San Salvador: Poverty and Security
Action
It’s hard to not talk about poverty and security when discussing Central America. After 5 weeks of language school in Guatemala, we headed to the city where these two issues are perhaps most important: San Salvador, the capital of El Salvador.
For background, we were staying with Paty, a friend of a New York friend. Paty had invited us to stay in her family’s home, in a working class neighborhood outside of the city. She had cautioned beforehand that her home was “simple”. Half of it contained the family’s scale-making shop, and the other half consisted a dining/living room, small kitchen, and three bedrooms for the six or so family member who regularly slept there. Like in most Central American houses, the floor was concrete and the roof was sloped metal plates. A patio in the back contained the toilet and washbasin.
During most of our time in San Salvador, Paty escorted us around to specific sites by bus, taxi, and foot. After visiting several isolated cathedrals, museums, and the Jesuit university, we went downtown to see a few sites in the city center. As Paty explained, most people rarely go downtown, because of the crime and insecurity. We quickly visited the cathedral of the assassinated Archbishop Oscar Romero and El Rosario church, site of a military massacre. The other buildings and parks downtown were fairly run-down, and many people seemed to be looking at us intently.
We boarded a minibus to head to another part of town. The bus became very full by the time we wanted to get off, and we had to furiously plow our way out through a solid mass of shoving people. As soon as we stepped out of the bus, I noticed that my wallet was missing from my pocket. I said so loudly, and we went back to the minibus door. The minibus attendant didn’t respond much, and a man by the door gestured down the block and said that he saw a guy in a white shirt down there take my wallet. Paty, Renate and I shuffled about a bit unsure of what to do, and soon both the minibus and the dubious “guy in a white shirt” were gone.
We went to an internet café to report my stolen bank cards. Paty kindly let me use her cell phone, and an hour later my cards were all cancelled without any damage done. I ended up losing $40 in cash, along with my driver’s license, bank cards, and the wallet that I’d used since middle school. All of us grimaced every time I had to disclose to the bank representatives over the telephone, “Actually, I’m in El Salvador. Yes… El Salvador.”
Reflection
For a few hours after my wallet was stolen, I was damn angry. First, I was angry at myself. Just that morning, I had thought that I should leave my important cards behind at Paty’s house and only bring the bare minimum in cash… why hadn’t I done so? And why was my wallet in my pocket in the first place? Clearly it would’ve been safer in my bag. I’d almost always kept it in my pocket, when traveling or not, holding onto it with my hand whenever passing through a pickpocket area. This time people in the bus were pushing so much that I had to hold the handlebar with one hand and my bag with the other. Clearly, I could have prevented the theft.
Renate reminded me not to blame the victim, however. I then became angry at the thieves and other people on the bus. I was angry at the gall of the probable thief to look me in the eyes and say that some other ambiguous person had committed the crime, right after distracting and robbing me. I was angry that neither the bus driver nor anyone else on the bus came to my aid, seemingly treating the theft as an acceptable act. Unlike most other tourists in Central America I had tried to give San Salvador a chance, and on my first and only visit downtown, the locals had done their best to prove the stereotypes right.
Finally, I was angry at the general state of San Salvador. I was angry that all the kind and honest city residents, such as Paty and her family, had to live in such a situation. I was angry that for so many other people, who certainly weren’t born criminals, crime was arguably the best option they had for getting by. How could I really blame those living in extreme poverty for wanting to steal a wallet that represented a month’s earnings? I was angry that the US government had spent billions of dollars supporting and encouraging El Salvadoran state violence - helping to turn the country into a war zone, devastating the social and economic system, and making violence the societal norm.
During our two months in Central America, I witnessed more poverty and felt more insecurity than anywhere else I’d been in my short 26 years… more than in post-war Bosnia, rural Ukraine, Kurdish Turkey, or inland China. Central America was the first place where the sight of men sprawled unconscious in the street, or former paramilitary guards wandering the sidewalks with automatic weapons in hand, seemed so regular as to not provoke a reaction from passersby. In Central America I encountered such unholy combinations of statistics as 17% with a water connection, 13% finished primary education, 60% living in extreme poverty, and over 30,000 killed by state death squads (whose directors are often still in power). Our language tutors in Guatemala and Nicaragua suggested that people had been subjected to such extremes of poverty and violence as to become virtually desensitized.
Taking all this into account, my stolen wallet doesn’t seem like such a big deal now… but it sure did at the time.
Question
What makes you feel secure or insecure in a place? How has a theft or crime changed the way you think?
It’s hard to not talk about poverty and security when discussing Central America. After 5 weeks of language school in Guatemala, we headed to the city where these two issues are perhaps most important: San Salvador, the capital of El Salvador.
For background, we were staying with Paty, a friend of a New York friend. Paty had invited us to stay in her family’s home, in a working class neighborhood outside of the city. She had cautioned beforehand that her home was “simple”. Half of it contained the family’s scale-making shop, and the other half consisted a dining/living room, small kitchen, and three bedrooms for the six or so family member who regularly slept there. Like in most Central American houses, the floor was concrete and the roof was sloped metal plates. A patio in the back contained the toilet and washbasin.
During most of our time in San Salvador, Paty escorted us around to specific sites by bus, taxi, and foot. After visiting several isolated cathedrals, museums, and the Jesuit university, we went downtown to see a few sites in the city center. As Paty explained, most people rarely go downtown, because of the crime and insecurity. We quickly visited the cathedral of the assassinated Archbishop Oscar Romero and El Rosario church, site of a military massacre. The other buildings and parks downtown were fairly run-down, and many people seemed to be looking at us intently.
