Thanksgiving

This morning I woke up in a hotel in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, and turned on the television. The news was filled with coverage of the shootings in Mumbai, India. I continued watching the news while I ate breakfast and soon learned of a suicide bomber's attack in Kabul, Afghanistan. After breakfast, I left the hotel and caught a taxi to the airport. On the way, I passed several signs for the United Nations High Commission on Refugees (UNHCR) and my mind flashed through images of refugee camps in Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of Congo. When I arrived at the airport, I opened my notes from the previous week in Djibouti and was confronted with page after page of horrifying health statistics.

I then realized that today is the day we Americans celebrate Thanksgiving. With that realization, my heart and my head both ached. I knew that in America families were gathering together, sharing in the warmth of each others' company and filling themselves with turkey and cranberry sauce. But all I could think about were the Congolese families shivering together in makeshift shelters of sheet metal and UNHCR tarps and the dozens of severely malnourished Djiboutian children turned away from one of the only hospitals in their country each day because there aren't enough beds to treat them.

I didn't give thanks for all that I have. Instead I was angry and cursed the inequality of it all.

Over the past couple hours, my attitude has changed slightly. I have remembered the determination of aid workers trying to bring warmth to hundreds of thousands of Congolese families and the commitment of Cuban and Italian doctors trying to find ways to treat as many Djiboutian children as possible. I have started to remember the tiny rays of light that somehow shine through the darkest horrors on this earth and my hope for something better is returning.

That is what I am most thankful for this Thanksgiving day. Hope.