car, with the exact same driver and say the exact same thing with much better pronunciation and get a much different response. Like “why don’t you speak Chinese?!”

Her experience. Her day to day. Her reality are radically different than mine solely because we look different.

She is ethnically Chinese. I am white.

Consequently, I have access to treatment that she does not.

That is just a small example of something called privilege . . . and I have it.

It’s a hot button topic (you may have noticed). It’s a significant piece of much deeper conversations around things like race, sexuality, gender, equality, appropriation and ultimately human value.

Those are hugely important topics for any culture to wrestle with, but in the heat of the mono-national or monocultural firefight, the nuances of cross-cultural privilege often get missed, overlooked or ignored.

From the perspective of an admittedly privileged, white, expat father who is raising a Chinese daughter and a black son in a foreign context, here are a few thoughts.

1. Privilege is a reality.
Stop. Before you cut loose with the preloaded, self-protective best one-liners, I am NOT calling you (and by default, me) a racist or a bigot or a Nazi. Privilege and racism are NOT the same thing. Racism is rooted in internal decay. Privilege is based on external realities.

(Read I Am Not a Racist: And other things I wish I knew were true.)

My statement is simply this — if you are white, your experience at home OR abroad may give you access to a different experience than people of color.

To dismiss, ignore or even to be unaware of that is to cut yourself off from the realities that other people face.

2. Privilege has nothing to do with your bank account and everything to do with access.
Speaking of preloaded, self-protective one-liners, have you ever heard this one?

“Privilege? Are you kidding? I have black friends who make three times as much as I do.”

Or how about “Hey, I’m white. I sure would like to see some of that privilege everyone keeps telling me I have.”

Singular thinking applied to a plural challenge is a logical fallacy. Privilege comes from the collective reaction of the people around you. So having less cash in your pocket doesn’t change the fact that you may be stereotyped as having more . . . and therefore treated differently.

And if you are treated differently, then the reality of your experience is different.

3. White is not the only privilege.
Every culture has people who have greater access. More influence, more voice, more power.

However, “oh yeah? Well so do you” is not a valid argument for less privilege.

That’s like saying, “I am not sunburned because you are too.”

4. The dials are turned up in a cross-cultural setting.
There are obviously far too many variables globally to make this universal, but in much of the world being Western is perceived as synonymous with being rich, and the clear indicator of being Western . . . is being white.

You may have been born and raised in London, but if you are a person of color the first filter you are perceived through is likely the local stereotype of the place you look like you are from.

Conversely, you may have grown up in poverty, but if you are white, you are also filtered through a stereotype. It’s just a different stereotype.

Every country (privileged or not) has prejudice (sorry UK and USA, you don’t own this one), and while that is clear in your home country, if you are living internationally, you are navigating the unseen prejudice of your host. You may see the impact clearly, but until you feel the history and the backstory, you’ll be in the dark.

Many cultures are unaware and unapologetic of their prejudice. White is Western, Western is rich, and rich is coveted. Everything else . . . not so much. That is simply accepted and communicated as a matter of fact which changes the narrative and ultimately the treatment of people (white and not).

(Read the eye-opening When Does a Person of Color Get to be an Expat?)

5. Relationship is key.
This is where it gets beautiful. Cultural stereotypes are crushed with relationship — and sometimes they are confirmed — but they are crushed or confirmed with real stories, real names, and real personalities instead of a skewed and shortsighted perspective.

Prejudice lives on the surface which, unfortunately, is where the huddled masses choose to hang out — but when you dare to connect deeply across a line, you can’t hold on to the luxury of your incomplete assumptions.

6. Conversation is critical.
Conversation is where truth is discovered.

Crazy truths like, not all French people are romantic,

and not all Chinese people are short,

and not all Americans carry guns,

and not all white people are rich,

and just because they’re nice to you doesn’t mean they like you,

and not all Africans are poor,

and Africa is not a country.

When you bother to build a relationship, you can no longer reduce a culture to a single story. Watch this.

Fair warning: The conversations are hard and awkward and filled with words like, “but I always thought” and “we don’t do it that way.”

The good ones though, end with, “wow, you just blew my mind” and “when can I hear more?”

7. It wouldn’t hurt us to shut up and listen.
Possibly the deepest pitfall of privilege is perceived respect. Culturally mandated hospitality gets mistranslated into admiration, and we are happy to sit on our throne and impart wisdom.

After all, if they just listened, we could fix them.

Stop that.

Ask a question that doesn’t start with, “don’t you always”. Then sit back and genuinely absorb the response. Dig into the heart of their story, what brings them joy and what causes them pain.

(Get a copy of 99 Questions for Global Friends: Quality Conversation Starters For Friends From Different Places.)

Whether you are listening to the people of your host country or other expats who are having a much different experience, you stand to gain and, ironically, have greater impact when you stop talking so much.

(Here is an amazing place to shut up and listen to the stories of expat people of color.)

8. With great privilege comes great responsibility.
Many expats march with the banner of responsibility. I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard things like, “THEIR biggest dream is to be like us.”

