Snapshots of Street Children (You are Seen and You Are Loved)

I watched the street girl begging at the car window in front of us.  As I had seen so many times before, the driver gave her a few cents without turning to look at her.

I understood.
Every day, at every public place, in every city, another dirty, outstretched, hand and overdramatized sad face invaded space.
It was exhausting, overwhelming.
But, I wanted to try. I wanted them to know that they were seen and loved.

There was the time I was shopping with friends. They were looking at high-priced cell phones, and I was bored.
I excused myself and went outside. A few feet away, a group of street children huddled. I had nothing with me except an almost empty water bottle. I wondered if I should give it to them. The thought had barely entered my mind when it was promptly read by a street smart child. She quickly approached, took the bottle from my hand and went back to the group. 

I continued to watch them. Another child came and held out his hand in a begging posture. I gave him a hug and he also went back to the group.  Then they lined up! One by one they came forward and one by one they got their hugs and one by one they promptly returned to the back of the line.

“Be careful”, my friend in another city was warning her husband about me. 
“Once she took the subway sandwich out of my hand and gave it to some street children.”

“That didn’t happen!” I protested. “ Or did it?”, I wondered. I had a vague memory of subway sandwiches, and street children.  But that must’ve happened years ago when I was new to the country and had not been desensitized.

We decided to go out for a walk at the city center. My friend’s husband bought us some juice at a nearby stall. He also bought a very large paper wrap full of seasoned fries. We each tried one. They were greasy and delicious.

Out of nowhere a teenage girl approached, begging.  She was extremely skinny. I looked at my chubby friend and her chubby husband.  I was also chubby. I looked at the skinny girl.  “Should we…”  I hesitated, looking at the fries. My friend‘s husband‘s face grew serious, yet he handed over the fries. Well, I guess he had been warned. I still see the girl in my mind's eye, eating those fries in a quiet corner.  For us it had been a snack.
For her, it was a meal.

There was a teenage boy in another place who came to beg at our car window.  His face and eye were completely swollen.  “What happened?” I gasped.  Instinctively, I reached my hand out of the window and touched his face.  I did not understand what he had said to me in reply. But, my companions told me later that he had been stung by a bee. Perhaps he didn’t have access to medical treatment.

There was the girl I tried to buy milk for, taking her inside a grocery store. The employee started yelling at me. But the manager was kinder and allowed us to buy milk.

Day by day, week by week, year by year, my friends and I interacted with street children, almost as an aside; the sad faces, the outstretched begging hand, our offerings of chips or lollipops, soup or ice cream, cake, or prayers. 

Then one day, something remarkable happened, at least it was remarkable for me. In this country, weddings are a big deal and I was dressed up in style. A group of us were together in a car headed for the wedding. We stopped at a red light.

Suddenly I heard excited, squeals and gasps as children left their begging to rush at my open window from every direction. “Oh Didi” (older sister),the girls gushed.  “You look so beautiful today. Where are you going? Are you going to a wedding?” They continued to touch my arm and hair and smile like old friends until we pulled away.

I don’t know who was more shocked, me or my companions.
Street children do not do this.
They did not laugh or giggle in public.
They do not touch upper class people. 
They do not approach car windows without asking for money.

I cast my bread on the water and that day it came back to me. I was seen by them and I was loved.