c. 2006 Religion News Service
(UNDATED) His round face stares out at us from the front of our refrigerator. Nicolas is his name, and although we have never met him, we have supported him for several years through World Vision, a Christian child sponsorship organization.
From the moment we first saw his photo, our entire family was struck by the fact that he looked uncannily like my younger son at the same age.
It was a simple arrangement until now. We sent a monthly donation and sometimes a letter, photo or small gift, like stickers. We received crayon pictures, a progress report and sometimes a dictated letter.
But Nicolas lives in Lebanon, and to say we support him seems suddenly ironic. In fact, we stand idly by, praying that Nicolas still has a home, a family or even his life. We wonder if he hopes his American sponsor family is appealing for his safety or asking for the bombs to stop falling. Or perhaps he thinks we are now his enemy.
World Vision offered those of us who sponsor children the opportunity to join a conference call with the director in Lebanon and hear about the situation on the ground. She talked to us from her Beirut office sounding surprisingly close and relatively calm. But she admitted that she has sent her own family away to a safer place and that the entire country is running low on basic supplies.
I hear her mention the region where Nicolas lives, but she reports the roads are destroyed, making his village inaccessible to workers. I want to urge her to try harder but I learn that Nicolas is one of 13,000 sponsored children in Lebanon. I wonder what the number will be when the violence finally ends.
When I tell people that I sponsor children through a charity, some think I am hopelessly naive and others think I am uncommonly charitable. I am neither. Over the years I have learned that child sponsorship gets under your skin, whether you try to be detached or not. You learn about a child, his home and his country. Members of our extended family are Ugandan, Bolivian and Lebanese.
The small gift we send each month is more than repaid by a simple drawing or a report that shows improved health or progress in school. It is a very American way of looking at charity, no doubt. Now I wonder if it is enough for the child to think that his pseudo-family exists to offer stickers _ but no real help in time of need.
As CNN flashes photos of destruction in Lebanon, I search the faces, looking for a little boy of 9, with a round face and straight bangs. I reread the last letter he sent, thanking me for the animal stickers and a photo of our family parrot that we sent. I wonder if these small tokens give him comfort or increase his confusion.
In this shrinking world, the globalization of economies and even charity means that Nicolas and I may someday meet. Perhaps he will e-mail me one day, thanking me for my support. Or perhaps he will ask me if I cared so much, where was I when he really needed me?
I read the newspaper reports and listen to the diplomats talk about lasting peace, but Lebanon is not just part of a global chess match to me. I want the violence to stop now. I grow impatient with discussions about long-term solutions. My political views are trumped by maternal concerns: War is never good for children.
I scrub my shiny refrigerator again, trying to do something useful as I stare at the picture of Nicolas. He looks back mutely, his cherubic face unchanged. Once it was enough to send a few dollars for his support and a package of stickers for his amusement. But the world is not so simple these days. His home is now a battleground, and for our family, a faraway war is now deeply personal.
(Dale Hanson Bourke is a consultant to humanitarian organizations and the author of “The Skeptics Guide to the Global AIDS Crisis.”)
KRE/PH END BOURKE
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