Hannah - Jordan Hinahara

First Place Winning Essay (Collegiate Level) - 2008 Oakseed Ministries Essay Contest

“Compassion and the Child with Disability”

I wore a scratchy blue flower-printed dress to the terrace on the lake that day. It was boiling hot, and the synthetic fabric that irritated my skin became even worse in the sun.  Although the wind provided some relief, even the air seemed to burn up, the heavy humidity sinking into every pore of my body. Next to me, my dad sweated; so did my mom. “Mercury Bubbles,” also known as my friend, Hannah, however, happily ran around, not seeming to notice the overpowering temperature.

“Mercury Bubbles, come on over here!” the videographer called. “Mercury” didn’t respond except to give the fellow an evil smirk. Apparently, he had her name wrong.

“Hannah?” her mom rejoined. No, this wasn’t right, either, for her smirk became a frustrated grimace.
“I’m Tinkerbell!” she spat out at them.

Tinkerbell and I sat down together. Well, I suppose you could call it sitting; really, though, she sort of tackled me into a nearby bench, poking at me and paying no attention to the man in front of us. The videographer focused the camera and began to ask questions, and I answered as best I could as Tinkerbell squirmed.

“Is this your friend, Tinkerbell?” the videographer asked, turning his attention to her.

“She’s my best friend,” Tinkerbell informed him.

The next week, at church, Hannah sat next to me. She refused to stand until the end of the service, when we began to say The Lord’s Prayer. I assumed that she only enjoyed that part of the service because it was something she could follow. I was wrong. As usual, she had ulterior motives.

She pulled me close to her so that I could hear her mumbled rendition of the prayer, but I didn’t need to be close in order to hear one line. My entire family heard what she said.

“Deliver us from EVA!” she nearly shouted. Her mother closed her eyes in what I can only guess was a silent prayer within the one that she recited out loud. There, again, appeared Hannah’s trademark evil smirk—Hannah’s older sister’s name is Eva.

She must have caught a glimpse of my barely controlled smile, because she now makes a point of sitting next to me in church, saying the same line loud and clear week after week. If that fails to get a reaction (for I’ve improved my control since that first time), she finds another way to engage my attention.

Hannah is a singular creature, full of animation and heart. Her hugs have always had a strength that squeezes the air from my lungs; her real smiles—not the impetuous smirk she is so prone to—shock my soul into happiness, no matter my mood. What disheartens me, however, is the alienation she has experienced in the last few years. For a long time, I looked out for her, enjoying her company by and large. Occasionally, she would throw temper tantrums or refuse to leave my house, latching onto whatever she could and using her powerful arms to keep us from prying her out. High school changed the dynamic of our relationship, however, largely due to the changes Hannah underwent. Once she entered high school, she was never Mercury Bubbles or Tinkerbell again. Her teachers went to great pains in order to quash what they deemed obtrusive, irregular habits such as this. They didn’t seem to believe that she was fit to socialize with the rest of the students. Instead, she was relegated to a small room full of other disabled students as much lacking in social skills as she was.

I believe the attitudes she faced in high school created the worst possible situation for her; ironically, almost no one I know would have been irritated by her presence. Perhaps some would have treated her with cruelty; perhaps some would have spoken to her in the slow and loud voice of someone totally ignorant of the real problem; perhaps some would have pitied her.  Anything, though, would have been better than the utter isolation she faced, and the total want of compassion. Compassion and pity are two very different concepts: the American Heritage Dictionary defines pity as “sympathy and sorrow aroused by the misfortune or suffering of another” whereas compassion requires “deep awareness of the suffering of another coupled with the wish to relieve it.”

The crucial difference between these two definitions is the desire to end the suffering that compassion entails. Hannah doesn’t need more people to feel sorry for her; she needs people to love her enough to see her in a different light. She needs people to be so aware of her disadvantages that they would do anything to lessen them; therefore, they become one less burden to her, treating her as any other person. To understand this concept, one must use a bit of doublethink: I am so cognizant of Hannah’s disability that I ignore it in order to lessen its impact. Any true friend of a disabled child does the same thing.

The prevailing attitude at my school seems to be that Hannah hasn’t the capacity to make realistic decisions. While she may choose ridiculous names and write ridiculous prayers, she is fully capable of choosing her friends, choosing what she wants to eat for lunch, and where she will sit. Instead, she is hidden from the population of the school, fostering a misconception about her condition. No one else knows her. When I stop in the hall to give her a hug as I would any other close friend, the looks I receive are almost as degrading as those she receives wherever she goes. Maybe if they only knew her—if they only knew her heart, her alter egos, maybe then they would love her as well. Instead, she is isolated, and this breeds a fear in other students. People always fear what they do not understand or do not know; her isolation leads them to believe that she will in some way harm them. This is the greatest travesty of her schooling.

