Every night and every morning, children ring my doorbell. They wear tattered clothing and carry their empty tomato cans, asking for money, water, bread...anything. If we don't respond, they push their eyes and fingers up against our first-floor windows. They yell inside at us, talk to us, mock us, or simply repeat soft phrases in Wolof over and over.
My response varies with my mood. As a rule, however, I do not give to these children. They are a part of the Talibé, a small force of young boys who - in theory - are gathering donations for Islamic school. In reality, they are children who are beaten every evening if they do not bring back enough money (usually 200 cfa, or 40 cents) to their Marabout. Most have been sexually abused by men with money. Families see the Talibé as a way to teach their sons the Koran while getting them out of rural villages. Many never hear the ugly side of the story. Others still consider it better than not learning the Koran at all.
Somewhere inside of me, I think: If the system didn't generate money, it wouldn't exist. So I don't give. My brain is fine with the decision.
My heart, on the other hand, feels every knock on our door and every ring of our doorbell. My eyes may seem cold as I walk down the street, avoiding the pleading stares of young boys, but I can't really fool myself. I care. A lot. I can't turn that off...and a part of me wants to give these boys water or bread...another part knows that my roomates would not appreciate the response that would generate (nor would I, really...)
I read a story once about a priest being presented with a young boy who was a runaway and convict. The priest spent all night pouring over his Bible, trying to decide what to do with the boy. In the morning, the authorities came and took the boy away to be executed. The priest then knew somehow that the boy was, in fact, God. He would have known sooner had he put down his book and looked into the boy's eyes.
My head is buried in my studies right now...