After a three-hour drive south from the rough terrain of the countryside, we arrived in San Salvador. Before I left the States, I expected that the wealth distribution in El Salvador would be incredibly unequal. In hindsight, I realize that I judged the rich of poor countries as being inherently evil.
The drive from Santa Marta to the capital city gradually improved from the rough dirt and stone roads in the campo to the government-funded, paved highways. If you looked out the window for just a moment, you might have thought you were in America with the crisply painted lanes, cement barricades to separate opposing traffic and large steel overhead walkways with larger-than-life Coca-Cola advertisements spanning six lanes.
Although the infrastructure of these roads proves the government is able to spend money on its people when it wants to (and likely when some sinister government official's business stands to gain), the roads don't lose their distinctly El Salvadoran feeling. Cramming a ridiculous number of people into the back of a pickup is still the most popular form of transportation, even when said truck is going 100 kilometers per hour.
Fifteen minutes more into San Salvador and we arrive at our destination: the capitol's only synagogue (the trip was, after all, organized by American Jewish World Service). Jews have often been pegged as rich, and the small Jewish community in El Salvador — no more than 200 people — lives up to this stereotype. Yet meeting with some representatives of this community gave me insight into the wealthy community of El Salvador (in 2005, 10 percent of the population held 37 percent of the national income). The rich there live perhaps beyond an American standard: luxury car imports, tri-lingual students at international schools, five-bedroom apartments, Mac computers and two vacation homes.
Considering the stark difference from our host town just a few hours away, it made sense to ask members of the Jewish community how they felt about their wealth in the midst of a country with a per-capita GDP of about $6,000. I (and probably many other international observers of world poverty) believe that the rich of a country are in some way responsible for the poverty in their backyard. "How could they live with themselves?" I asked myself, almost disgusted that they weren't as poor as their countrymen.
However, these are intelligent people aware of their surroundings, and they told us that they too felt an imperative to practice "tikkun olam," or repairing the world, by donating to schools in the countryside. One member said they realize that they have gotten the good end of the stick — and was quick to add that we, as Americans, were in their boat. With a prickly but not-quite-defensive tone, one gentleman asked, "So we're five miles away from the poverty. You're 5,000. What makes us so different?" These struck me as decent, law-abiding people — people who would fit in at Tufts. Can we expect them to live a life of poverty simply because they were born in a certain place?
More questions follow. Are we, as well-off Americans, more or less culpable than our rough economic equivalents in El Salvador? Does our geographic distance insulate us from taking blame for the country's poverty? No doubt you have heard the phrase, "don't hate the player, hate the game." This isn't a vindication of the wealthy in the developing world (though, undoubtedly, some have contributed to the economic oppression of their countrymen). But in a system as globalized as ours, does distance really make that much of difference for those who have prospered through legitimate means? I'm starting to feel a little guiltier.
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Jacob Kreimer is a junior majoring in international relations. He can be reached at Jacob.Kreimer@tufts.edu.