Hannah suffers her isolation well, but I see how hard it must be in her eyes. Eyes are the windows to the soul, and I see a soul so powerful, so enlightened within her that it hurts me to “no” how her disabilities have prevented her from realizing all the potential of her heart.  I recognize that she has potential, though, and so I do not pity or patronize her. I demand the same from her as I would any other friend—but unlike so many of my friends in the past, Hannah has never done anything to make me question the value of our friendship. She has never hurt me with a cutting remark, never failed to invite me to her parties, and never been less than ecstatic to spend time with me, and she has never told my secrets. Hannah is one of the truest friends I have.

Anyone with such a relationship knows its value, I am certain. When I was young, it was hard to understand Hannah’s quirks and eccentricities, but I never questioned her. Instead, I accepted her for whoever she claimed to be at a given moment, waging light-saber wars and watching The Little Mermaid at her whim. I stood up for her as I would for any other friend, and I tried not to encourage her less tasteful habits. I would like to think that I have not in any way failed her, that I have been as steady for her as she has been for me.

Hannah has taught me the value of a good soul and a good heart. I look closer at every person I meet, wondering if they, too, can match her goodness. She is a living example of a book that may be grossly misjudged by its cover . Understanding the truism of this cliché helps me lead a better life by opening my eyes to avenues I might have otherwise ignored. Hannah has widened my world by being exactly who she is. Although I would love to see her soul at its full worth, I also realize that even with her just as she is—and because of the way she is—I can grow and learn.

After a hot afternoon of filming, the videographer packed up his equipment. Later, I would see the entire video—a documentary about people with Down syndrome living full and happy lives. My family and I were featured in the section about Hannah, our friendship a model for how children with disabilities could form bonds just as significant as any other child’s. At the time, though, I didn’t care about the outcome of the film. Instead, I walked over to the lake with Hannah, and we sat and watched the sun reflect off the water, and she occasionally reached over to muss my hair like an overprotective mother. In that moment, I didn’t care about Hannah’s disabilities; I didn’t recognize them as making her different from me in any way. We were just another pair of friends enjoying the summer day.

—

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The Cry - Ashley Brewster

First Place Winning Essay (High School Level) - 2008 Oakseed Ministries Essay Contest

“Compassion and the Child with Disability”

Adanna sits in the dark back room of her family’s hovel. As her parents and siblings work outside in the hot African sun in order to survive, Adanna stays behind, abandoned, unwanted, and unloved. What has she done to deserve this fate? Absolutely nothing. But behind her where her legs are supposed to be, there are only stumps. Adanna was born with no legs. Her disability has rendered her helpless, and in the eyes of her family, worthless. She receives little food and no attention. Her disability and her family’s poverty will leave her in this state for the rest of her life, if she lives that long.

When we think of children with disabilities, we might picture them in a wheelchair, surrounded by a loving family. It is not often that we picture children like Adanna, who are starving for both food and love. Poverty makes life difficult for anyone it strikes. But for those who are disabled, it leaves them desolate. The number of disabled children in the world is much greater than we might realize: “10% of the world’s population, i.e., … 600,000,000 are born with or acquire a disability within their lifetimes. Of this 600 million … one quarter or 150 million are children” (Belamy, 2003). When it comes to developing countries rife with poverty, the number of disabled children increases: “The proportion of disabled children in developing countries is generally higher than in developed countries” (Elwan, 1999). For example, in India, which is one of the world’s poorest nations, there is an especially large percentage of disabled children. “It is estimated that 6 to 10% of children in India are born disabled and that, because of low life expectancy, possibly a third of the disabled population are children” (Elwan, 1999).

These statistics are staggering. Not only are a surprising number of children disabled, but in developing countries, the numbers are disproportionately greater. Poverty impacts disabled children in a devastating way. In many cases, they have no access to simple necessities such as food and clean water. They are unable to receive badly needed medical attention. Poverty not only impacts disabled children physically, it also affects them emotionally: “Most of the world’s 150 million children with disabilities are not enjoying affectionate and equitable access to basic services and meaningful participation in society” (Lumpkin, 2007). In some countries, disabled children are shunned because of their disability, locked up by family members in sheds and back rooms. They are not allowed to join in with society. Poverty also deprives them of education. This is one of the most serious problems associated with poverty. This lack of education creates a vicious cycle that prevents the poor and disabled from leaving their preset state. “Poverty is both a cause and a consequence of poverty. For example, the lack of all levels of education and family support in any community is closely linked to both poverty and disability” (Lumpkin, 2007). Because of the lack education and a loving, supportive family, many disabled and poor children will never be able to leave their state of poverty. It is a maelstrom that keeps them locked in a continuous battle for survival, unable to escape.

Something must be done to end this cycle. Something must be done to ensure that disabled children trapped in poverty can have a chance at life. We must work harder to ensure that the lives of disabled children are made better. We can no longer take a position of apathy. Our pity alone will not save the lives of disabled children struggling to survive. When we watch our plasma screen televisions and see stories of helpless children like Adanna, we shake our heads and murmur, “Oh, how sad,” and reach for another potato chip. This kind of apathy is condemning them to a life derived of hope! When we sit back and do nothing, we let one more disabled child die of hunger. When we fail to take action, we condemn one more disabled child to a life of drudgery, bereft of love. We must face the cold, hard truth: apathy kills.

