I told my dad that I wanted to do something, that I was tired of sitting down and trying to pretend that I don’t owe anyone anything, that the people dying on another continent don’t matter. We went to see a documentary together, about the destruction of hospitals in Gaza. The theater was handing out free popcorn.
I’m proud of you for feeling that way, my dad told me. It’s nice that you’re not jaded yet.
My privilege sits like thick oil in my throat, heavy; I cough up my insides and it accomplishes nothing. I ache to do something, anything. I exist because my parents decided that their genetic lineage was worth more than the lives of the starving people they could have saved. I am a graveyard on legs, carrying dozens of souls that were condemned to misfortune, condemned because their screams were too far away to be heard. I don’t know their names; I never will. Language barriers, national borders, exploitation and otherness have silenced them forever.
The world is on fire and I see the flames but I stand frozen amid the ashes. I don’t know what to do. Run to the lake? Call the fire department? But the fire department doesn’t care, and no one else seems to either. My mom buys us Dunkin’ Donuts on the drive home. I saw another trail of smoke in the sky today, she says. Oh well. There’s nothing we can do. But there should be. If there is any justice in the world, we should be able to help. We must be.
I owe it to the dead and dying, the tortured and the abused, to do everything I can.
I stop buying things. No more pastries, no more streaming services, no more owning things just because I want to. I save and save. It costs only $7 to vaccinate an impoverished child against malaria, the internet tells me. My grandparents send me $100 for my birthday, tell me to get myself a treat. We go to a restaurant and I eye the bill, itching in silence.
College looms. I have scholarships aplenty but the sheer expanse of the expenses is too much to contemplate. My dad is confident he can cover it. But is it worth it? How many lives must I save in my adulthood to make up for those lost because I thought I deserved an education?
I decide to change my prospective major. Should I focus on international relations? Medical research? Or should I try to become a billionaire and donate all of my wealth? What is the body count? What are the benefits? Every hour I spend thinking is an hour I could spend working and giving, repaying the world for the life I never asked for.
But I don’t even know who to give to. What cause matters most? Malaria nets are irrelevant, some YouTuber says, and monetary aid only makes developing countries more reliant on the West. Donations of food and water are being confiscated outside of Gaza; half of the soup kitchens there are owned by supporters of Hamas. What are the probabilities? How effective would my donation be? There’s no way to know. So I sit on my savings and do more research, the weight of those not saved pressing into my spine.
I need someone human, someone trustworthy, to tell me what to do. I tried opening art commissions for charity—they’re still open—but six bots and a scam were my welcome committee. Your art style is fantastic, they say. Can you draw my son’s dog? PayPal error, I’ll send you $200 now if you’ll send it right back. I am so tired of lies, so tired of computers and empty faces. I’m so tired of shouting into the abyss and hearing screams from the other side.
I refuse to stop caring. I refuse to stop trying. Once I get to college, I’ll try selling jewelry at local markets, join student activist groups, travel abroad and do what I can.
But if you’ve already walked this path, and you know where to go, please help. Tell me what to do, where to give, how to pay the gift of my existence forward. I have to. For the people who died so I could live—silenced, distant, and alone.
