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Writer's pictureJosiane Cornut

8. World Vision



I’m a little older, now.
I must be around 6 or 7 years old.
 
I was lucky. My mom let me watch TV on Saturday and Sunday mornings.
I suspect it was a win-win: my mom was letting me enjoy what was a part of the magic of childhood —cartoons —and it also meant she could sleep a little longer (I was always very discreet, keeping the volume low so I wouldn’t wake her).
 
But Sunday cartoons didn’t last as long as Saturday’s.
When they’d end, another program would start, that left me feeling confused, as if something was terribly wrong.
 
It showed children from a faraway place called Africa—children with tiny arms and legs, surrounded by flies, their bellies strangely swollen.
You would then hear a woman’s voice saying that Mondial Vision was there for them.
 
I didn’t understand why they needed to film them, as if they wanted to show us something important about them.
 
So I did what any child would—I asked my mom.
 
“They’re raising money to help those kids,” she explained.
 
“Why do they need help?”
 
“Because they’re hungry.”
 
“But how can they be hungry if their bellies are so big?”
 
“When people are starving for a long time, that’s what happens. Their bellies swell.”
 
“Why don’t they have food?”
 
“Because the weather doesn’t let them grow enough to feed everyone.”
 
“Why don’t we send them food? We have plenty!”
 
“It’s… complicated,” she murmured softly. “That’s why they need money to bring more food to them.”
 
“What happens if they don’t get enough money?”
 
A pause. A heavy, deep silence.
 
“They’ll die.”
 
I stared at her, waiting for her to say more.
For her to tell me that someone, somewhere, would make sure that didn’t happen.
But she couldn’t.
And that silence hit deeper than any words.
 
My heart squeezed. “They’ll die? Kids will die… just because we’re not sending them food when we have more than enough?”
 
She couldn’t answer.
She turned off the TV, gathered me in her arms, and held me tight as tears streamed down my cheeks.
 
How could we let this happen?
 
Because, if we throw away food, it means… we choose to let them die.
Die of hunger, when it’s something we could fix.
 
Why?How could this be?And why was I born here and not there?
What makes a soul born in a warm, loving, and truly safe home, while others are born where they suffer and starve?
I could have been born in a place like that… right?
Is it only a roll of the dice?
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