Soup Kitchen

The first time I handed food to a homeless person, my heart stopped a beat.  He was a middle aged man, not physically old or sick, scratching his scar riddled arms. In our flitting exchange I noticed his faded t-shirt, his frayed jeans, his dusty rubber slippers. He acknowledged my presentation of bread with a nod of thanks and shuffled up the queue, to be replaced with another man, almost of similar character.

The first time I volunteered for soup kitchen, I was overwhelmed with the sheer number of homeless people alive in the depths of Kuala Lumpur. From the mentioned middle aged man, to old men with scraggly beards and skinny legs, to busty women carrying babies. There were tall transvestites grinning halfway between embarrassment and sass, adjusting their dresses; old women with carrier bags of their belongings; sometimes even an old pak guard working the late night shift.

Some of them would greet you cordially, grinning with half of their teeth missing. Some would just nod silently, even avoiding eye contact. Sometimes it was easier to tolerate the ones who remained quiet, who looked away even as you greeted them. Because perhaps they were embarrassed, or just anti-social. Perhaps their minds were occupied with other things. Their grim faces and rough hands asked to be left alone – Easier, because I could understand.

It’s the ones who smile happily as they receive their paper bag of sponsored food, saying thank you and selamat malam, who struck me most. They, with cramp little spaces to call home, maybe riddled with disease, maybe a meager-waged job, living in squalor next to rubbish strewn streets. They were harder to look in the eye. How do they still remain happy and polite, even with their givings in life? How are they not angry, bitter or ashamed? They have strengths that I have yet to understand.

As I gave away the last bag of food that night, there were still others waiting in the line, faces ranging from frustration to dejection. There was not enough food. What little we could give was a hot cup of tea, and some leftover packets of bread. It was the last lady who rushed up to us to receive a warm cup, explaining her lateness for minding her children, who concluded my night. She walked away with a small wave and a smile, back to her life. The others just shuffled away. 

We make what we can with our lot in our life. While we're sitting here, there are others out there, who are struggling and fighting to survive, in ways many of us would ever really know.  

I once heard the sentence “poor people did not choose to be poor”. It washed through my mind more than once over the course of that night, and many nights after. These people with histories of crime, disease, drug abuse, or bankruptcy did not choose this life. Yet they are looked upon with embarrassment, hate, fear, or simply ignored. How many of us have averted our eyes at the sight of a person sleeping in dirty clothes on the street, stinking of urine and sweat?  

Society should look towards these social outcasts as people in their own right, because even if you don't have a private home, or secured finances, it doesn't mean that you have failed in life. There are many ways to be rich and successful. In character, in values, in experiences.