White does not always equal privilege

‘White privilege’ – two words bandied about on social media almost weekly, often following a racially charged debate or incident. Defined by Wikipedia as “a term for societal privileges that benefit people identified as white in Western countries, beyond what is commonly experienced by non-white people under the same social, political, or economic circumstances”, the concept of “white privilege” is to analyze how racism and racialized societies affect the lives of white or white-skinned people.

According to feminist and anti-racism activist Peggy McIntosh white privilege comprises of “an invisible package of unearned assets” – a long list of benefits whites in Western societies get to enjoy which non-whites can’t, including, greater social status; and freedom to move, buy, work, play, and speak freely.

The concept of white privilege was rapidly brought into the mainstream spotlight through social media in the early 2010s, reaching fever pitch in 2014 when Black Lives Matter exploded into a massive protest movement. Since then it has been here to stay – 2016 kicked off with Beyoncé’s “Formation” video which prompted many a think piece. Defending Beyoncé’s artistic license using racially charged references from the New Orleans floods which claimed mostly African American lives to allusions to police brutality to using Black Power inspired looks for her backing dancers during her phenomenal Super Bowl performance, many African American writers reminded us the white privilege. Some went as far as saying, “White people, shut up about Beyoncé.”

This week white privilege took centre stage again on social media, first with an excerpt published in The Telegraph from the gap year memoir of Scottish actress Louise Linton, In Congo’s Shadow.   With its far-fetched plot and geographical inconsistences, Linton’s ‘memoir’ was such a stereotypical depiction of a “white savior syndrome” that initially many thought it was a satire, or a fresh take on “How not to write about Africa”. Soon after, #LintonLies started trending on social media with Zambians picking the holes in her poorly structured tale of woe and the rest of us wondering, how in the 21st century, one could get away with statements such as:

“I had come to Africa with hopes of helping some of the world’s poorest people.”

“I tried not to think what the rebels would do to the ‘skinny white muzungu with long angel hair’ if they found me.”

“My innocent dreams of teaching the villagers English or educating them about the world now seemed ridiculously naïve.”

As I read these lines, I cringed as a white woman often writing about African that another white woman could write in such a patronizing manner about the continent I love – even though the said white woman and I have nothing in common. She is Scottish and an actress, I am Turkish and a marketing director; she spent a gap year in Zambia (which by her account may have been some place else however), I often travel to African countries as part of my job at a pan-African media house. We are, however, linked, through the colour of our skin, and the fact that we have both written about Africa, both to each other, and other Caucasian writers writing about Africa – always conscious of avoiding patronising statements and stereotypical visions, lest we too fall into the pit of “white saviour syndrome”.

Midweek came the gruesome accounts of the murders of two black men in America – first the father of five, Alton Sterling selling CDs outside of the Triple S. Food Mart convenience store in Baton Rouge, Louisiana before he was killed, the next day, Philando Castile who was shot dead in Falcon Heights in front of his girlfriend and her young daughter, during a routine traffic control, while reaching to his pocket to produce his license for the officer.

The day after the shootings, at work, a colleague mentioned she had deleted her social media as she was depressed by the vicious cycle of murders, hashtags, protests followed by nothing but more murders, hashtags, protests. She said, “At least for a week I want to feel the white privilege.”

Yes, I am well aware, my greatest white privilege – had I lived in America – is the luxury that I will likely never be stopped and searched by the police and when I do, I won’t end up dead. I will not have to pay the price for walking, selling CDs, or having a raucous house party or driving, or merely reaching out for my purse while being a certain skin colour.

Yet, I am acutely aware that my whiteness does not always equal privilege, nor does it guarantee an emotional immunity to the news of black men killed almost weekly over the other side of the pond. Don’t assume that, in the country that I am, my white skin has given me any privileges. Whatever privilege I may have taken for granted, is instantly canceled out by a number of things: I am Turkish, I am a Muslim, I have an internationally ambiguous accent and an ethnically ambiguous name, I have never been a part of the colonial rhetoric – neither has my home country.

My ancestors have colonized the Europeans so I have never had any ingrained notions of white supremacy or privilege. Countless times in Nigeria, have been at the receiving end of the word “oyinbo” which could connote both a compliment and an insult, but admiration and admonition all at once so no, white has not given me privilege.

There are hundred of thousands of others like me who do not assume that their skin colour would open any doors or give them an advantage. “White privilege” reduces us to just one colour: white. No nuances, no tones, no distinctions. How is it then any different than the one narrative the Western world imposes on Africa, or worse yet, the stereotypical “brute criminal” profile the American police have come to believe all black men fit?

Years ago when I was teaching at a predominantly white school, a student doing Simpson cartoon portraits of the teachers for a project, was almost apologetic asking me if she was allowed to use a different shade as I was a “different shade of white”. If a 14-year-old can see the different shades of white, why do we paint everyone with the same brush and call it “white privilege”?