Memories of Poverty

Having been following microfinance for the last several years, I come to believe that this is an effective tool against poverty. Being a Chinese native, I always wanted to do something for China, in a meaningful and effective way. The newly established microfinance NGO, Wokai, fits the bill perfectly. So I have decided to contribute to, and to volunteer for Wokai.

My awakening to poverty came rather late, when I was in my early 20s. The college I attended is in a central Chinese city, Hefei, and the campus we lived on was a new extension and was under construction at the time.

Hefei was not a rich city. And the new campus was on the edge of the town. Naturally, the construction hired a lot poor peasants from surrounding areas. They lived in make-shift huts made of bamboo and plastic sheets on muddy ground outside of the construction sites. I visited this impromptu village once, trying to sell the laborers cigarettes my friend and I bought back from Beijing. Following the poor peasants to our campus were even lower lives--the beggars and trash pickers.

On a sunny early spring day, my father stopped by campus for a visit. I took him on a tour of the unfinished labs and classrooms. On our way back to my dorm, a trash picker crossed our path. He has a rather large build for a man in that area, but his back is so hunched that I could barely see his face, under a thick hat with wool ear flaps. Although it was a warm day and my father and I had only light jackets on, the trash picker wore a thickly padded short parka with a thick rope tied at waist.

He may or may not had a trash bag with him. Somehow that detail escaped me. But what I remembered so clearly was his parka. It was dirty alright, and was patched all over. But every patch I could see was cleanly cut, as my grandma used to say, "a square is a square and a circle is a circle". And the patches were sewed on very neatly, so smooth that there was no a single crease I could see on his large, hunched back.

I didn't know whether the trash picker saw us or not. He walked by without a look or a nod, as quiet as a ghost. He didn't smell like I expected a trash picker would either. I couldn't tell his age exactly but I knew he was about my father's years.

The image of this old trash picker stuck in my mind from then on, thanks largely to the evenly sewed patches on his parka.

Since I settled down, I have been giving money to all kinds of "noble" causes. But I haven't done much for the poor. I was never comfortable giving money away to people on the street--you don't know what they are going to do with your money, but you suspect they will come back on the spot tomorrow and ask for more.

In that sense, nothing I have seen so far could alleviate this anxiety better than microfinancing. It channels my contribution not to any poor, but those with hopes of leaving poverty behind and with plans in their mind.

I hope everyone can come to join this enterprise.