As a community, we must work towards the betterment of the lives of disabled children. We must make the public aware of the state of poor disabled children. We must urge them to take action with us. We must make our legislatures and government more aware of the plight of these innocent ones and urge them to take action on their behalf. We can donate our time and money to help these precious children with disabilities. Thirty dollars a month can feed a child; several more can ensure their education. It doesn’t take much, and yet it will change a child’s life. The difference one person can make is extraordinary. Imagine giving a child a chance at life! If we as a community come together to work to make the lives of the poor disabled children better, we will make a difference that is more widespread than we could have imagined. An individual can change a life; think of the impact we would have if we as a nation would come together to change the lives of those disabled children living in the chains of poverty.

The number of disabled children living in poverty is overwhelming. But what is more overwhelming is the impact that individuals can have in the lives of those children. We can make a difference! Apathy is no longer acceptable. We must work for them, fight for them. And we must act now, because for children like Adanna, time is running out.

—

All Rights Reserved - Oakseed Ministries International - Reprints/Republications of this winning essay require the express written permission from Oakseed Ministries International - For More information, please contact us at benjamin@oakseed.org

2007 Essay Contest - 1st Place Essay - Age 18-22

The Haunting Faces of Child Labor

 

By Melissa Sherry - Age 22
Columbus, OH

I sit down to dinner and her eyes watch me, weathered and hungry. Hungry for food, for shelter, for love, for hope? I can feel them on me as I eat from a plate overflowing with food. They watch me as I sort through my closet, shocked at my multitude of clothing. I feel their presence as I curl up in my warm bed at night. Beautiful eyes. Sad eyes. Hungry eyes. Sometimes I forget that they are nothing more than a memory.

I met Sarah in Trujillo, Peru. She was beautiful, with big black eyes and long dark hair. Slipping quietly up to my table at a restaurant in the city, she stuck out a bony hand filled with candy. She looked about 8, dressed in thin clothes that hung on her emaciated frame. “Un sol,” she implored (which is about the equivalent of 30 cents), “solamente un sol.” I glanced over at my sister from across the table, feeling guilty that I sat behind a large plate heaped with food while this skeletal girl attempted to sell me some gross looking candy at an hour when most kids her age should be asleep in bed. I started to search my pockets for change, then suddenly I could feel her gaze lock onto me, hungry for help, for food, for money, for relief. I glanced at her and was shocked to see the eyes of an old woman staring back at me. The eyes of someone who had seen enough of life, the eyes of someone who a few coins were not going to help.

“Tiene Hambre?” I ask. Are you hungry? The eyes are responseless, calculating. They wait. Then a barely perceptible nod. We invite her to sit with us and share our food. Suddenly her inner hunger is unleashed, and she attacks the chicken as if she were a famished lion. Chicken tears off bones, bones are cracked and sucked dry and licked clean. I feel sick. We pack up whatever food she cannot consume, and before we realize it, she is gone. But her eyes remain, boring into my soul. All the information that I knew about child labor suddenly took the form of an adorable little girl.

Sadly, that night we saw Sarah again. We watched her mother snatch the leftover food, slap her across the face, then throw her to the ground, admonishing her for sitting down to eat when she should have been making money. The people in the city around us walked by without so much as a glance, as she scurried to her feet and set back out to continue selling her worthless candy. With a horrified heart, I suddenly realized why UNICEF calls these laboring children “the invisible children” (www.unicef.org). Only once I began to look around did I realize how many children were out selling things…. little boys and girls of all ages selling candy, playing cards, and small toys at nearly midnight in one of Peru’s most dangerous cities.

After spending time living in Trece de Abril, a small village in the northern deserts of Peru where my sister works as a Peace Corps member, child labor began to seem disturbingly normal. Children barely old enough to form sentences slaved away in rice fields, lugging giant, sword-like tools twice their size out into the fields to cut the rice crop. They drove donkey carts or mototaxis to make a profit, or sold small items from dawn until dusk in the market places. Only a lucky few were able to go to school, and even those who did rarely made it past the sixth grade.

One little boy stands out in my mind, an undersized 8 or 9-year-old named Luis. My sister was running a cultural dance group the night that I met him, trying to give the kids living in homes made of cornstalks and mud some sense of pride in their own culture. The little boy was good-natured and full of smiles, yet my sister explained that he, too, was the face of child labor. After taking an overcrowded, broken-down van for an hour to the market each day, he was forced to spend hours selling small hard candies in the hot sun. Never mind that few people in the area had money for things as frivolous as candy. He and his six year old sister were forbidden from coming home until the bags of candy were sold. He lived on a diet of rice, which meant that he was undersized and malnourished. Yet without fail, he came proudly to the cultural dance group each week and despite his exhaustion, danced his heart out with a big smile. I am still amazed by his smile.