On one hand that is a presumptuous, misguided arrogant premise. On the other hand, it is probably true.

It is flawed thinking to summarize the desire (or need) of an entire people group to one aspiration with words like “they” or “their.” That bias gets transferred from expat to expat and becomes the lens through which we view individuals. It dictates how we engage and how we interact.

Historically, that hasn’t gone well.

However, what if we broadened the parameters and stereotyped all of humanity?

It is, without a doubt, one of the greatest dreams of most humans to be respected, treated fairly, have opportunities to move forward, and enjoy political and financial security. It is the dream of humans NOT to be perceived and treated as less human than the other humans around them.

So yeah. Maybe they do want to be like you but YOU are not the dream — you are the poster child.

If you’ve never dreamed pessimistically about a world where you might be treated fairly — then you’re probably living in that world already.

And that is a privilege.

The responsibility of the privileged is NOT to show them how they can be more like you — it is to treat them like they already are.

9. I am privileged.
No question about it.

If you have a passport — you too have a privilege that the majority of the world has no access to.

If you are living by choice in a country that is not on your passport — you are privileged.

If you have a voice that is heard, anywhere — you are privileged.

If people look at you and wish that they could experience life the way you do — you are privileged.

That doesn’t make you richer, wiser, more honorable, more ethical, more important, or more human. It is just a reality.

You can spend your time denying your privilege because you feel attacked, or you can try to see yourself through the eyes of the people around you.

Seems like a simple choice.

What about you? Are you privileged and willing to acknowledge it?

Are there privileges that you are cut off from simply because of who you are? What’s your story?

(Originally published here.)

White Privilege in Western Missions

“There’s really no such thing as the voiceless. There are only the deliberately silenced, or the preferably unheard.”

– Arundhati Roy

* * *

I am an Asian American, born and raised in the States, a child of immigrants. Growing up, my faith was deeply influenced by Western Christian thought, but always experienced in the context of immigrant churches. Ethnic identity, far from being ignored and irrelevant to my faith, was recognized and celebrated.

Then I became a missionary.

And my ethnicity that was once recognized and celebrated within the minority church now frequently left me feeling ignored and irrelevant within the predominantly white missions community.

Something is rotten in the state of Western missions when the very communities that are meant to proclaim God’s inclusiveness seem to make people of color feel other and less than.

I’m not talking about outright prejudice. God willing, we have moved beyond mistreatment that is conscious, deliberate, or blatant. But I am talking about subtle ways that people of color are disenfranchised.

There was that time I heard about an all-expense paid retreat for women on the field. Excited about the possibility of a fun and relaxing trip away, I found the promotional video online and eagerly watched it. But my heart sank as the video only featured frame after frame of white women. I knew immediately that this retreat was not designed with me in mind. I was not even on their radar, much less on their screen.

Then there was the time that our missions agency was considering mobilization of internationals. Leaders from around the region gathered together to discuss the pros and cons of such an endeavor. I and other minority members expressed our apprehension of recruiting locals into a primarily white organization, citing concerns about expansionism and assimilation. I was thankful that we were given a voice in this decision. But I was mistaken. Instead of hearing our reservations and taking time to reflect on the alternatives that we suggested, a task force was immediately formed at the end of that meeting to move ahead with the plan.

And just earlier this year, I discovered that a missions blogger writing under an Asian pseudonym was actually white. Honestly, I felt betrayed. I had been encouraged by the recognition of this Asian blogger, seeing it as a sign of the strides taken within Western missions to listen to the perspectives of people of color; only to have the rug pulled out from underneath me when I learned that the blogger was not a person of color at all.

I think of my father, who has written countless books about missions, is a sought-after speaker for conferences, and has five decades of ministry experience as a missionary, pastor, professor, and mobilizer. Go anywhere in the world and ask any believer with my ethnic background, and they probably know of him. Yet very few white missionaries have ever heard of his name.

It’s experiences like these that have taught me …

We are invisible.

Our perspectives are ignored.

Our voices are unheard.

Instead, we are replaced by those with power and privilege.

Even (and perhaps especially) in missions work, the resources that are used, the ideas that are disseminated, and the methods that are implemented are most likely created, introduced, or advanced by white men.

While their intentions are undoubtedly benevolent, this comes at a cost. When those with white privilege are the only people with influence, people of color inevitability feel stripped of power. When theirs are the only voices we hear, people of color feel unheard. When there is a lack of representation and diversity within the missions community, people of color feel dismissed.

These seemingly benign acts of commission and omission seem trivial taken on their own, but when experienced day after day, what we hear is “I don’t need you.” The message we receive is that we are weaker, less honorable, and unpresentable.

“But God has so composed the body, giving greater honor to the part that lacked it, that there may be no division in the body, but that the members may have the same care for one another. If one member suffers, all suffer together; if one member is honored, all rejoice together” (1 Corinthians 12:24-26).

As a member of this body, my responsibility is not only to honor others, but to call out dishonor when I see it. I am not only to care for others, but to bring awareness when there is division. I’m not simply to rejoice, but to invite others in when I suffer.

