What could be more terrifying
Than looking into his face
His childish face
At my window
Begging me for something
Anything to ease the hunger
He carries with him everywhere
But I do look
I look deep into his eyes
As his hand holds onto my door
His seven year old hand
I look deep into his eyes
And see someone who is anything
But a child
And I look across the street at the ground
That ground
Where he will most likely pass the night
It is deep, rich earth
Moist and saturated with the rains
Perhaps the concrete will be more
Inviting tonight
Cradling his small bones
With her rocks and crevices
I look down at his feet
Those feet
Bare and dusty from his travels
What could be more terrifying
than looking into his face
Deep into his eyes
And seeing
That he is just a child
My child, any child
Out there on the street
I looked deep into his eyes
And I drove by
What could be more terrifying
Than who I have become?
What has been so disturbing to me are the constant articles about child sorcery. It is a common problem in Kinshasa that children are thrown out of their homes after being accused of sorcery or witchcraft. Many are beaten or taken to churches to undergo rituals of exorcism. There are lists of random “signs” of being possessed and they range from leaving a bedroom door open at night to sneezing too often. Some children report their mother simply said, “You eat too much.”
And so this evening as I sat in the miles of traffic and was approached by the endless beggars of the road, I made myself really look at the children outside my door. One in particular, so young, I looked deep into his eyes searching for the thing that could allow a mother to throw her child out. This looking deep was not easy. I wanted to open my door, invite him in and take him home. But I can’t save them all. When the traffic comes to a standstill, the streets literally fill up with handicapped, homeless, hungry humans.
It is no longer faces on a tv commercial. It is no longer something happening a continent away. It’s here, outside my door. I can roll my window down and touch the hand of a lonely, starving child. I can’t stop the tears from welling up because this boy is alone and my two children are in the back munching chips and feeling loved. I cry all the way home through stalled traffic and honking horns. I cry as I make dinner and correct my students’ papers. I don’t want to be this person that drives away from a seven year old on the street. I stop myself from going back and I make up crazy plans and wonder if they are crazy after all. I can’t continue to live like this, with myself. I can’t continue to drive by a child. I wonder if I can rent a house. I wonder if helping five children would make it any easier. Would it satisfy me? Would I feel like it’s enough? I wonder how I can truly make it happen and if I have the courage. Mostly I wonder what on earth has happened to us humans to make this our reality.
As I read- most recently Malalai Joya- which reminds me remarkably of Benazair Bhutto- I have this perspective of looking down from above. It is what I imagine God must see looking out over us humans. It is deeply disturbing, something gone horribly wrong. It is century after century of war and violence, slavery, brutality, humans hurting humans. There are small pockets fighting for change, looking for the brighter path. But so much of it is covered in the blood and misery that we have brought to each other. It is completely overwhelming to me.
