The literacy rate in sub-Saharan Africa hovers around 70%. The ratio of those living below the poverty line averages out to roughly the same number. Privileged as we are, and consciously or not, we readily dismiss these numbers as simple statistics. These things don’t assume a human face until we see it first-hand. The people behind the numbers are invisible until you can see the weariness of a father struggling to feed his children, the desperate prayers of a mother as she rocks her feverish child and the haunting stare of a man resigned to his fate.

Wealth penetrates my surroundings; luxury surrounds me; the excess threatens to consume me and yet, the tragedy has never been starker. My father came from nothing, struggling to make ends meet as he shared his studio apartment with 8 others. From him, I learned the importance of helping those who aren’t lucky enough to be able to help themselves. My education has been conditioned by mandatory community service, and while I believed whole-heartedly in the spirit of what I was doing, it was still with the ignoble reluctance that comes with obligation.

My story is one of 3 summers. In the first, I had committed to climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro to raise money for the ‘Seeing is Believing’ campaign. It was a worthy venture, but I had yet to grasp the definition of what it means to serve. I climbed that mountain, determination wavering but conviction unfaltering, yet it was on the way down where I believe I achieved something far greater. I met a man, one whose name I never learned, and as we talked, his life began to unfold before me. He was of meagre means, desperate to provide for his children and at a total loss as to what to do. Shell-shocked and unsure of what I could do to help, I gave him 50 dollars. I am unsure if it really changed anything, or what that man and his family are up to today, but it was then, faced with a gritty reality, that I gained my first taste of true service.

Coming into the following summer, I found myself back home in India, where I was again faced with the same dreadful scenario. It was one I had been aware of, but had never really engaged. Now I was armed with the experience and the conviction to effect some change. With the image of the man I’d gifted $50 lingering in the back of my mind, I began taking small steps, instructing underprivileged children in my hometown in the fundamentals of English and arithmetic. Bearing in mind that a lasting contribution was needed, I began structuring my venture, institutionalizing it into an establishment so that others like myself could continue to help the children long after I had departed.

Back in the comfort of my own home, I couldn’t help but reflect on their joyful expressions as they applied the knowledge they’d gained, with their parents’ excitement barely controlled, and I couldn’t suppress the tendrils of unadulterated pride in what I’d managed to do. In particular, I remember one little girl whose mother I had loaned a small sum of money. She had possessed rather admirable skills in weaving, and funded by what I had given her, she went on to set up her own business. Combined with what I had learned in my geography and economics courses, my passion for micro-finance was born. And so we come to the last summer. Spurred by the exhilaration of becoming an agent of benevolence and betterment for those few lives I had touched, I wanted more. The ignoble reluctance of serving had been purged. Micro-finance is a brilliant way to not just temporarily lift someone up, but to change their lives forever, and if I could make those people smile just as those children had when they uttered their first sentence of broken English, then I will be content. This is an ongoing journey and mission that I plan to continue pursuing during and after college.