Oblivion

“Humanitarian.”

That was the word my family and friends used to describe me after glancing at the resume I’d created of my brief career. It was never said the same way twice. Sometimes it was with praise, and other times confusion. Every so often it came out with a chuckle, as if there was some hilarious cosmic joke that I had missed. But each time I felt this reluctant pride as if I somehow knew the secrets of the universe. And at night I went to bed and slept well confident that I had done my part.

It was in that same bed that I lay, channel surfing late night television, that I came across the commercial. You know the one.

This is Jessica. Jessica is hurting because she has not eaten in three days. Her village has enough food to support a fraction of the people, and they must walk miles just to access polluted drinking water. Much of the world is made up of children that could use our help. With a small donation of just $5 dollars a day. . .

Click

With one flick of a button the little girl ceased to exist. She disappeared off the screen and out of my mind for the foreseeable future. Sneaking a bite of my late night snack I pulled the warm covers up to my chin before slipping into a dreamworld where Jessica, and the millions of children like her, did not exist.

Humanitarian? hah!

With a response that was barely human? Not likely.

About 25,000 children die each day from poverty, and I couldn’t take the time out to hear from just one. That was the moment I realized that I knew nothing. A tragedy the size of the 2004 Asian Tsunami had been repeated every 24 hours for years and I’d blithely gone on my way. Basking in the power of obliviousness that seems to accompany privilege. While the impoverished get the power of invisibility, a trait they never asked for or deserve.

It never ceases to amaze me that we are born and die on the same planet and yet live in two different worlds. Many times never experiencing or even acknowledging the other. The heartbreak and horror of their lives somehow manages to fade into the background. Even in the midst of trying to help people they can become goals, deadlines, or dollars raised. A faceless someone that won’t inspire me when the comfort of false obliviousness beckons.

Invisible.

And as I sit using the cherished resume for scrap paper to scribble my thoughts, I realize that doing my part is not volunteering for as many projects as possible just to be “involved”. Or ranting about the injustices of the world to anyone with the patience to listen.

The best thing I could ever do for the people the rest of the world seems to have forgotten is to always see them.