Hungry

The only thing I remember about the original Live Aid is hearing “We Are the World” on the radio dozens of times a day. The other elementary school students and I had a parody of it that we sang raucously—I don’t remember the lyrics, but I think it made fun of fat people. A year or two later, the teacher had us sing "We Are the World" in music class. During a break, she heard us singing our parody.

I didn’t expect her to get so angry. Eyes narrowed, hands on her hips, she told us that when the song came out, she remembered holding her infant son in her arms and feeling awful for the people dying of famine in Africa. We glanced at each other, unsure whether to giggle or look contrite. Even when I was older, I thought she overreacted. I mean, come on! Kids make up stupid songs all the time.

But now that I’m a mother, I understand. Having a child personalizes the horrors of the world. You see pictures of hungry children, and suddenly you have an inkling of how it would feel to watch your child go through the agony of starvation. You know it would be torture to be unable to help your child, who turns to you for everything.

Yesterday afternoon, while my son snacked in his exersaucer, I read in Newsweek about the famine in Niger. Tears came to my eyes as I read about the children so weak they’ve lost the will to live and refuse to eat even when they’re given food. Ben interrupted me with cries of “Cracker! cracker!” and I moved into my automatic behavior: opening the box of graham crackers in hopes of buying enough time to finish the article. And that simple action made me realize anew how unfair life is; for me and the other people I know, feeding our children is a reflex. We might be minorly inconvenienced if we run out of cereal or the grocery store doesn’t carry our favorite brand of crackers, but we never doubt our children will have enough to eat.

What can we do, though? What response is appropriate? Should I increase my meager contributions to charity? Give food to a homeless person on the street? Write my leaders and representatives? Sell one of the cars and live on beans and rice so I can give the extra money away? It’s hard not to get discouraged. Even if I liquidated all my assets and moved back in with my parents, children would still starve to death.

In church a few weeks ago, the pastor pointed out that all the miracle feeding stories of the Bible start with people sharing what they have. The miracle occurs after people have already reached out to others.

When a man asks Jesus, “Who is my neighbor?”, Jesus responds with the story of the good Samaritan. The answer becomes clear: my neighbor is someone I help, or someone who helps me.

But Jesus also says that rich people will have a hard time getting into heaven. On my tight, one-income-family budget, I’m not used to thinking of myself as rich—but on a global scale I certainly am. Instead of worrying about finding food for my baby, I’m worrying about losing the rest of the baby weight. Surrounded by affluence, it's hard to understand or connect with my poorer neighbors.

In the age of constant news on CNN and the web, in under an hour I can see more needy people around the world than I can ever help. I wish I had an easy answer, something I could do and then have a clear conscience. Maybe some guidelines that could say, As long as you’re doing this much, you’re fine. But I don’t know that we’re supposed to have clear consciences. I don’t think we ever can, in a world filled with pain and injustice. But that prickling of conscience can lead to a small action or two, and then maybe we’ll have the right to hope for miracles.

Want to donate money or email President Bush about African aid? Care USA is a good place to start.

Photo from Newsweek.com; by Schalk van Zuydam for the AP.