The Convention on the Rights of the Child dictates that “children have the right to be protected from performing any work that is likely to be hazardous or to interfere with the child’s education, or to be harmful to the child’s health or physical, mental, spiritual, moral, or social development” (http://hrw.org/english/docs/2004/06/10/africa8789.htm). Apparently Peru has forgotten these rights. Carrying sharp tools to slave away in rice fields, walking the streets alone selling objects to strangers, and driving mototaxis at a young age are dangerous to the welfare of children. They could be hurt, kidnapped, or even killed each day as they head off to work. For girls, rape is a danger, and the child-trade in Peru is especially alarming; the first thing I noticed while exiting the airplane was a large sign imploring people to stop buying children so they will stop being sold. I was appalled.

Not only are these children in danger, but they are missing out on an education and even more importantly, a childhood. Sadly, they will be stuck forever in their villages, forced to perpetuate their way of life into another generation due to poverty and the lack of education. These children are lost souls. Child labor has robbed them of their potential. They are not children, but instruments to generate money. Their parents capitalize on their innocence to elicit money from compassionate people who buy out of pity. It’s amazing what the desperation of poverty can do.

In Lima, my sister and I were heading down the street when I heard a male voice attempting to sweet-talk me. Translated, the voice was saying, “Beautiful woman, you are so sexy and gorgeous. Oh Queen, you are the most beautiful woman I have seen. Turn around and see what I have for you.” Being a blonde, this was not uncommon to hear from the men in Peru; however, what made this time different was that when I glanced back, I did not see the face of a man, but rather a boy of about 7 who was earnestly trying to sell me a small bracelet. His use of language belied his loss of childhood innocence. I was shocked to hear those words coming from such young lips. He had learned that flattery was the way to sell, and had picked up the language of older men to maximize his profit. My heart broke for his loss of innocence and the fact that he could never just be a 7-year-old boy. We bought the bracelet from him and then bought him food, wishing all along we could kidnap him, spoil and love him, and show him how to be a child instead of a man.

The longer I was in Peru, the more powerless I felt. Child labor was everywhere I looked, and though my sister and I tried to feed these children and give them money at every opportunity we could, we knew that helping them once was not enough. Giving some food or money to a child may be a temporary help, but in the end the money goes to the parents, reinforcing the use of children to generate money, and the hunger comes roaring back with a vengeance. The only way to really help these children is to raise awareness of what is going on with these “invisible children” (UNICEF) and support campaigns targeted to alleviate the extreme poverty creating the need for child workers. Eventually, laws protecting children need to be strictly enforced, even in remote areas.

Back home in the extravagance of the United States, I cannot forget the children of Peru. I hear little voices that are wise beyond their years, and silently apologize to all the children for whom I did not do enough. In church last Sunday, a quote caught my eye. “I have shown you in every way by laboring like this, that you must support the weak. And remembering the words of the Lord Jesus, that He said, ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive” (Bible - Acts 20:35). I realized that I have been blessed to have the life I live, and that it is not enough to visit Peru and help a handful of children when so many thousands need help. I am reminded every day by the haunting memories of these so-called “children” that something needs to be done, and I have vowed to do all I can to “support the weak” and help their cause.

Until I do, Sarah’s eyes will watch my every move with their desperate plea for help. I will be forever haunted by the memories that, sadly, are a tragic reality.

2007 Essay Contest - 1st Place Essay - Age 13 -17

Compassion and the Working Child

 

By Priscilla M. - Age 17
Cairo, Egypt

My heart is overflowing with compassion for them. My eyes are overflowing with tears because of them. My spirit knows I will always fight for them; the children of the world.

It happened a week ago. As a member of the church youth, I had graciously volunteered to accompany a team of university students on a trip to the garbage village in Egypt. Yes, I live in Egypt, where one can’t help but notice the reticent, ill-looking children loitering on the maze of streets in Cairo. This image though, at that time, did not strike me as abnormal; on the contrary, I hardly even noticed the hoards of children around me in my everyday maneuvers around Cairo. I had become numb to the sight of the poor and weak, never once asking myself what life these children lead. They were out of my bubble, and I never noticed them while the transparent encompassment held me captive for far too long, until now.

That day, we drove slowly over the mounds of waste and garbage. I was nauseous, thinking to myself that no human was capable of leading a life in this part of hell. The odor wafted up into my tensed nostrils as it gradually leaked into the car and through the closed windows. I glanced at the people outside behind the protection of the car window. They were living in this part of hell, but I paid no heed to this as I supposed that they didn’t mind it, and felt that it was their everyday duty to collect garbage from thousands of homes in Cairo. I later realized that it was not only my perception that was warped, but that of every human. Through the corner of my eye I suddenly spotted a child squatting in a mound of garbage, gaping at us. As soon as I glanced at him, he quickly shifted his round, black eyes back to the garbage and began to sort through it. I could see his hands touching mold and slime, things I did not recognize. I jolted my head back and looked around me to see if anyone had witnessed what I had just seen. I pressed my face to the window again, hoping to catch one last glimpse of the child, but as I did so I realized and endeavored to understand why it was that all of the garbage sorters were children: small, dirty, underfed, and overdeveloped children as a result of this grueling work forced upon them.

