Guatemala: The Five Stages of Poverty

How does the sight of Poverty make us feel?

Like Grief, I believe Poverty also stirs within us stages of emotion. And that these stages of emotion can be presented in any order and can continuously be repeated. Now, there isn’t some published list, based off of extended studies by professionals, of these stages of emotion. The list below is only a developing reflection based off of my own recent experiences.

Stage One: Shock and Shame
Observing Poverty, there’s a lot I’m seeing that I’ve never seen before. It’s a “numbing” kind of shock, if that makes sense. I’m upset and disturbed by what I see, but the novelty of what I see seems to be in slow motion, and I’m so captivated, I can’t stop staring. And though I was well aware about some of the realities of Poverty before coming here, to actually stand in front of them is a shock that I’m not sure I could’ve prepared myself for.

In Guatemala City, the dump is an actual neighborhood. And where are all these people going to move? (At least for now an NGO has set up a school there.) Moving outside of the City, houses are made of scraps of wood, tin, and cardboard. On the highway I see woman and men, walking bare foot, and carrying about 100 pounds of “mimbre” (a special kind of wood used for cooking fires) on their backs. Children too—seven, eight, nine-year-olds—carry what looks to be their own weight and more. They’ve most likely spent hours collecting this “mimbre”, and are carrying it to the markets, to only be offered a low sales price.

In San Lucas I see an elderly man slowly walking up the street, his legs bent awkwardly, because they were broken and were never set to heal properly. Babies and toddlers, who should have black hair, have streaks of red-brown in their hair because of malnutrition. Daily I see the same blind man, on the same corner, wearing the same dirty clothes and shaking his can of coins. There are drunken men passed out in the middle of the street, as people step around them without a second thought; it’s a daily normality.

There are homes with running water next to ones without it, the sewage festering in dirt yards, and when it rains, then flowing down the stone streets into the Lake. Mothers and their children carry beaded necklaces, key chains, and bracelets, trying to sell them to the “gringos” (white people), hoping to make a few extra Quetzal to buy some beans and maize. People bathe in the lake after washing their clothes, waiting as their one or two sets of clothes dry on the rocks. There is so much poverty; it is impossible to describe it all.

And then there’s Maria, a 70-something-year-old woman, who lost her entire family in the 80’s during the civil war. Though her throat was slit too, she miraculously survived. Her vocal chords were cut, and I can always distinguish her raspy voice as she shuffles into the church, asking for food. I cannot imagine the struggle of her loss and loneliness. She doesn’t speak Spanish, but rather the Mayan language Cakchiquel. And I’m not sure whom she sees, if anyone, during her day. I often see her alone, followed by her two dogs. But whenever she’s around, we hug and kiss her, knowing she comes to meals not only seeking food, but also human touch. She smells and has greasy hair, and squats in a corner outside the church, with her skirt hiked, to relieve herself—these are things that would make me cry with shame if my own grandmother had to live like that.

And I feel shame. Not only in myself. But also shame for those who I see living in poverty. And then I feel shame for feeling shame. Like I’ve judged. Who am I to have the right to see these things and to have thoughts about what I see, about their reality, about a life that’s not my own? Who am I to feel these things?

Stage Two: Guilt
It’s when I’ve reached this point that guilt begins to grip at my heart. And what good does guilt do anyone? But I can’t help it. I feel guilty for the things I have, the opportunities I have…all the obvious good and ease of my life compared to theirs. I feel guilty for not thinking of poverty enough, for not trying to do more for those who suffer from poverty, for not trying to learn more about their history, for not understanding. I feel guilty for who I am, and for who they are.

But how self-righteous that sounds! These people aren’t asking for my guilt. They’re not asking for me to think that the standards of living of my society are the same ones that they seek. They’re not asking to exchange their traditions and values for those of my own culture. They’re not asking to have what I have (what my society has), to be who I am (who my society is). They’re not asking me to be provoked by our differences, to feel guilty for them and what they don’t have and who they aren’t. It’s demeaning.

Stage Three: Anger and Revulsion
Then anger begins to boil within me, and things get a little irrational. Oh, but it feels good to be irrational, to vent, and to feel revulsion. To find anyone to accuse—the fate of the world, myself, society, government, even the poor themselves.

I’m angry at the world, its inequity and its injustices, and its natural ability to marginalize so many people. I’m angry with myself for my lack of understanding, my insignificance, and my small influence (if any!) that I could have in this world. I’m disgusted with society and our values founded in consumerism, materialism, and individual achievement. And I loathe my own participation in all these things that seem so evil. Oh, and now I’m the hypocrite! And I’m bitter. I’m enraged with the governments and their corruption. But I’m annoyed, because I don’t so easily understand politics and economics, and I wonder if I’m easily duped. And then the poor, couldn’t they do more to help themselves? What are they doing? Whose fault is it! This poverty and this suffering, whose fault is it?

Stage Four: Cynicism and Idealism
Then cynicism begins to permeate my ideals. I never wanted to be the voice of a cynic. Of course, I have to learn to hear and understand cynicism, but I didn’t want to spread its disease. No. If anything’s going to get us anywhere, it’s criticism, not cynicism. There’s a difference.

Awe! But I’m discovering my inner cynic. And it’s f-ing negative. I read and hear (and even myself, write) such flowery phrases as: “They say that your fingerprints will never fade from the lives you touch.” (Sigh) doesn’t that sound nice? Seriously? Perhaps this phrase should follow: "But really, is that true for any of us, or just some poetic bullshit?"

It’s a battle. My ideals are constantly challenged. But some days, idealism prevails. I want my ideals to win. I want to believe that there is Good, that we are Good, that we can embrace the right changes and avoid the wrong ones, that we can appreciate and take care of creation and its beauty, that we can live in justice, peace, and understanding, that we can leave an exemplary legacy for the next generation. I want these things and more to happen. I don’t want to be a cynic, but rather to believe in idealism.

Stage Five: Realism and Empathy
But behind these thoughts is a waving red flag! That’s Reality saying, “HELLO, idiot.”

Or more delicately said, that’s reality reminding me that if I’m going to be a voice of idealism, then I better be one of realism as well. I better be able to look around, and see the realities of this place. My ideals will only meet inertia if they’re not matched with the world’s realities.

If we’re to be idealistic, we’ve got to be realistic. But also, we have to have some experience with our ideals. Gain some knowledge of the situation to gain some empathy. Read a book, read the news, study language and religion, immerse yourself in another culture, travel (international or national), ask questions, and listen, listen, listen. And we will gain some empathy.


In conclusion, there are many levels of poverty. There are groups of poor like the rural poor, the urban poor, and the third world poor. And I’m not sure what the solutions are, or if anyone has the answer. But I think there's a reason God allows for both Good and Evil to exist in our world. I don’t have a complete answer for why, but I think part of the reason has to do with how we react to injustice, adversity, and impunity. Part of that reason is about who we become, what we do, and what we believe is right and wrong.