To Hell With Good Intentions

Why Am I Here?

Many mornings, I have looked up at my spinning ceiling fan and have thought to myself, “Oh my goodness, WHY AM I HERE?” It's not a “Why am I here” in the sense of I want to go home. And it's not a “Why am I here” in a sense of what am I doing every day. It's a “Why am I here” in the sense that I cannot possibly have anything to offer to the people of the Dominican Republic, to a culture that I cannot possibly understand, with language barriers and communication obstacles. It's a “Why am I here” in the sense that I am simply an American girl with hopes and good intentions, with investigations and projects for a community that I can neither develop or improve.

I questioned this before I came here. I thought about how I could possibly go on a service-learning trip when I had no idea what kind of service I could offer to a community where I am different from the people and have a different culture in every sense of the word. I've avoided thinking about this—I've gone forward thinking about my project and my investigation, careful to not offend those that I'm working with by my culture or my social status. I've been terrified of offending the people that I work with and in my community—what will they think of me? Do I offend them when I ask personal questions about their life? Do I offend them because I don't ask them enough about their lives? Who am I to impose projects in their community? Do they have judgements about me simply because I'm American?

Why am I here?

For the most part, I've ignored these questions that have been swimming in my head. I show up, I smile at the people, I try to show that I'm truly interested in them and their lives, and I leave feeling a little bit better. Until recently. As we've reached the one month mark and our investigations have become more intense, I've been struggling with this a lot.

Why am I here?

For Elaine's class, my independent project/Capstone class, we've been reading articles about service learning, foreign aid, and international development. And today, we read one that hit the nail on the head and left me pleading for an answer to “Why am I here?” Ivan Illich's “To Hell With Good Intentions” hits a little too close to home. In a speech given to American students doing missionary work in Mexico (in 1968), Illich rakes American volunteers over the coals, and poses the question, “Why are you here?”:

I'm equally impressed by the hypocrisy of most of you...You have decided to spend this next summer in Mexico...you close your eyes because you want to go ahead and could not do so if you looked at some facts. Had I known that I would see children living on the streets, working for a living at seven and eight years old, I wouldn't have come. Had I known that extreme poverty exists in every corner of this country, I wouldn't have come. Had I know the struggles that people on the streets face on a daily basis, I definitely wouldn't have come. Why am I here?

The existence of organizations like yours is offensive to Mexico. Why am I here? The people in my community accept me, but does my presence offend them? Do they think that their community needs a sustainable project? Are they happy with the way things are? Am I offending them by having good intentions?

Good intentions have not much to do with what we are discussing here. To hell with good intentions. This is a theological statement. You will not help anybody by your good intentions. There is an Irish saying that the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

By definition, you cannot help being ultimately vacationing salesmen for the middle-class “American Way of Life” since that is really the only life you know. You, like the values you carry, are the products of an American society of achievers and consumers, with its two-party system, its universal schooling and it's family-car affluence. You are ultimately--consciously or unconsciously--“salesman” for a delusive ballet in the ideas of democracy, equal opportunity, and free enterprise among people who haven't the possibly of profiting from these. My culture, my middle class life. Are the people in my community jealous of me, when I'm really the one jealous of them? Do they realize that their way of life is difficult for me to adjust to, yet phenomenally simplistic? Am I creating chaos in a community simply by being there?

All you will do in a Mexican village is create disorder. I suppose I am.

There is no way for you to really meet with the underprivileged, since there is no common ground whatsoever for you to meet on. Do I ask about their lives? Should I ask about their lives? When I don't know how things function in their community and can't understand the schooling system or am surprised by the way things are done, am I creating a cultural rift? What do I have in common with these people? How can I possibly relate?

Even the Peace Corps spends around $10,000 on each member to help him adapt to his new environment and guard him against culture shock. How odd that nobody ever thought about spending money to educate poor Mexicans in order to prevent them from the culture shock of meeting you. Indeed, how odd.

Soon you would be made aware of your irrelevance among the poor, of your status as middle-class college students on a summer assignment. Sooner than I imagined, in fact. I never thought of it as a privilege to own a pair of shoes. I didn't realize that owning more than one pair of “play” shoes automatically made me middle class. I never imagined that I would feel so insignificant in a single place.

It is incredibly unfair for you to impose yourselves on a village where you are so linguistically deaf and dumb that you don't even understand what you are doing, or what people think of you.

I am here to entreat you to freely, consciously and humbly give up the legal right you have to impose your benevolence on Mexico. I am here to challenge you to recognize your inability, your powerlessness and your incapacity to do the “good” which you intended to do.

I am here to entreat you to use your money, your status and your education to travel in Latin America. Come to look, come to climb our mountains, to enjoy our flowers. Come to study. But do not come to help.

Why am I here?

Illich's speech is rough. He automatically assumes several things, and ironically, he's not Mexican. He's Croatian--so those mountains and flowers aren't really his. When I read this initially, I was furious. I'm not doing mission work, why should this apply to me? Who is he to tell me what I'm doing in this country?

I cannot possibly understand this culture, the people, their lives or their language in a way that will promote sustainable development. I cannot understand their battles, their problems, and their struggles. I fear that a project will offend them, hurt them, or upset them. So when I think about it, there's a lot of truth in his words.

Why am I here? I came here with good intentions. But is that enough?