Dear Darfur:

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that I was completely unaware of your horror until recently.

I’m sorry that your children use crayons to draw the rape of their mothers and the beheaded bodies of their fathers. I’m sorry that I couldn’t tear my queasy eyes from those pictures-silent stick figures screaming of the suffering of 6-year-olds. Suddenly, I realized that hell must resemble this plundered innocence.

I’m sorry that our world still operates chiefly on self-preservation. On D-Day, we assigned 150,000 troops to cover one beach in France. Today, in a region the size of France, we claim that your 7,000, mostly unarmed troops are sufficient. How does it feel to be alone in your hour of need?

I’m sorry that the world has seen much of this pain that you now suffer and that we continuously vow “never again.” I fear that your pain will not be the last of its kind.

I notice that my belief in the universal and infallible dignity of human life is rarely tested. I’m sorry that in this, a true test, shallow sorrow is a tempting response. I live in one of the world’s wealthiest, most democratic nations, and it is my civic right to spur my country toward justice. Where, then, is my holy outrage? My action?

I’m sorry that I will never get to meet the woman, one of many, who dies as I write this letter. I may never know her name; but I do know that she breathes and blinks and coughs, that her feet hurt after a long walk, and that when she presses her thumb to her wrist, she feels the beat of her heart. The cadence of my own heart professes our shared humanity. But I have trouble admitting this, because now I must grapple with my arbitrary fortune of waking in America as she dies in Darfur.

I’m sorry, Darfur. You deserve more. And so I sign, in action, and with hope,

A concerned SLU student, and one among many.

Danielle Mackey

Sophomore

College of Arts & Sciences