All day and every day, this was their life; they knew nothing else. With their tiny bodies they labored and would sort through all of the garbage in hopes of recycling most of it and creating something to sell. The men would collect the garbage, heaving it all over the city, and the women’s job was to weave and create beautiful and intricate ornaments. I bought one of these crafts but I couldn’t fully appreciate it. It cut through my heart to think of the children who had to endure strenuous labor at such a young age. My bubble was slowly disappearing.

We gave the children some food, mostly rice and beans to last them some weeks, but we also indulged them with chips and candy. I have never seen children so ecstatic over food. After I took one on my lap, we began to sing them songs; and after the first confusion as to why we were displaying such overwhelmingly benign behavior, their faces beamed with delight and joy, not to mention gratitude. I could not comprehend my own ignorance. Was everyone like me? People just sat at home, threw away their garbage and never gave it a second thought. When I finally wrenched myself away from those children, to see those faces fall was more than I could bear. I went home, not knowing if I would ever go back. The children went back to work, sure that I would never go back.

I went home with a mind full of images and thoughts foreign to me. My instant cure was to watch some television. As I flipped through the channels I stopped on the one where Oprah was on. I sat up as soon as she started talking. A picture of a little boy with haunted eyes was shown to the audience, and his eyes were the spitting image of the little boy I had seen that day. This boy was a child slave in Ghana, forced to work on a fishing boat doing strenuous labor in the night. I couldn’t deny or ignore it anymore, and I knew that I would go back to that child, back to help all children who faced the same injustices. I had witnessed only some of the hurt placed on children around the world, but now, I am thankful for the little experience I had, which proved to be a blessing.

Later, my friend gave me a picture she had taken of that boy who had so captured my heart. I keep it with me always. It is a treasure unlike any other, inducing and pushing me to serve God in ways unimaginable.

2007 Winning Essay - 1st Place - Age 12 and under

Looking at a photograph, what do I see?

 

By Colleen Kelly, Age 12
Quincy, MA

My soft hand caressed the faces of poor, working children in photographs. Staring at their faces, feeling their pain, adrenaline rushed through my body. I was angry. These photos revealed lives without childhoods. The pain and sorrow I felt for the working child would impact my life tremendously. I was sitting in a middle school classroom looking at these photographs and wondering what I could do. My wise teacher came up to me with a suggestion to go to a Friday “end child labor” meeting.

At first that amused me because, I mean, me, a regular person, make a difference? I went to a meeting on a Friday. I wasn’t the most enthusiastic about it, but I went. Then, my teacher brought all the new members down the hall to a little display case. I always thought that case was a TV or something. I didn’t really care about it. The teacher started to tell a story of a little boy whose name was Iqbal. Iqbal, age four, was sold into child labor in a carpet factory because his family had debts to pay. When he worked in the carpet factory, he barely had enough food to survive each night. Finally, one day at the age of ten, he escaped. He finally got out. Eventually he was able to share his message about what he went through in the factory.

A few months later Iqbal received the Reebok Human Rights Award in Boston. All the kids were touched by Iqbal’s story. We now wanted to do something to help working children like Iqbal. The teacher continued by telling us that when Iqbal returned to Pakistan, he was riding his bike and he was shot and killed. At this moment, goose bumps were shivering through my body. I think it was the same for the rest of the kids. The teacher took a long pause and pointed to the display case that was to the left. He said that inside this box was a carpet that Iqbal had made. Iqbal actually visited our school the day before he accepted the Reebok award. We were all shocked. The teacher kept talking about Iqbal and what Broad Meadows did to help. The students back then wanted to do something, so they decided to start a school in Pakistan in Iqbal’s honor. The teacher said, “we can’t do this!” However, those words are not in the vocabulary of Broad Meadows students. They raised over 147,000 dollars and built a school in Pakistan! The teacher was amazed; he never thought that twelve-year-olds could do it. When he finished the long story, we went back to the classroom. It hit me like a ton of bricks why all these young people are here at the meeting. They heard the story; they felt the same compassion I did when I heard the story. Now I finally understand what kids my age can do to help the tens of millions of children like Iqbal all over the world.

Compassion for the working child is basically tough love to all of us who attend “end child labor” meetings. For us, it’s not just having compassion for the working child, it’s actually doing something to help working children help themselves.

