I understand now how anger, like the aftershocks of an earthquake or a deadly virus, reproduces itself, spreads outward from a point of origin, touching even those who believed themselves on the margins of the disaster zone. If I trace my fingers along my collarbone, I can find the exact point of infection: a small burn on my neck where my gold necklace bit into my skin as a man on a motorcycle ripped it off through the window of the guagua and turned an otherwise ordinary morning commute into a day I will remember for the small internal death of my innocence.

I feel your anger now, people of the Dominican Republic.

But let me rewind a bit. I’ve experienced the full spectrum of life in this country since my first visit in 2001. I’ve done the resort thing, but I’ve also done the batey thing. A scar on the back of my leg bears permanent witness to your fascination with barbed wire. In 2005 I learned not to trust your police when a drunk, off-duty officer threatened me with his gun after I hit his motorcycle with the door of a taxi. I’ve lived without running water for ten weeks, experienced the frustration of rolling blackouts, had a rental car stolen, and have now had two different apartments broken into. I’ve also felt the exhilaration of riding in the back of a pickup truck through the mountains, rocked your children to sleep in my arms, floated on the waves beneath a brilliant deep blue sky, danced merengue and downed frosty Presidentes in corner colmados all across Santo Domingo, acknowledged the hisses and whistles of your men with a patient smile.

I’ve played by your rules, and given you the benefit of the doubt after every robbery, every scare. I didn’t have to come back a third time or make any kind of concerted attempt to understand, help or love your country – but I did, in good faith, because I wanted to. I naively assumed that history counted for something, exempted me from further harm.

All of it was obliterated in the moment I felt a stranger’s dry fingers on my neck, saw through the window of the guagua a young face, curiously detached, as though unaware of the violence his hand was engaged in. It struck me as equally strange that he was wearing a helmet; that even petty thieves remember to prioritize their safety before they set about their morning’s work.

The anger took effect almost immediately. As I got the scolding of my life from six different women on the guagua, my mind was occupied with evil wishes – I hope he falls off his bike; no, I hope he gets hit by a car; no, an oil tanker; I hope all the police are able to recover from the flaming wreckage are that stupid helmet, a couple of teeth, and the gold pendant he ripped off a white girl earlier that morning – that eventually spread outwards, gathering others into my personal hell. I wanted to slap the crazy biddies telling me it was my fault, wanted to deliver a hard kick to the groin of the fruit vendor who had the misfortune of hissing at me on the corner of Churchill and Correo, wanted to inflict the exact mental and emotional pain I was experiencing on every person I passed.

By the end of the day, it wasn’t just the thief I was angry with, but the whole of the human condition, the entire messed up global economic and social system that led this one man to feel he had no other choice that morning but to assault a total stranger for a piece of jewelry that had more sentimental than monetary value.

A few days have passed, and I’ve downgraded my revenge fantasies to consist of the thief’s girlfriend rejecting her new love token because it actually features a graduation hat and scroll – unless she’s a recent alumnus of the UASD, in which case I’ll just shut up. But I didn’t just lose a necklace; I lost my peace of mind, and so I can’t let you, people of the Dominican Republic, off the hook this time.

First of all, I know I’m white. I don’t need to be reminded of that fact by every other person I pass on the street. I’m also not “Americana,” and I don’t owe you anything simply because I’m a foreigner. You know as well as I do that stealing my money and my valuables isn’t going to improve your overall welfare. In fact, letting me keep my money and spend it in your stores and restaurants is a better approach to furthering your own economic development, as is refraining from abusing visitors to your country who are in a position to influence others’ decisions about whether or not to visit.

Secondly, it’s not fair to act out your anger at the privilege I seem to embody by violating my right to freedom from fear. I’m as much a part of the system as you are, but I’m not single-handedly responsible for your relative poverty. I’m here because I want to understand how the lifestyle I enjoy in Canada affects your lives in turn, so that when I go back home I can change my behavior, consume less and rethink my priorities, and give my friends and family tangible reasons why they should do the same.

Finally, you have a responsibility to your own neighbors and fellow citizens. Something is deeply wrong with a society where it seems every person I talk to has been mugged, robbed, raped, or threatened at least once in their lives, usually more. I feel your collective anger; I’ve been inducted into it. I’ve experienced the temptation to inflict it on others in turn, but I’d rather share your grief and frustration and stand in solidarity with you.