2006 Essay Contest – Winning Essay

What I Know for Certain

By Jaime Gentile

There are few things that I know for certain. There is one fact, however, that I certainly cannot accept: that this is the best of all possible worlds. I deal better with stories than with numbers. The issue of world hunger is not one of faceless statistics, but of people and their stories. Unfortunately, the story of the starving child is not a book filled with colorful pictures and a happy ending, but a devastating tale with dreary images and no clear conclusion. I am no pessimist; this story certainly could have the happiest of all endings. But in a world where globalization increases the polarization between the rich and the poor, the ending is looking somewhat grim. The story of the world has a silver lining because the most powerful force is love. It is with a heart full of hope that I attempt to struggle with the issue of global hunger and to tell the tale of the starving child.

I have a godson in Peru named Julio. He lives with his family in Chulucanas, where there is no electricity or running water. His kitchen is in the backyard and his house has dirt floors. The six members of his family share one bed. I met Julio two years ago on a mission trip with a group of students from my university. We went to Julio’s home to teach his family how to build an adobe stove with a chimney. Their old method of cooking, a fire on the floor, was unhealthy for his mother because she had to lean over the fire to cook and because it released smoke into the house.

On our last day with the family, Julio’s mother asked me to be his godmother. She said that, “Every time I use this stove, I will think of you and the love you have shown us.” In a powerful lesson in humility, I learned that my work there was not going to save the world and or end world hunger, but it showed another human being that I cared. And she, in turn, showed me that she cared. Every man wants to change the world, but is not willing to change himself. Why do I have carpeting, my own room, and hot showers, while Julio has dirt, a family bed, and a bucket of cold water? This is the result of my greed and ignorance. Julio is a starving child.

We called her “Sad Eyes.” She was born in Phnom Penh, Cambodia to HIV positive parents who died shortly after her birth. She was taken in by her aunt and uncle who loved and cared for her, until they discovered that she was HIV positive. They then abandoned her. She has pierced ears, which struck me because someone loved her enough to get her ears pierced and to buy her earrings. Now, an orphan in a group home, she no longer wears earrings.

During the two weeks that I volunteered at the orphanage that Sad Eyes lives at, I never saw her smile. A melancholy eighteen-month-old, she always appears to be on the verge of tears. She seems to realizes that her short life will be filled with hunger and suffering. AIDS is not a pretty disease. A priest who visited the orphanage said that, “you can tell when someone is dying of AIDS by their eyes. They look hopeless, completely alone.” They are, one could argue, sad eyes.

According to the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child, every child has the rights to survival and development, to education, to non-discrimination, and to a voice in matters concerning him or herself (www.unicef.org

In Zulu, Nkosinathi’s name means, “Christ is now here.” When I lived with his family in their village in rural South Africa during my semester abroad, Nkosinathi slept on the cement floor in the kitchen with mice and ants, so that I could have his bed. He told me he was sleeping at a friend’s house. Every evening we sat around a candle and played cards. We often sang the South African national anthem which begins “Nkosi Sikelel i’Afrika,” meaning God bless Africa, and speaks of hope for a peaceful future. South Africa, a country of contradictions, has overcome great adversity and tragedy, but is still a country ravaged by poverty, disease, racism, and violence.

When Nkosinathi grows up he wants to move to Hollywood and become a singer. He has a beautiful voice, but when he sings his ribs protrude from behind his thin T-shirt. Nkosinathi will probably never leave his village, and there is a 20% probability that he will contract AIDS. It is a safe bet that he will never see Hollywood. His father died of tuberculosis five years ago and his mother abandoned him. His grandmother supports him and his cousin on a small government grant for foster care.

When Nkosinathi sang their national anthem about hope and love, I smiled and told him that I could not wait to hear his first album. Nkosinathi is a starving child.

We have created a world separated into haves and have-nots. But in such a system, we are all have-nots. I cannot sleep comfortably in my bed when I know that Julio must share his with five other people. I cannot join my parents at the dinner table without thinking of Sad Eyes sipping from a bowl of rice on the floor alone. I cannot listen with pride to our national anthem without hearing Nkosinathi singing his by candlelight. Archbishop Desmond Tutu of South Africa teaches the idea of Ubuntu, which “speaks about the essence of being human: that my humanity is caught up in your humanity because we say a person is a person through other persons.” As long as one member of humanity is starving, we are all starving. There is no “us and them,” but rather one human family. The suffering of this family is found most prominently in the lonely eyes and swollen bellies of the children. Fortunately, the story is not yet finished. Where there is love, there is hope. This, I know for certain.

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