2005 Essay Contest - 1st Place Essay - Ages 18 – 22

By Kimberly Gruber

Compassion is demonstrated to the greatest degree when sorrows of another are felt by an outsider to the point that it creates the urge to help. Such an example of a true form of compassion occurred during the attacks of September 11, 2001. Over 3,000 people were killed in the attacks that hit the U.S. Each time the event comes to mind, our souls are again moved by the atrocity of thousands of our fellow citizens being snatched mercilessly from their families and our midst. Americans definitely shared in each New Yorkers’ pain and therefore demonstrated their true compassion by reaching out to support the victims and their families with over $155 million in donations to the Twin Towers Fund (Guiliani 274).

These selfless contributions from Americans around the country were vital for helping to rebuild the city and victims’ families. America’s response exemplifies the constructive impact that compassion can have on catastrophic events. Yet with Americans’ main focus on our country alone, we overlook an even greater threat that is advanced on a daily basis. In ONE day the AIDS virus kills more than TWO times as many people than were killed in the attacks of September 11, 2001. The worldwide AIDS epidemic takes over 7,000 lives on a daily basis. The region of the world hit in the most ghastly way is Sub-Saharan Africa, where, in some areas, the infection rate is as high as 70% in the adult populace. At this present time, AIDS is wiping out adult populations and leaving Africa as a land of orphans.

Considering the astonishing number of people affected by the AIDS epidemic, why haven’t Americans demonstrated equal amounts of compassion and attention as to the 9/11 tragedy? The truth is that the AIDS epidemic is easy for many Americans to overlook and ignore, primarily because the epidemic is affecting outside countries in a more dramatic way than it does our own. Therefore we do not see the pain or the injustice of its effects. Secondly, there has not been a single day like 9/11 when Americans have halted and been forced to recognize the severity of the AIDS epidemic. So, despite the increasing number of deaths that leave countless children orphaned, it is easy for Americans to simply overlook this tragedy.

“Don’t go to Africa unless you want to come back a different person. Those little guys will get to you,” says my uncle, Earl Shirk, who directs a marketplace ministry called Horizon Initiative, which works with the Kenyan orphans. Earl demonstrates that once the reality of the epidemic is faced, true compassion follows because it is hard to ignore the magnitude of the orphans’ need. This was not only his experience, but also has been the experience of many other Americans, including a group of Rotary Club Members that came to visit the orphanages. These men and women are all prominent business owners and therefore lived quite comfortably in the United States. Their initial motivation for the visit was based mostly on their reputation for serving the less fortunate, coupled with a little bit of pity for the children, but not true compassion. In addition, the Rotary men and women were contributing funds to the orphanages, and they wanted to observe firsthand how their substantial monetary contribution was being used. A short time after their arrival, they were already irritably grumbling about the accommodations and schedule. They were mostly concerned about where they could find a cold beer and a cigar lounge. Touring the orphanage was of less importance on the agenda.

However, at the orphanage, the children were bubbling with excitement to meet the new visitors. As one final item of preparation, the organizer of the Rotary trip, Jim Pesce, sat the orphans down to let them know one last thing about the Rotary members. Nearly 80% of the entire population of Kenya is professing Christian, and within the orphanage itself most of the kids profess Christianity. Jim recognized that the children needed to be aware that the spiritual condition of their new visitors might be a little different from their own. After careful explanation of this, the children grew very silent, and one little boy’s voice was heard: “That means that they are going to hell…”

Despite their dismay, the children greeted the Rotary members like family as soon as they arrived. Each child grasped a hand of a member so that each member had two children, one attached to each hand. Throughout the tour the men were amazed how well the children behaved. The children were so excited to have visitors that they required nothing else. As they headed back to the hotel that evening, the men and women talked amongst themselves and finally asked, “Jim, what was wrong with the children during the tour? Some of them had tears running down their cheeks.” Jim chuckled and answered, “Well, the children really like you, and they were afraid that some of you are going to hell.”

There was no beer drinking or cigar smoking that evening. The “little guys” had gotten to the big business men and women. The children were so compassionately rich, despite the fact that they had no family and were materially poor. They valued the men and women’s company and did not expect material gifts. In the event that other Americans are able to digest the differences in values between our culture and others, they will understand that these AIDS victims do not expect America’s compassion – but they need it.

For the Rotary members, this confrontation with the AIDS epidemic made it nearly impossible to overlook the situation or decline to help the victims. The Rotary members’ original motivation to visit arose from pity – the smallest extent of compassion – but, by the time they left, the orphans had gotten to them. Compassion had grown from pity into an urge to help the children.

A true level of compassion is what drives Americans to action. This is the exact process of remedy that is needed to fight this tragic epidemic. To begin this fight, the problem first needs to be recognized as the epidemic that it is. Currently the African government and some worldwide publications continue to deny or downplay the severity of the AIDS epidemic. Although it is not realistic or possible for the majority of Americans to go see the harsh reality of the problem by going to Africa, its severity must be revealed to Americans in another fashion. We who have an awareness need to surround the news, publications and public places with information about the epidemic to the point where our fellow Americans are motivated to action instead of sinking further into the comforts of our country’s culture.

