Letter For a Season of Hope and Faith

Their light illuminates the face of my most unlikely friend, a beautiful young woman of coffee brown skin and bright white teeth, whose gentle nature and dazzling smile promise a limitless future. Her name is Alima Dari and her photos adorn my kitchen, bedroom, study and office. Her hair is pulled tight behind her high forehead, and she wears an unbuttoned blue denim shirt over a pink blouse as gracefully as a supermodel. In the photos, taken three years ago, she is 13 years old and a student sitting attentively at a polished wooden desk.

When the plumber or deliverymen come to my house, they always stare at the pictures on the walls and ask "Do you do relief work in Africa or something?" It is obvious, even in a small photo that Alima is from a far away and different place -- a village an hour south of Addis Ababa. I tell them about Share Our Strength's development efforts in Ethiopia but I don't have the slightest idea how to tell them of the connection I have with this girl, about being drawn to her when she quietly mouthed "God Bless You" from the rear of her classroom, and of how we talked, oblivious to everyone around us, until it was time for me to leave, the photos showing us smiling and leaning closer, our foreheads inches from touching.

We talked about her school, her nearly flawless English, and how lucky she was to live close by and have a good family. Since that day I followed her progress, wrote to her and about her, and even received pictures of her reading her graduation speech. In all of my travel for Share Our Strength, from hotel ballrooms to schools and clinics around the world, I'd never connected with anyone quite the way I did with Alima.

When Chuck returned to Ethiopia last summer, I gave him a handwritten letter to deliver to Alima personally. He had taken a special satellite phone so that we could keep in close touch. But for some reason I hadn't heard from him. Oddly, I kept learning from colleagues in the office that they'd spoken with Chuck. After 10 days I was getting annoyed, almost jealous, that he hadn't called me. I must have made my impatience known. One morning, en route home from New York, while hurriedly downloading my e-mail from a payphone at the Delta Shuttle lounge in LaGuardia, I received this e-mail from Chuck:

"Dear Billy, I have not called because I have been avoiding sharing bad news that I learned with regard to Alima. She died a couple of months ago as a result of TB and cerebral malaria. All at Project Mercy were and are extremely sad about losing such an amazing person. Evidently the hospital in Butajira only treated the TB without realizing she had the most deadly form of malaria. By the time they got her to the hospital in Addis it was too late. I hate like hell to share this news with you."

I sat stunned and silent in the waiting lounge. Other passengers rushing through the airline terminal seemed to disappear. There was barely time before my flight to run to the gift shop and buy the dark sunglasses I would need to hide my tears.

It is tempting to describe Alima's death as senseless. But I'm afraid it makes perfect sense. Malaria is the leading cause of death for children in Africa, killing 3000 children every day. Alima's death makes perfect sense because global spending on malaria control is $200 million a year, far short of the $1.5 billion to $2.5 billion needed.

Alima's death makes perfect sense because treatment within 24 hours of the onset of symptoms is essential to prevent severe progression of the disease, but lack of sufficient funds prevented Share Our Strength from helping to finish the hospital being built a short walk from Alima's classroom.

Alima's death makes perfect sense because last week the United Nations Food and Agricultural Organization reported that after falling steadily in the first half of the 1990's, hunger grew in the latter half of the 1990's, especially in sub-Saharan Africa where drought, lack of clean water, and AIDS combine to take a devastating toll.

I don't think of myself as a religious man. But I've come to believe there must be a reason I met Alima, a reason she died, a reason I can write to you about her now, when before I could not. Even those things of which we can't make sense, we can make peace with. In this season of new beginnings, of faith and hope, I seek peace in serving others, and hope you will too.

It is late here at my home in Silver Spring, Maryland and the candles are burning low. Alima's life seems as brief as their flickering flame. But it was long enough to show that the actions we take or fail to take have consequences, that whether here at home or around the world lives hang in the balance when it comes to the generosity and commitment with which we pursue our work. Mostly it reminds us of all we have to be grateful for; that we live in a land where a sip of water is refreshing not deadly, that we are able to see youth's beauty realized, and that we are of the privileged few on the planet in a position to give and not just receive.

With gratitude for all of your hard work, and with best wishes for a peaceful and healthy holiday season and New Year.