Everything is wet. The paper I write on, I’m skin, my clothes. Well, not exactly wet, but to use a word I normally hate… Moist. This may well be th most humid place I’ve ever been. There isn’t much our corrugated sheet metal roof can protect us from, barring an outright downpour. Did I mention it’s hot, too? Not Arizona eyeball shrinking hot, but steam bath hot without the benefit of a massage afterwards. And it is still. In the morning there’s not even the tiniest bit of a breeze. As long as I’m complaining…
- There is no internet connection.
- The toilets are…well…
- The shower is cold.
- There are holes in the window screens
- The sleeping rooms are hot, and let’s not even talk about the beds.
And in comparison to what the people of Honduras are facing, all of this means nothing.
I repeat. These little gripes are meaningless. My temporary inconveniences are simply that – inconveniences from which I will fly away in three days.
What is heat and humidity when there are women who, at age 30, can no longer work because of workplace injuries and work related contamination? What is a lumpy mattress when there are young men who have been enslaved by gangs who offer them a choice that is no real choice: join or die? What are uncomfortable bathroom facilities when there are women whose primary work is helping families whose loved ones are among the desaparecidos? What is reliable Internet when a family was assassinated while driving down the street because they refused to pay extortion money? What is a cold shower in the morning when the Garifuna are at risk of losing their land altogether?
Once again, my privilege confronts me. Once again, I am humbled in the face of courage and strength of those doing the hardest work.