I look at Henry and I melt into the pure pleasure of him.  I weep for joy.  Then the grannies start to whisper, gently reminding me of what I myself have thought a thousand times since Henry was born: that all babies should experience life as he does.  All babies should be well fed and freshly bathed, then dressed in clean, soft, cuddly clothes.  All babies should be doted on, wrapped tightly in circles of delighted moms and dads and aunts and uncles.  All babies should be surrounded by sights and sounds that grab their attention and start their little minds growing.  But they’re not.  Millions of babies do not have even one of those advantages.  What they have is swollen bellies and diarrhea, malaria and HIV.  They’re too sick to laugh or cry.  Too lethargic to be entertained.   I look at the grannies huddled together and weep for the babies reflected in their eyes.

But now it’s Friday, and I move on from Shauna’s house.  I am eager to attend the regional swim meet where my 17-year-old nephew, Levi, will compete.  Over the course of two days I sit poolside on bleachers for 8 hours, wilting in the moist heat of a high school natatorium.  During the long heats of the 500 Individual Medley, which Levi does not swim, I ask my niece, Kendall, about her college classes.  Women’s Studies is her favorite class; discussing it sends my mind on tangents of social concern.  The sexual trafficking of millions of women and girls each year.  The sexual violence against women that drives the AIDS pandemic in the developing world.  The 27 million slaves in the world today, 80% of whom are women.  We talk of such things until the Individual Medley ends, then focus again on the pool.  As Levi leaves the block for the 50 Freestyle, I become light-headed with nervousness, aching for him to get the state time he has worked so hard for.  He does.  So we cheer and celebrate and hug.  I am so glad to be here.  So glad to see this young woman and young man I love growing in strength and character and maturity. 

But when the cheering ends and I slip into my car for the long drive home, my mind picks up where my conversation with Kendall left off.  I ponder another tragedy disproportionately impacting women: war.  A century ago, 90 percent of war casualties were male soldiers.  Today, an estimated 90 percent of casualties are civilians, and 75 percent of these are estimated to be women and children.  In the early 90s I traveled with a humanitarian organization to Croatia and Bosnia as those countries were being ripped apart by war with Serbia.  In Bosnia we visited refugee centers filled with middle-class women just like me who had lost everything: jobs, husbands, homes, their planned-for future.  Many had also been victims of the increasingly popular tactic of war called rape, which shatters body and soul.  We visited schools where social workers tried to help grade school kids who were suffering so severely from posttraumatic stress that they sat all day silently chewing their nails to the quick.  It was the first time I had seen war up close and I was stunned by what human beings do to one another. 

Leaving Bosnia, I traveled up to Croatia, to a little border town where I could climb to the top of a hill and look out over Bosnia.   I sat there for hours and wept and prayed for the women and children I’d seen.  While I prayed an unbidden question repeated itself:  Am I my sister’s keeper? And the repeated answer was yes, yes, yes, you are your sister’s keeper.

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