Despite the varied content mix, what I struggle to hear most is any news report that involves children and their suffering. I vacillate between a genuine desire to be informed and utter terror over exactly what I’ll hear. I want to know what it’s about. But I know it’s something that will haunt me. It’s a tenuous balance.
I listened recently to a report by a British journalist who worked with an aid organisation in the aftermath of the typhoon in the Philippines. Based in Tacloban, she did a daily audio diary for the BBC. She described the conditions and spoke to the locals as they tried to re-build their lives. She told a story about a remarkable boy she’d met and interviewed. Before the storm hit while people were being evacuated, this boy and his dad remained behind at their home to protect it from looters. They believed the storm wouldn’t be as bad as predicted and feared they’d lose their valuables if their home was abandoned. This had apparently happened before. It was agreed that his mum and sisters would flee to higher ground. As the storm approached, fierce winds ripped their house apart. Everything was destroyed. They tried to take cover, but this proved impossible. A wall collapsed and crushed his father to death. The boy remained at the scene holding his dad’s hand until the rains came and the water rose and threatened to drown him. He simply didn’t want to leave his father. When he couldn’t stay a second longer, he swam away and was miraculously rescued.
The following day, he was reunited with his mother and sisters who thankfully were unharmed. When asked about how he’d told his family about their father, the boy replied, “When I saw them, I didn’t need to tell them. They could see from my face what had happened to my father.” The journalist commended his bravery. To which he replied: “I am the man of my family now. I must show courage to take care of my mother and sisters. It is my job. My responsibility. I am honouring my father.”
This boy is 10 years old.
I sit as I drive thinking to myself what a privilege it is for me to travel in a road-worthy vehicle with fuel that is readily available, that I can afford to buy. On a road that is safe. To a home that is warm. To a family that is healthy. To a life that is free. What a privilege indeed. I suppose that in order to truly embrace a real sense of gratitude you need at times to be kicked in the face with a news story like that. I got home that night and squeezed the bejaysus out of my children. Talked to my husband about more than just how his day was.
It’s these haunting news stories. A brave child facing a tragedy. Horrific child abuse cases. Child kidnappings. Trafficking. Teenage gang violence. These are the stories that make me squirm. They creep into my head and my heart. The discomfort I feel is good I’ve decided. It’s a cheap lesson for me to appreciate my own life. Acknowledge what I take for granted. And then suck it up and try to be a better human being with a better attitude. I owe this to my children. To my husband. I owe it to a 10-year-old boy in a village in Tacloban. I owe it to the world.
