Ramblings on privilege

Who exactly is the uncivilized? What is underdeveloped? When we speak of a country, we are really speaking of its people. Who are the underdeveloped? What will develop them?

Who is best suited to help them "develop"?

Every time I used the words "developing countries"—and God knows I used them thousands of times in my work—I could feel an unease in my throat.

A guilt chased by confusion. Developing based on whose criteria? Whose assessment? How long do we remain "developing" before reaching this elusive final tier? What else can I call them? It became "Low and Middle-Income Countries," as the IMF or World Bank would say. Sure, it’s more concrete, more sterile. But what does that really tell a layperson about a country? Absolutely nothing. So I form an idea instead, one reinforced ad nauseam by the media: They’re poor. Always experiencing some kind of catastrophe—man-made or natural. And, of course, they need our charity.

We are always someone else’s white person.

It may sound exaggerated, but this is the gist of what is taught in economics programs worldwide. Barring a few exceptions, we pity those who are poor while holding tightly to the belief that their plight is of their own making. They elect corrupt leaders. They don’t rebel. They don’t play by the rules the West has so tirelessly laid out for them. And when you give them aid, they mismanage or steal it.

Sure, I’ll concede that this happens.

But are we ever really going to address the root of this evil? Or is the world content to keep moving forward with this madness, this inane cycle of half-measures, distractions, and performative concern?

I know inequality. I know what it looks like. I started crying in the back of my parents’ car quite early on, unable to make sense of why a child my age was handed such a radically different and unfair deck of cards in this life. So I knew inequality. Or so I thought.

I came face to face with a type of inequality any rational person would assume long gone. The kind you’d think had been eradicated after billions of dollars spent on "development" on this continent, after countless lofty goals and summits. Surely, abject living conditions were a thing of the past. Surely, progress had reached everyone.

But it hasn’t. Not even close.

I worked on these topics, spent years studying them, thinking about them, writing about them, analyzing them. And yet, somehow, I was not fully aware of just how dire things remain for so many. It’s one thing to discuss inequality as an abstract idea, as numbers on a page or a set of statistics. It’s another to see it, to feel its weight, to stand in its shadow and realize how deeply entrenched it is.

And yet, in parallel, I have been hearing a different story. The story of how Africa—under the reductive and laughable "Africa is a country" paradigm—is the future. The economies are growing at rates Europe and other "advanced" nations can only dream of. Africa is the future, and yet, many Africans don’t see it.

Opportunities, opportunities, opportunities. That’s the refrain.

Sure, progress has been made. But at what price? And are we really okay with the pace at which this progress is being made? I’m not talking about progress as Microsoft opening an office or a new public-private partnership to build a bridge. I’m talking about progress that secures a decent livelihood for fellow human beings. Progress that ensures people don’t just survive but thrive.

Colonialism is everywhere. The colons know it. The local populations know it, feel it. And yet, no one talks about it.

Why are there so many white people? We cannot ask, right?

But asking why there are so many Arabs, Africans, or Indians in Amsterdam, Brussels, or Stockholm is perfectly acceptable. Entire political parties and policies are built around reducing the number of racialized individuals in any given country. Because, by default, these people are framed as plunderers of the national economy.

And yet, the white man or woman in Africa is perceived as something entirely different. They are here to help you develop. Or they are here to invest. Either way, they are here to help. They aren’t taking anything, we’re told—they’re simply giving.

Arabs and Asians—from the subcontinent and East Asia—are also here. They’ve come to take their share of the "developing" pie. The opportunities are too good to pass up.

I find myself consumed by waves of anger. It comes and goes, usually in moments of reflection. One moment, I’m filled with immense joy, sharing genuine belly laughs with strangers. The next, an angry, bitter fire burns inside me.

It took me days to fully understand this. I wasn’t just under the weight of constant new realizations, each one hitting me in the face. I was also shedding layers of ignorance I didn’t even know I carried.

This isn’t a sob story about seeing barefoot children living on the street. No. This is about something deeper. It’s about being reminded, everywhere I look, of my privilege. Of my whiteness.

Here, I am one of the colons. I belong to their team because of how I’m perceived—white-passing, moneyed, and educated.

It’s a strange and painful thing to realize: I cannot truly experience a place because I am seen as part of the colonizer’s team. Even those who know who I am try to shield me, recommending only places where they think a white person would go.

I thought I understood privilege. I thought years of grappling with guilt and discomfort were enough. But nothing prepared me for the confrontation I’ve experienced here.

I am angry because I do not belong to the place I so desperately wish to melt into.

Wherever we go, we inevitably reproduce the patterns of our social class. I behave like a white person because I am perceived as one.

Ta-Nehisi Coates wrote of Black Americans wanting to "go back" to their homeland. But they weren’t going back; they were planning a colonization. Big difference.

Hordes of white people occupy the nicest corners of this city, corners they’ve built for themselves, replicating systems and spaces from elsewhere. They live in compounds and cafes that scream "Western comfort." They are the colons of today, and the rest of us are implicated, whether we like it or not.

Blurry photography is ofte