Inequality

I peered my head into the small, dingy room. Dead rats, dirty blankets and small children littered the floor. Flies buzzed and flew around the room, filling my ears with their noise, and the stench of rotten corpses made tears rise in my eyes. I quickly removed my head from the doorway, back into the sunshine and company of my family.

Coughing and gagging, I caught the eye of Adilah, a twelve-year-old inhabitant of the “house.” She was currently feeding her baby brother expired, rust-colored milk from a greasy bottle and rocking him as if he was her own son. My eyes moistened once more just thinking about a girl my age in her situation. Adilah’s name, meaning “equality” in Arabic, seemed ironic for the situation she was in. Living in one of the poorest neighborhoods, Adilah was definitely not equal financially to me, nor many other residents in Lebanon. The injustice, the inequality of it all tore at me, for I suddenly realized that life was a lottery, and I had won. The five-star resort where I spent my summer, Miramar, was a quick drive from the slums of Lebanon, where a girl too poor to buy food, a girl my age, resided. That morning, I had met the daughter of the resort owners, whose life was like a movie compared to Adilah’s. I suddenly felt guilty for devouring my lunch and complaining about wanting dessert before our trip.

My mother’s cousin, Sousou, works at a non-profit organization that helps poverty-stricken Lebanese. She and my parents took us on a visit to this neighborhood in hopes that my cousin, my brother, and I, would see what life would be like for those who are less fortunate than us. I must say, their mission had been accomplished. My outlook on life had changed entirely.

We had brought suitcases filled with our old clothes and toys that were to be given to the numerous inhabitants of the homes we were to visit, in addition to food and money for rent. Adilah and her entire family spent day and night trying to come up with means to pay rent and provide for their family, something that was foreign to me. Deep inside, I knew this was wrong. My twelve-year-old mind understood that we were not put on this Earth just to make rent; there had to be a larger meaning to life than that. Why did the life of these people revolve around making a living, rather than actually living?

I reflected upon the situation before me and realized that I could have been Adilah, this girl in tattered clothes, too-small shoes, and a position no human being should ever be in; that could have been me. Yet, it was not I in her situation, for I was born in America, a land of wealth, to parents who were certainly better off than hers. Had my parents been born in the neighborhood we were now visiting, which was ten minutes away from their childhood homes, my whole life could be completely different. My Nike’s would instead be the flimsy hand-me-down sandals Adilah was wearing, my clothes would be ripped and stained like hers, and my meals would be bread and left-overs offered by local nonprofits to inhabitants of this neighborhood. My days of schooling, sports, and fun activities would instead be filled by one activity: supporting my family, financially and by taking care of my siblings.

It was at that moment that I realized ten minutes had changed my entire life. No, this ten-minute difference had not just changed my life, it had saved it. The disparity between the worlds myself and Adilah grew up in formed our lives. Our parents’ neighborhoods are what gave my parents an education and what stole the education from Adilah’s, therefore stealing hers. I could sleep in a proper bed, in a safe neighborhood with a full stomach every night thanks to that ten-minute difference. I could go to school and play sports and not have to worry where my next meal came from. I could cultivate an interest and follow my passion because my parents worked their entire lives to get me to where I am today. Adilah, just like so many other underprivileged children, was not afforded this luxury due simply to the opportunities and education her parents had.

Knowing that I would go on to live a very different life than hers just because of where our parents grew up was a very difficult pill to swallow. Her father’s eye had been poked out when he was a boy and he used this as an excuse to stay at home all day while Adilah’s mother, both deaf and mute, would go out to beg for scraps of food or pennies to feed her family. Adilah had never set foot in a school. I tried to keep up with her conversation, but what can one say to another when their shirt costs more than the other’s rent?

I looked down at my nine-year-old cousin hugging me for support. She, too, lived in a bubble of fortune and wealth in Dubai, and that bubble had just been popped. My brother, Jad, was standing at the edge of the group, looking pale and uncomfortable.

I untangled my cousin’s limbs from my own and walked over to where we had left our luggage. I started to drag one of the suitcases to the entrance of the “house” before Sousou put a firm hand on my shoulder and said in English, so that the family we were helping would not understand, “I’ll go in. You kids stay out here or you’ll get sick.” I believed her. After the adults had given the family money, food, and more clothes, we said our goodbyes and left. My last image of Adilah was of her holding her baby brother in one arm and grasping the hand of her toddler brother in the other.

At twelve years old, my parents didn’t even let me stay at home by myself, much less take care of three younger children on my own, as Adilah’s parents had.

As we walked down the dirt road disguised as a street, I reminded myself: Ten minutes. This neighborhood with army officers patrolling it and kids running around without shoes is ten minutes away from where my parents grew up. I was still in shock: this disparity had entirely changed the course of my life.

This encounter reminds me of a story told in a book called Kalila and Dimna. The tale tells of a bird who sees a wildfire spreading quickly in a forest as he is flying home. He changes his course to go to a nearby river and takes a droplet of water in his beak. Flying over the raging fire and risking his life, he drops the bead of water into the roaring flames. He continues this routine multiple times until finally, a nearby animal notices him.

It calls to him, “Why are you trying to extinguish such a large fire with only one drop of water? You are but a bird. You will never put the fire out.”

The bird replies, “I may be only a small creature, but if every bird came and took only one dribble of water to drop into the fire, it would be but a flame by now.”

Every year we visit Lebanon, we bring bags to more families and help more people in similar neighborhoods as the one Adilah lives in. From each trip, I have benefited from the simple gift of bringing a few moments of joy to someone with so little. I have realized that Adilah is but only one among many others in the same situation as herself who could use any help they can get. In a life with so many opportunities and such little time, one must make the most out of their privileges and always be thankful. Even though the bags of food, clothes, and toys we give each year will only help a microscopic amount of the world’s disadvantaged population, if more humans on earth help put out our own version of the fire like bird from Kalila and Dimna did, then we will eventually extinguish the flame of poverty.

I decided that I would take the first steps to put out the fire in my own way. I began to volunteer more in my community, at an organization called the Ecumenical Hunger Program. Last year, I organized a food drive with them. In the past few months, I’ve realized that I wanted to make an impact on the people who had initially inspired me to take action in the first place.

My plan is to set up a foundation in Lebanon, which I decided to name the Amal Foundation, after my grandmother. She was a schoolteacher for children from underprivileged families. With each paycheck she would get, the money would go to the families of her students. Her generosity has inspired me my entire life. Her name, meaning “hope” is the message that I want to show the kids that I intend to help. The foundation’s purpose is to provide access to education for children in situations like Adilah’s. The money that we will raise is going to go to providing them with laptops that have installed textbooks and online lessons with an internet connection plan, as well as classes at a local design thinking school. I am excited about this project and its potential impact and I encourage each and every one of you to contribute in any way you can to reducing poverty and increasing opportunities for young minds around the world. They’re our future. Let’s change it.