So I write this to bring awareness to the marginalization that many people of color experience within the sphere of Western missions. I write this as an unveiling of tender wounds. I write this, not to point fingers, but to ask you to suffer with us.

Resist the desire to defend. Reject any shame you may feel. Refrain from problem-solving prematurely.

These will only prevent you from truly suffering together with us.

Instead, listen to our stories and our pain. Step into our shoes. Grieve with us.

By acknowledging the disparity, empathizing with our feelings, and understanding the injustices we have to endure, you begin to replace the damaging messages we’ve received.

Instead of invisible, we begin to feel seen.

Instead of ignored, we begin to feel known.

Instead of being silenced, we begin to feel heard.

Perhaps this simple act of com-passion — “suffering with” — will be the very thing that sets us on the path toward greater unity and healing.

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Grace Lee (a pseudonym) is a California native who is church planting in Asia with her husband and two kids.

A Philosophical (Running) Life Overseas

Other posts in the series:

A Practical (Running) Life Overseas (tips for starting to run as an expat)

A Communal (Running) Life Overseas (building community while doing what you love)

A Philosophical (Running) Life Overseas

I run with my iPhone. In an armband. With earphones. In Djibouti this makes me feel excessively wealthy, especially when I consider that runners I knew, interviewed, ran with, have died in search of a better life than the Horn of Africa can offer.

The armband Velcro melted off months ago so I twist it all around itself to keep it on. The earphones are missing the cushiony part on one side and only one earplug actually works. In places were suffering means you still use the iPhone 4 or can only go out to eat twice per week, this constitutes severe deprivation.

I wear a waist belt packed full with four bottles of water I freeze overnight and Gu and Chapstick and enough change for a taxi or a phone call or another bottle of water. The zippers rusted out on the pack so none of the pockets close. The Velcro salted over and I have to continually retighten it to keep from losing the belt. This means I drink more water while running than some people drink in a day. I have more money in my running belt than some earn in a day.

I alternate between Asics and Saucony shoes. I wear running pants and shirts and sports bras and socks that, even though I bought them on clearance and keep them until they literally fall apart, mean I spend more on my running clothes than most of the people I run by in the early mornings will spend on clothing for the year.

I struggle with this. Here I come, burning calories because I have more than enough to eat. Here I come, with the leisure time to spend running. Here I come, wearing my rich clothes. Here I come, with my fancy gadgets.

Am I not supopsed to run until everyone, everywhere, has the time, money, and energy to run? I could stay inside and use exercise DVDs to stay in shape, I could join a club (if there was an affordable one with functioning machines) where I would exercise indoors and street kids wouldn’t see me. I could quit exercising altogether.

But. I am very aware of my privilege, running is an example of that privilege. Not running, or running in secret does nothing to address this issue. It would simply mask my abundance. There is a subtle lie here, easily believed, that hiding behind walls or being ashamed of quality running shoes would somehow make the economic difference between myself and many Djiboutians less true.

So I’m not going to stop and I’m not going to hide and I’m not going to run in terrible shoes that will cause an injury.

What should I do? I can make wise choices about my clothes and shoes and gadgets. I can make them last as long as possible and can not be pressured to buy the latest model or fashion when there is nothing (drastically) wrong with the one I have. I can give my water bottle, still half-full, to the boy begging, when I realize I won’t need it all today.

I don’t plan on quitting running. I don’t plan on running barefoot (tried) or without water (tried) or naked (never tried). But I do think about the people I run by and pray for them. I smile at the kids and slap their hands, high-five style. I greet the older women, macooyo, grandmother. I cheer on the few other runners.

When I run in Djibouti, I’m entering the dust and heat and sunrises of this nation. I’m passing the donkey carts with loads of grass and sticks, jumping over cat carcasses. Smelling rotisserie chickens and fresh baguettes. I’m waving at women weaving baskets and humming along with the call to prayer. I pound my fist on taxis when they drive too close and explore side streets that lead to the ocean. I’m greeting shopkeepers and promising fruit stand guys that I’ll come by later for their delish-looking mangoes. I know when construction starts a few blocks over and when a new family set up a shack in the empty lot on the corner.

Instead of hiding my abundance from Djiboutians, when I run, I am learning to engage with them.

And I don’t feel the disparity in those moments. I don’t know, maybe they do, but I have had men selling bananas tell me the only reason they went out to watch the half marathon was because they thought I would be running in it, felt they knew me, and wanted to cheer.

This idea of ‘relationship’ doesn’t solve issues of economic divides. But at least running in the streets makes me aware and forces me to think, relate, respond. I’m still working on how to live with my plenty with integrity, how to be generous without feeling pressured, how to live with gratitude without guilt, how to live with my eyes wide open and my heart tenderly malleable.

This issue is a marathon issue, probably even an ultra. I have a long ways to go.

Do you run (or engage in other similar activites) in a developing country? In what ways do you feel compelled to mask your abundance?