We boarded a minibus to head to another part of town. The bus became very full by the time we wanted to get off, and we had to furiously plow our way out through a solid mass of shoving people. As soon as we stepped out of the bus, I noticed that my wallet was missing from my pocket. I said so loudly, and we went back to the minibus door. The minibus attendant didn’t respond much, and a man by the door gestured down the block and said that he saw a guy in a white shirt down there take my wallet. Paty, Renate and I shuffled about a bit unsure of what to do, and soon both the minibus and the dubious “guy in a white shirt” were gone.
We went to an internet café to report my stolen bank cards. Paty kindly let me use her cell phone, and an hour later my cards were all cancelled without any damage done. I ended up losing $40 in cash, along with my driver’s license, bank cards, and the wallet that I’d used since middle school. All of us grimaced every time I had to disclose to the bank representatives over the telephone, “Actually, I’m in El Salvador. Yes… El Salvador.”
Reflection
For a few hours after my wallet was stolen, I was damn angry. First, I was angry at myself. Just that morning, I had thought that I should leave my important cards behind at Paty’s house and only bring the bare minimum in cash… why hadn’t I done so? And why was my wallet in my pocket in the first place? Clearly it would’ve been safer in my bag. I’d almost always kept it in my pocket, when traveling or not, holding onto it with my hand whenever passing through a pickpocket area. This time people in the bus were pushing so much that I had to hold the handlebar with one hand and my bag with the other. Clearly, I could have prevented the theft.
Renate reminded me not to blame the victim, however. I then became angry at the thieves and other people on the bus. I was angry at the gall of the probable thief to look me in the eyes and say that some other ambiguous person had committed the crime, right after distracting and robbing me. I was angry that neither the bus driver nor anyone else on the bus came to my aid, seemingly treating the theft as an acceptable act. Unlike most other tourists in Central America I had tried to give San Salvador a chance, and on my first and only visit downtown, the locals had done their best to prove the stereotypes right.
Finally, I was angry at the general state of San Salvador. I was angry that all the kind and honest city residents, such as Paty and her family, had to live in such a situation. I was angry that for so many other people, who certainly weren’t born criminals, crime was arguably the best option they had for getting by. How could I really blame those living in extreme poverty for wanting to steal a wallet that represented a month’s earnings? I was angry that the US government had spent billions of dollars supporting and encouraging El Salvadoran state violence - helping to turn the country into a war zone, devastating the social and economic system, and making violence the societal norm.
During our two months in Central America, I witnessed more poverty and felt more insecurity than anywhere else I’d been in my short 26 years… more than in post-war Bosnia, rural Ukraine, Kurdish Turkey, or inland China. Central America was the first place where the sight of men sprawled unconscious in the street, or former paramilitary guards wandering the sidewalks with automatic weapons in hand, seemed so regular as to not provoke a reaction from passersby. In Central America I encountered such unholy combinations of statistics as 17% with a water connection, 13% finished primary education, 60% living in extreme poverty, and over 30,000 killed by state death squads (whose directors are often still in power). Our language tutors in Guatemala and Nicaragua suggested that people had been subjected to such extremes of poverty and violence as to become virtually desensitized.
Taking all this into account, my stolen wallet doesn’t seem like such a big deal now… but it sure did at the time.
Question
What makes you feel secure or insecure in a place? How has a theft or crime changed the way you think?
2 Comments:
At 10:00 AM, lernerm said…
Having had my car stolen and my house broken into many year ago, I consider myself relatively lucky, since most people suffer worse at some time in their life. For me, feeling secure is a two pronged affair. One - I take security in statistics, so I don't feel too worried about being murdered, even though I live in Baltimore, one of the most dangerous cities in the US, because I know that very few white males get murdered unless they are involved in drugs. Similarly, even though my car was stolen, I don't worry much about it happening again, since car thefts in my neighborhood are rare - but I do use the club to protect my car now.
On the other hand, I (and most people) sometimes feel secure when one shouldn't - while I don't worry while I'm on a plane (knowing that crashes are rare), I feel secure while driving, thinking that I'm a safe driver, when in fact, driving is very dangerous - more so than taking a bus in El Salvador. So feeling secure is different than being secure. I don't worry about my son being in foreign countries because I know that the odds of him getting caught in a nightclub fire in a city are rare. But we are not as logical as we need to be, which is why so many people worry about things they needn't worry about (little old ladies in Iowa scared that they'll be killed by terrorists) and don't worry about what we should be concerned about (you're more likely to die because of unsafe drugs, cars, or jobs than from murder). One factor that makes a difference is whethere the crime was preventable - in your case, if you had taken your usual precautions (which I'm sure you'll take in the future), you wouldn't have been robbed. Random acts of violence are scary, but fortunately quite rare. I will say that the more severe the crime, the more it affects your life. But even when someone had been robbed and beaten, eventually they usually go back into old habits and ways of behaving.
At 5:56 PM, Jen said…
Now that it's all over - a little hassle and $40 (and a wallet) isn't too bad.
Has theft/crime changed the way I think?
Yep. Definitely. Identity theft has affected me enormously. If someone stole a tangible item from me, I would be able to deal with it better. But someone stole my IDENTITY . . . ruined my name in this country. My credit was ruined. I felt completely violated. And I'm very nervous now about anyone asking me for too much personal information. I check my credit card and bank statements religiously - and thank goodness I do - I found out that $50 was stolen from me by use of my debit card - who knows how, I didn't lose it. Still fighting that one, but at least it's an isolated event, and a little more tangible.
And, like your anger towards San Salvador and the general situation in Central America, I was (and still am) angry at my own country, for creating a situation where EVERYONE asks for my social security number, and anyone can use my information and get tons of credit - and the credit companies can write off their loss, and the innocent victims are left to pick up the pieces and clear their names with little to no help.
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