Face of Innocence

I dread the moment I have to see her every morning on my way to work. I either look the other way or pointlessly shuffle apps on my phone. Yet, the bitter reality she personifies seizes my mind. I haven't done anything but guilt chokes my conscience. Perhaps for looking away; perhaps for my helplessness; perhaps for my inactions.

She is dressed to amuse when the traffic pauses to respect the red light. Her moves tune to the rough music a boy her age plays with a broken instrument. They jump into the narrow spaces between vehicles for their show. She twirls a hula hoop around her fragile, tiny body to entertain the onlookers while the boy chimes whatever incessant noise he can create from the instrument. She must have been around 10,  the boy a year or so younger. I had to face her once when she knocked on my car window. I knew her innocence was defiled by the depraved. Her tarnished and malnourished appearance made the luxury of my car uncomfortable.  I rolled down the window to give her whatever money I dug up in my glove box - a few singles. Her eyes were empty, tired, despaired. The boy followed her skittishly making a noise as loud as he could. 

As the little child beggar scurried from one vehicle to the other to gather as much money as she could before the lights turned green, I glanced at the people around me who, like me, have pathetically transformed empathy and pity into coins that barely hold any value on their own. Some wouldn't bother to roll down the windows, some did and handed whatever they wanted to, some waved to shoo her away. 

I have often heard that one shouldn't give away anything to child beggars. I can hardly refute that as being cruel or selfish. While there are children who beg out of poverty, a large number are victims of the horrid world of human trafficking. Yet, I cannot turn her away empty-handed. It is indeed pathetic but handing her a few singles allows me to make what else can I do excuse. We have accepted this as the despicable normal. We have failed our children who, like animals, cannot fight for themselves.

I shall see her tomorrow again. She shall dance like an orchestrated doll, knocking every car window hopeful for coins. Her eyes will mock my pitiful gaze as I hand her my empathy. This is her normal. But I will never get used to it.