Poverty, like war, burns with a terrible beauty. We may still not want to look. We may not know how to react. But we can understand ourselves better when we explore our reactions.
While the beauty is terrible, it is also everywhere. It burns from the satisfied lines on the face of an old woman who has earned a better life for her children. And from the happy eyes of muddy children, too young to know they are poor. And from the neatly swept dirt, leading to a poor family’s front door. And from the sturdy construction of so many village homes, built with little more than a hammer, a hand saw and a dozen willing arms.