I used to wonder why, in northern Uganda, the scene of a brutal and tragic 20 year conflict, virtually every movie playing in the tiny video houses and bars was about war. Rambo, Bruce Lee, Steven Siegal–this is the cultural milieu that the rural north typically has on offer. But weren’t they sickened of fighting and war? Why entertain themselves with more violence? Complicated psychological theories come to mind. One day I simply asked a group of young men. Their answer: “it’s nice to know that we’re not the only ones.”

Cut to Martin Scorsese. Several years ago, watching Gangs of New York, I remember being struck by two thoughts. First, “how much longer is this movie?” Second, “this place is worse than anything I’ve seen in Africa.” Desperate poverty, roving gangs, political murders, unbridled corruption, a government pressing immigrants into military service–this was New York of the mid-19th century. 150 years later (post-Giuliani), poverty, gangs and corruption are not exactly things of the past, but they are no longer quite so endemic. In an odd way, I found this thought profoundly hopeful.

Meanwhile, last night I finished reading George Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London–a semi-autobiographical account of his brush with deep and desperate poverty in the streets of Europe’s capitals (the novel is freely available here). Again I was struck by the parallels between the ‘rich world’s’ recent history (Paris and London of the 1930s) and many developing country capitals today. In some ways it is helpful to remember that we are only two or three generations removed from mass poverty and a frayed (and sometimes inhuman) social safety net. We have by no means conquered poverty and misery, but great strides have been made in a very brief time.

Orwell spends the first half of his book recounting his penniless life in Paris, first looking for work, and later working as a lowly kitchen hand, or plongeur. On his return to England (where he has no option other than to become a tramp), he reflects on his Parisian life,

I think one should start by saying that a plongeur is one of the slaves of the modem world. Not that there is any need to whine over him, for he is better off than many manual workers, but still, he is no freer than if he were bought and sold. His work is servile and without art; he is paid just enough to keep him alive; his only holiday is the sack. He is cut off from marriage, or, if he marries, his wife must work too. Except by a lucky chance, he has no escape from this life, save into prison.

This description matches many in the modern West, but it matched many, many more in our recent past (and applies to even greater numbers in Africa, Latin America and Asia today). I’m going to bring the book to Uganda this weekend, and see if I can track down a copy of Gangs. I have some friends who might find it nice to know that they’re not the only ones.