“Nobody made a greater mistake than he who did nothing because he could only do little.”
-Edmund Burke
” Are you rich?”
Her question was like a carpet pulled from under my feet. She was ten years old, with large, bright eyes. She held my hand as if she had known love in part, but not fully. Her question was innocent, her eyes wide with wonder. What was my home like? Where did I come from? For what reason did I come? And why was I leaving so soon?
A year and a half ago, I visited the slums of Smokey Mountain for the first time. Besides the fact that some of the squatter homes had been relocated by the government, the place had remained largely the same. Some of the children remembered me: they had not grown too much in spite of puberty, their circumstances made it unyieldingly difficult. This time, however, the church (a simple wooden structure) was built; This time, I had returned with more than just a desire to take a look at this different world; This time, I was married, and we hoped to help in tangible ways.
Our eyes were stung by the colorful texture of what we saw: black sewage waters ran smooth like glass beneath our feet, weaving between coarse sacks, sharp plastic and wet wood, trampled and caked together by agile feet, stamping them compact. Angry, rugged rocks jutted out, but they were friends, stepping stones in an ebony swamp of trash. Houseflies swarmed together, flamed into a fan of celebratory confetti when a kitten, thinner than a soda can, ambled by. Up above, straggly wires hung loosely, heavy with grief against an unforgivingly arid bright blue sky.
By the flies, a little boy with hair dyed with solvent picked up from the trash heap sat quietly, after rinsing his soiled limbs in the black marshy waters. Tired, he slumped next to me. For the entire day he had followed my husband Cliff everywhere he went. He would neither smile nor speak. “I don’t think he has received much love,” my husband whispered to me, “he doesn’t know how to hold my hand.” Cliff could, at best, only coax high-fives from his little friend. On our last day, we finally drew a smile from him.
His friends, some covered with soot, played on. Abuzz with activity, life continued.
A radiant smile sparks into a twinkle in a dank, dark alley, from a child, barely five, washing her own clothes. Above her, is ablaze with a riot of color as red, yellow and blue canvases form temporary roofs above, and clothes, with their colors washed out like over-chewed gum hang out to dry. Two naked children giggle behind see-through gates, made from rusted mattress springs.
“Let me show you my home,” says the little ten-year old girl. Her name is *Ellie. No more than a wooden box the size of a mini-van, her home lays guarded behind the familiar rusted mattress-spring gates. Inside, it is pitch-black. Electricity is expensive, so they do without. 
Her best friend, *Lisa, brings us around. It is Easter, and families have all flocked to the port for a refreshing swim. One can hear the rumble of noise pierced woth joyful squeals from afar- kids are screaming and having fun. You may experience the chilling sights of what we saw here.
But as we close in, our hearts sink and become stone-cold: the water is awash with trash. Broken styrofoam boxes become swim-floats, and a mother, smoking, wades into the marshy pool to gather her four children. A grand ship, docked at the pier, stares insouciantly at the scene. Young boys with bare chests climb to the side of the ship to dive in. Water is scarce in the slums. More than a treat, this is respite from the smoldering heat.
“Do you swim here?” I ask Lisa. She is thirteen. “No!” she says defensively. “My step-mother says it is dirty.” Her parents separated years ago. She is enrolled at school, but like thousands of other girls in her plight, runs the risk of dropping out as soon as family needs supersede the priority of an education. Unlike Ellie, she is not a sponsored child.
We stand at the pier for what seems like forever. Hundreds of children splash in the sea among floating trash. We spot a little naked boy swimming through and scooping through the gold, scavenging for a precious piece to sell.
Lisa takes us to see her home. It is a box made of wooden planks, housing her grandmother, and parents. “This is my room, and this is my parents’ room,” she says. The “rooms” are tiny spaces separated by thin mattresses. “Grandma sleeps in the living room”. Near the door, hangs ten ‘first honour’ medals she has won from school. “I want to be an accountant when I grow up,” she says.
Once outside, the heavy smell of soot clings to us like glue. It is early in the morning, but the children and men are working in the “charcoal city”.
Families with children as young as three gather around large fires contained in zinc boxes, waiting for charcoal to form. They earn “good money”, only just below the minimum wage. Children, covered in soot, run around amidst the choking white smog. I am suffocated.
We turn a corner and are greeted by a familiar face. “Binson*!” I say. The little boy whose burn wounds I dressed a year and a half ago and his mother remember me. She has set up a little shop from home selling little packets of oil and snacks made of refined flour and coloring. Binson’s father smiles outside right where he burns wood and makes charcoal- he is caked with soot. His youngest daughter stares at us through a makeshift window.
We walk back silently to the church, another humble structure made with wooden planks. There, there is life. Children sing and dance. They have uniforms sponsored by donors, and dress smart. They learn to eat on plastic tables and chairs during their weekly feeding programme. Cliff and I hand out multivitamins to them. We are lost for words. Outside, some children with rugged hair peer in.
I feel a tug on my hand. It is Ellie. She is awaiting my answer.
“Are you rich?”