Next, we must fight this epidemic by acknowledging all the work that will be required. Dealing with the epidemic requires first that the orphans be rescued. This is step one of many. The future target of the epidemic is the orphans, so they need to be cared for immediately. Once their needs are met and their futures saved, then they themselves can help with the next steps by educating others.

Finally, we must persevere despite the immensity of the task. This epidemic does not exist only within the bounds of Africa. It exists worldwide. In fact, Asia currently has the fastest growing rate of the AIDS virus. Yet, with perseverance and by taking one day and one task at a time, lives will be saved one at a time.

“Doing more than is expected to make another’s life a little more bearable, without uttering a single complaint…means compassion,” quotes author Oscar Wilde. This is the level of compassion that Americans need to acquire and express towards AIDS victims. A sudden, tragic event is often given more compassion than the slow and steady evolution of a situation. Even though AIDS has and will continue to rob more human lives than the single event of 9/11, it is sometimes difficult to provoke compassion in our fellow Americans. Yet, each American has the ability to help in some way. It is a matter of creating within each American motivation to help. Just as Americans acknowledged the September 11, 2001, attacks as a severe threat and responded with compassion, it is time Americans take a stand against the growing AIDS epidemic by demonstrating compassion. Once we acknowledge this threat within the bounds of our own country, we can spread our support to the areas that need it most, outside the bounds of the United States, to the orphans of South Africa and the increasing number of victims in Asia.

 

2005 Essay Contest - 1st Place - Ages 13-17

By Emily Addison

I walked slowly into the damp, dingy darkness of the building that epitomized South Africa’s pain. Instantly, I was overpowered by the stench of human waste and disease. Decaying, grimy walls loomed on every side, and, as I squinted in the dim lighting, Nakakele AIDS Orphanage was exposed to me in all its naked horror. This was the place that the abandoned, the dying, and the unloved were brought to fearfully face the torment of AIDS and all the shame it brought. I had come here to voluntarily work for part of the summer, not really knowing what to expect. I couldn’t possibly have imagined or prepared myself for the overwhelming sense of hopelessness that pierced my heart when I entered Nakakele.

The weary nurses, calloused and hardened to the suffering, and too busy to be bothered with a naïve white girl, let me wander where I wanted. I roamed into the children’s ward, where I found about fifty kids between ages two and twelve lying in barred cots that looked like prison cells. As I gazed into each child’s bitter, anxious face, my heart wept unstoppably. I found hatred and fear glaring back at me. Their young eyes asked the silent questions they were forced to live with…“Why did my parents leave me here to die with strangers who don’t even care? Why do I have to watch everyone around me die slowly as I wait for my own agonizing death?” I couldn’t help but wonder what love was in such a place of abhorrence and isolation.

A three-year-old little girl with a beautiful chubby face and a faded pink dress caught my eye. Without even thinking, I swept her up into my arms and embraced her as tightly as I possibly could. Gently, I kissed her soft cheek and smiled into her eyes as tears slid uncontrollably down my face. Compassion and love seemed to carry me across the filthy, cold floor as I danced with her in my arms and sang Frank Sinatra in a hoarse whisper. No matter how much my heart was breaking for these beautiful children, I couldn’t stop smiling, and soon it spread contagiously to the face of my dance partner. Instantaneously every broken piece of injustice and pain melted as her laughter became the melody upon which we dance. The previously dull eyes of the other children were now glued in anticipation and curiosity on the newcomer. Singing as loudly as I could, I danced wildly from cot to cot, doing whatever was necessary to squeeze a precious giggle from each child.

Some of the more mischievous young boys would make faces and then turn away, laughing in embarrassment. Others reached out to touch my “yellow hair” and squirmed for me to pick them up and hold them. Like a starving man reaches for food, they reached for love. The simplest game became an escape from their prison cots. The more we played, the more the unforgettable, death, was forgotten. Their hardened faces were softened with laughter as I taught them songs I sang in my church and poured out unrestrained love. Something deep inside me, so deep it was hard to notice at first, was changing. These children were teaching me a new kind of love – a love that was pure, simple, and selfless.

When I had first entered that room and walked from child to child, I had seen their wounds, their hatred, their sickness. Later, when I left Nakakele, and walked from beautiful face to beautiful face, I saw the vibrant personalities and strength of children I had come to love in the truest way. Their eyes had once been black holes of emptiness; now they held laughter, mischief, and love. The reek I had once found unbearable had become the perfume of joy. It had become the sweet fragrance of worship to God.

In that filthy room that bore the stench of death, something new had pierced through all the darkness and grime of fear. Love. Like inescapable sunshine it had lit up every face and transformed a moment of those lives. That summer I learned a lesson I will never forget. In the smiles of those children, I learned the simplicity of love; in the death of those children, I learned how to live. Their priceless joy in the effortless acts of love reminded me of a verse I had always taken for granted. Jesus loved the little children. I now know what it is to love the little children.

