Magdi

Magdi. I have a question for you.

Magdi, when you have cut down the last of the trees for shelter and firewood,

When the wind whips the dry earth and scours the last of the topsoil away,

When the rivers fill with silt, and the wells run dry,

When the sky falls silent with the flight of the last birds,

And the water turns bitter with chemicals,

How do you keep from despair?

Magdi, when you began the long walk from your home,

When your feet burned on the hot sand and your throat closed over with thirst,

When your father wept bitter tears for the loss of his farm and his dignity,

When your sister wasted away with fever and died a stranger in his arms,

And your only hope is a begging bowl in an alien city,

How did you keep from despair?

Magdi, when your stomach stabs with hunger,

And your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth with thirst,

When you are cold at night with nothing to cover you,

When the sand stings in your eyes and the horizon is hidden,

When there is no way back and no way forward,

And the present can no longer be borne,

How do you keep from despair?

Magdi, teach me how to keep myself from despair.

I do not hunger or thirst as you do.

I sleep warm at night.

Friends and family surround me with the protection of love and laughter,

And I have riches enough for my old age.

But when I look at you, it is hard to keep from despair.

Magdi, you and I will never meet.

I pass by on the opposite side of the world.

Someone holds out a bowl, and I place there a few dollars,

easily gained, easily yielded.

I sign a petition, write a letter, attend a meeting, and hope for change.

These are the things I do to keep myself from despair.

For I know this, Magdi. It is easy to despair,

And allow hope to slip through my fingers like soft sand.

And I know this too. That if I yield myself to despair,

I condemn you and your people to a ceaseless downward spiral of poverty and pain.

So…teach me, Magdi.

How do you keep from despair?