After all I had seen and heard and smelled, I was at a loss for words.
Unlike some of my colleagues, I don’t own a Kate Spade bag, I don’t have shoes from Nine West and I’ve never bought anything from Dorothy Perkins. We don’t own a car and we don’t have a club membership. We have not gone on vacation for years. “Are you rich?” But I do live in a home with tiled flooring, it has a roof that never leaks. I have hot running water and we have a fridge. We own a bicycle each. We have a washing machine and never need to cut and ration our bar-soap. Our meals consist of more than rice and gravy. Our neighbours’ children do not scavenge through trash.
We have never suffered diarrhea here from dirty food. We don’t have family members with tuberculosis. We don’t see coffins on a regular basis because our young neighbors have passed on. Am I rich?
Are we rich? Do we constantly compare ourselves with others, coveting what they have. Do we constantly feel dissatisfied with our lot in life, and wished we had more to spend, more to to squeeze out of our buck for vacations, more to save for our own “treat”.
What could I say.
So I said what I could best muster and tried to smile, “Yes and no. Are you happy?” I asked instead, trying to avoid the gravity of the difficult question. “If you’re happy, then you’re rich.”
I tried to be clever but my sorry answer fell flat.
“No, I am poor.” Ellie said candidly, with neither spite nor contempt. The joy of knowing God and being content helped her live each day with gratitude and resilience, but she knew she lived in Smokey mountain. She is a Smokey mountain girl.
“I want to be a doctor or teacher when I grow up,” she told me. She sounded exactly like me when I was younger.
On the day we left, I connected the Smokey Mountain church with a local Filipino doctor, connected through a stranger who has now become a friend. Through discussion about sanitation, micronutrient supplementation and regular deworming exercises, we came up with some strategies to help the 500 kids they reach out to. “Thank you for helping my people,” said the Filipino doctor. We were strangers, but our hearts were for the same cause. “I will connect you with some local organizations who can help you with vaccination, and some of my medical students involved in a water purification project can help you with chlorination of water.”
Right now as we toil in our busy lives, meeting friends and enjoying dinners and drinks after a hard day’s work, there are children whose faces we shall never see and lives we could never bear to lead continuing to dream dreams, with little chance of fulfilling them. We claim we do not have the means to help- the problem is too huge, too entrenched, too complicated. Anyway, such issues make for poor dinner conversation- it is far more pleasant talking about celebrities, iPhones and the headlines. But we forget: “The more often we feel without acting, the less we will be able ever to act, and, in the long run, the less we will be able to feel.” – C.S Lewis.
Yes, it did cost us to fly to Philippines over the Easter weekend ( kindly offset by a very kind newlywed couple who wanted to bless us), but it certainly cost less than a fancy holiday. Yes it did cost us time, but only a little in the expanse of eternity. Yes we did run the risk of falling ill in the slums (Cliff is on longterm immunosuppressants) but looking back, this was all very little when compared to the dire situation at hand.
Thousands and millions of children live this way in silence. In a twist of fate, we could have been one of them. It doesn’t take a lot to google and read about the face of poverty, or send a few emails to an organisation that speaks to you, to see how you can help. It doesn’t take a lot to sponsor a child’s education, be it in Africa or Asia. It could cost you a downgrade from your cable subscription, one less dress from your monthly shopping spree, or adjusting your choice of meals in certain places. But by living simply, you might allow another life to simply live. These children with faces and lives and dreams do not need to be removed from you. We may not be able to help everyone, we may not be able to clean up the squatters or change the government or set up a hospital or school in the community. But for the opportunities that present themselves to us, we can pray and seek to make a difference.
It doesn’t take a lot. Your small adjustment could make a tangible difference in someone’s life. And we have no lack of channels through which to give- needs are everywhere if we open our eyes to pleas on the paper, facebook, churches, bulletins. You could even start by buying someone on the street a meal. Or googling a humanitarian or mission agency.
But money isn’t always the answer. Since returning, however, we have been asking ourselves: what does it mean to help? What does it look like? Does money compound certain issues? Is it always necessary? Do funds disable more than empower at times? What is God’s calling? It has been challenging to discern many complex issues. We are exploring the different faces of missions and means of help. We are learning: sometimes, more money does not mean more problems solved. Meanwhile, together with this local doctor we connected with, we are exploring the possibility of making clean water and regular micronutrient supplementation readily available to this community by plugging this ministry into the local healthcare network. God has been revealing to us lessons in our journey of faith in missions, and we are seeking His calling for our lives in missions for the future.
What is your skill? Is it teaching, painting, writing, I.T, sports, even? Have you thought of how you can use your skills to bless and give to others, locally or otherwise? This need not cost money, and could empower another life. By giving your time, effort and skills, you could bless others.
“Are you rich?”
I did not know what to say. So I hugged little Ellie instead and gave her a kiss.
Yes, we are rich. And all the richer for giving, and living in deeper gratitude.
Let’s open our eyes to the meaning of Rich today.
“ You can give without loving, but you cannot love without giving.”
– Amy Carmichael
* names have been changed.