But those beautiful, innocent children, bodies broken by the disease they carry, are only a precious few that will represent in my heart forever the twenty-five million dead victims of AIDS and the forty million more infected. There are millions of dying children living in the shame and inescapable death of AIDS. Picture a child you know – silly, or maybe shy, bubbly and playful, and then over that bright, happy picture I ask you, for just a moment, to paint the black horror of AIDS, and imagine their life day by day being stolen in the most brutal way. That is what is happening across Africa as the priceless purity of children is stolen by pain, hatred, and death. How can we not love the little children? How can we turn away and ignore the ache in their eyes and the silent pleas of infants?

2006 Essay Contest - Winning Essay

 

Photographs

 

By Christine Kwon

A photograph speaks one-thousand words.

But my pictures sing, in tired, far-away voices. They line the walls of my room, and the whispers of little children hush me to sleep. The photos are graced with the tilting silhouettes of children, children who hobble like the towering Pisa of Italy—falling sideways from hunger. This morning I received another package from my mother, and it felt leathery and weather-worn from all the rough handling. My mother is a photojournalist.

The yellow tape peels off easily and a tightly-bound wad of photographs falls into my lap. Her pictures depict landscapes of destruction and waste. There are photographs of buildings in ruins. There are photographs of culture in ruins. But most importantly, there are photographs of human ruins. Grandmothers with Mother Theresa eyes, pupils traced delicately in a cat’s yellow, gape at me under a waterfall of wrinkles. So many pictures of broken mothers, clutching their litters of children, leave me to wonder where are all the fathers? But in times of war, a daddy is an unknown luxury.

The pictures that hang on my wall, though, are the ones of children. The children are like the stick and ball models I assemble in Chemistry class. There is nothing padding their bones. Their skin stretches for miles. I can see their hummingbird hearts thrash against their fragile rib cages. I imagine smuggling them all into my apartment. They could have my bed, they could sleep in the bath tub, they could sleep on the kitchen table and on the sofa. In the morning, bushy-eyed and hungry, they would wake up to the smell of banana pancakes. I would whisk them off to nursery-school. I want to give them everything in the world.

Unfortunately, the very children that haunt my dreams will most likely never know the satisfaction of a warm meal, the nurture of a loving hand, the opportunity that comes with education. Instead, the only feeling that these babies are acquainted with is hunger. Real hunger. Endless, insatiable hunger. The mouths of these little children are cavernous, they could eat up the whole world and still feel hungry. My mother, in a distant voice, tells me how their bones are stunted in growth, how malnutrition paints their skin a rainbow-myriad of colors.

I trace the outline of a little boy’s jutting ribs. On the back of this particular photo, my mother has sketched a brief story about Abdul Samed. His twin sister and he had shared everything. From the womb to their last night together, they were inseparable. They often squirreled away food to present to each other when the other was aching with hunger. They, my mother told me, were tangled in the same blanket, when one morning Abdul woke up to find Amna cold and hard. Cold and hard, he had said. He repeated those two words as a mantra for the rest of the day, trembling.

Amna died, my mother told me, from starvation.

My whole life I’ve been surrounded by children. I take care of the children next door, and I watch them tumble into the playground outside, rattle off multiplication tables, enjoy chocolate pudding and whipped cream as second desserts. I cannot help but compare them to the children my mother send me every month. I have children in Somalia, Yemen, Niger, Sierra Leone, and now, Afghanistan and Iraq. They all have different stories, most too difficult to hear. But there is one common thing that every single child shares, girl or boy: starvation. The hunger is evident everywhere.

Little boys show the camera cool tricks. They can circle the entire lengths of their waists with their skeletal fingers. They can touch the dirty soles of their feet to their ears. Little girls with bird-like legs dance. They twirl to music in their heads, music that no one else can understand. I’ve had the honor of corresponding with such a girl, a few years ago. We wrote and drew pictures for each other. In greatest confidence we told each other our fears and aspirations.

She told me her biggest secret with great pride. “If you don’t want to feel sick”, she had written, “then drink a lot of water. Your belly feels big and you don’t feel sick anymore”. I didn’t know how to answer her revelation. How could she understand that I was not plagued with hunger as she was? That her world was not at all like mine? I didn’t have long to worry about my response, however, when I received notice from her orphanage that she collapsed one day. She was dancing. The man on the phone, in all his nonchalance, was surprised at my grief. This kind of thing is normal, he tried to assure me. He would find me another girl to write to.

I want no more children, however. No more pictures of emaciated girls and boys. My eyes are already open to the destitute life that is the future of every baby born in a third-world country. I’m no photographer, so these are my one-thousand words. I want to expose everyone in America, everyone in a comfortable home, reading this, to understand that the problem of starving children is alive and well. I want everyone to hear the stories of my children. They have nothing to eat so they fill themselves with hope, with dreams. They don’t dare speak their desires, because out loud they are too vulnerable, too easy to destroy. So they whisper them. One-thousand times over. They sing me to sleep and I wake up and live my life.

But their nightmares never cease.