Between Worlds

On my way to the Lusaka airport today, December 10th, a group of children run up to my car as we roll up to a red light. They are hungry and they are lifting their torn shirts to show me their distended little bellies. They make gestures bringing their hands to their mouths asking for food. I have no food and the light has turned green. I smile at them, because that is all I have to give. They don’t yell or show any sign of anger or resentment at my useless gesture. Instead, they smile back, and they say, “Maybe next time.” The phrase is so perfectly childlike – too young to be spiteful; it is simply good and hopeful. I agree and say, “Next time.” They run along the car smiling and waving and then they are gone.

I am returning to California to spend the holidays with my family. The route home always amazes me. Traveling from Lusaka to Johannesburg through London and on to Northern California leaves an indelible impression of our world. I leave Lusaka in the evening and travel over the African continent at night, guided by stars and bush fires. Red lines trace the earth 32,000 miles beneath my feet and I know I am gliding over what I find most beautiful and most evil in humanity – hope, kindness, development, natural beauty at it’s purest and simultaneously, war, starvation, corruption, rape, unnecessary poverty, death.

The man next to me on the flight from Johannesburg to London asks what brings an American woman of my age to South Africa and I give him the cliff notes version of KnowledgeBeat. It turns out he owns several farms in Zambia and together we reflect on the beauty of the Zambian land and people. He told me that he had given three of his workers one-dollar bills as a gift several months ago. Within a week he received thank you letters from each worker. Keep in mind that this is a place where pen and are hard to come by.

I land in London as the sun rises. I have three hours before my next flight and I find myself standing in the bathroom washing my hands and feeling warm water pour out of the faucet. Warm water. The bathrooms in the Lusaka airport don’t have toilet seats. They’ve all been stolen. This is the first warm water I’ve felt from a spout in months. I glance over and notice that someone abandoned a perfectly good pen on the counter. My mind paces back. I remember being followed by village children as I walked to my trash pit. They hung back, but I knew what they were doing. They waited for me to throw my trash into the ground and walk away before they jumped in and went through my garbage looking for food, paper, anything. I stand over the airport sink overwhelmed, as the warm water and the juxtaposition of these very different worlds sinks in.

My flight to the U.S. has just taken off. Africa is far away, out of sight. I am ascending into a bright morning sky, sunlight drenching a developed world beneath me, but something is different. I think to myself that there will never be a first world while there is still a third world. We cannot truly thrive when there are over 1 billion children worldwide living in poverty (every second child) and the number of children out of education exceeds 121 million (State of the World’s Children, UNICEF). I don’t have the answers, but I think for many, it begins with awareness. Action and change begin with dialogue so I urge you to talk about the world and the development that needs to take place, share what you know and ask about things you don’t. I promise that what follows will be of value.