Just about a year ago – halfway through my time in Malawi – I was driving to Chinsapo with a group of our volunteer mentors, the only non-Malawian in our big van. My presence in the back seat was noticed by every passerby, and “azungu!!” was called out countless times. It was always strange to me to be instantly viewed differently than my Malawian friends; it bothered me more than I realized.
I’m not sure what to do with white privilege. I’m not sure what the answers are. But I think honestly sharing our experiences is a place to start…

I am white.
Back home, I’m considered ‘olive skinned’ on a spectrum from sunkissed to fake tanned. But here? I might as well be pale as snow for how much I stand out. If my skin doesn’t already glow bright enough, my hair instantly gives me away.
I am not from here; this place is not my home.

I am white.
In town I’m seen as having endless money and endless answers; in the village I’m viewed as a celebrity from a faraway land.
Yet I am none of these. I am just Krysti – don’t they know? Do they care to know? I have never before been pre-judged simply by the color of my skin.

Is this a curse?
Forever stared at, forever on display.
Always being asked for aid that I cannot give, always viewed as a foreigner who cannot understand.
I will never completely fit in.

Is this a gift?
Respect that I haven’t earned is granted without question. Options that aren’t available for others are freely given. My words hold more weight than they should.
I am a rarity, and am treated as such.

Hundreds of white people came before me.
And I have to wonder, did they harm more than they helped?
I am seen as cut from the same cloth, for we are all viewed as one and the same.
Unknowingly, I have come to heal the scars they left; I am attempting to be medicine in these wounds.

Hundreds of white people will come after me.
I can only hope that they continue to help, continue to heal.
I can only pray that they fight to right the wrongs, fight against the injustice of it all.

I don’t believe anyone should have their worth pre-determined based on their appearance. But I also believe in living in reality: the sad, actuality of our world today. A black man’s voice isn’t as loud. A woman’s opinion isn’t as respected. A child’s view isn’t as relevant.

Malawian or American, why can’t both have answers?
Malawian or American, why can’t both be here to bring hope?
Malawian or American, why can’t both be seen as the same?

To me, they do.
To me, they are.
Malawian or American, they are all friends.

But I am white.