A thought from mid-March:
I had no say in where I was born. I just got lucky, I suppose.
The same can be said for every other soul on the planet. Not one of them got a say about where they were to be born. Some were born in places that others may deem “difficult”. Some people were born in Syria. Some in Somalia. Sudan. North Korea. Others were born in France and New Zealand, Canada and Chile. Me? I was born in the wealthiest country on the planet.
When it comes to privilege, I know a thing or two about it. Honestly, the most difficult thing about my privilege is trying not to drown in it.
Having worked with refugees for two months now, I’ve come to realize the importance of…my passport.
My passport. The tiny little book that sits buried at the bottom of my backpack, it dictates everything.
My place of birth, has granted me opportunities other people are unaware they could even be dreaming of. I have a “good” passport, one that says “go”, not “stay”.
As I spend more time on Leros, my relationships with fellow volunteers, staff members, locals, and the refugees continue to change. For the most part, these relationships are evolving in a pattern that one may identify as “growth”. With time comes comfort, however. Which isn’t necessarily something I enjoy falling into.
There’s something else going on here, I’m just not entirely sure how to convey it in a blog entry. And here I am, reminded again, that even being able to keep a blog publicly is, in fact, a privilege.