Charity Sunday: American Friends Service Committee (#AFSC #Peace #CharitySunday)

Anger. Hate. Violence. The world seems dark these days, doesn’t it? Massacres, ethnic cleansing, sabre-rattling, threats and counter-threats. Women slaughtered. Children brutalized. Families torn apart by bigotry and fear, not just in distant lands ravaged by war, but in our own “civilized” homelands.

Rage appears to be the only reasonable response, a determination to fight the “enemies”—whomever we perceive them to be.

I don’t believe this. Anger and violence just breed more of the same. War never resolves the conflicts that trigger the hostilities—it just pushes them onto the next generation.

I think the only real, enduring solution is a commitment to work for peace and justice, to live the truth that every person has a core humanity that deserves to be recognized and respected.

Yes, even the guy who gunned down more than fifty people last week.

That’s why I’m focusing today’s Charity Sunday on the American Friends Service Committee. I’m not a Quaker, but I think AFSC’s quiet work represents an example of how we should respond to today’s challenges. 

AFSC envisions a world in which lasting peace with justice is achieved through active nonviolence and the transforming power of love. They work toward a world where communities are strong and inclusive, economic development is equitable, conflicts are resolved through mediation rather than force, and goverments and societal institutions are fair and accountable. Through advocacy, dialogue and education, AFSC works to end discrimination, build peace, and foster economic justice.

As usual on Charity Sunday, I will donate one dollar to support AFSC’s work for each comment I receive.The post remains open for comments until next Charity Sunday.

I know my choice of charities today may be controversial. Some people want to stay angry. I respect your views, if this is so. However, I remain convinced that the unspectacular sort of activities pursued by AFSC are the only kind of activities that will ultimately make a positive difference in our world.

Of course, I always give you an excerpt on Charity Sundays, too. Today, I’ve chosen a bit from Challenge to Him. In that tale, the heroine is a labor activist devoted to better working conditions for female textile workers in turn-of-the-century Lowell, Massachusetts. 

“And can I assume that you are the instigator and cause of this illegal strike, Miss Alcott?” He seemed flustered, less confident than she would have expected. Her spirits rose.

“Instigator? Perhaps. But not the cause.” Sweat trickled from her hairline, down into her eyes. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.

“Here.” He surprised her by offering a crisp handkerchief of fine linen, of a white so pure it almost seemed to shine with its own light. The initials ‘AM’ were embroidered in the corner, in golden thread. A faint scent of lavender reached her nostrils.

“Why, thank you!” The square of cloth was far more effective than her hand. When she’d mopped the perspiration from her face, she held out the swatch of now-damp fabric. “Here you are.”

He waved dismissively. “Keep it. I’ve got dozens more. Let’s get back to the matter at hand.”

“How much did this handkerchief cost, Mr MacIntyre?”

“I have no idea. My secretary handles my personal expenses.”

“It’s imported linen, I suspect. Belgian, perhaps?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Look, Miss Alcott…”

“And the monogram looks like real gold. Is it?”

“Honestly, what does that have to do with anything?”

Olivia tucked the handkerchief into her bodice, noting that MacIntyre’s eyes followed the movement. Indeed he didn’t try to hide his survey of her figure, rude as it was. Another tremor of strangeness fluttered in her belly.

“I’m no expert—I don’t have anything so fine myself—but I’d estimate that each of the dozens of handkerchiefs like this that you possess cost at least ten dollars.”

“Ah—really I don’t know—perhaps. Something in that vicinity.”

“That’s about two weeks of salary for one of these women who work here in your factory.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“The cause of the strike, Mr MacIntyre. You asked about the cause of the strike. These poor women—your employees, sir, to whom you have a certain responsibility—generally make five dollars a week. They’d have to work for two weeks—twelve days, twelve hours per day—to afford one of your handkerchiefs. Do you think this is just?”

“Well, they should be grateful they have jobs.” MacIntyre leaned closer, his manner and his voice menacing. “And if you don’t stop your meddling, they won’t. I’ll fire every single one of them in a minute. There are plenty of people who’d be happy for steady work, for a reputable company that’s not about to go bust and put them out on the street.”

“Won’t you consider raising their salaries, Mr MacIntyre?” Olivia countered, inserting a bit of sweetness into her own voice. She laid her hand on his upper arm and felt his muscles shift under her fingers. “An additional dollar a week would make a big difference to them.”

“I’m running a business here, Miss Alcott, not a charity.” He pulled away from her grasp and shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts, then stepped past her to speak to the assembled workers.

“Go back to your machines, ladies. Don’t listen to this—this rabble-rouser. She’s only here to make trouble. You know that MacIntyre Textiles has always taken good care of you…”

“Oh, really, Monsieur?” Lisette Beauchamps pushed her way through the clot of ragged women to confront him. “Did you care when my daughter got the brown lung? Poor petite wheezing and coughing so hard that she couldn’t walk, let alone work? And no money for a doctor or medicine? Or when Maria Clermont’s hand got tangled in the spinning machine? After they cut it off at the wrist, the fever took her. Left her four children all alone, les pauvres. Now they work here too, in this hellhole that killed their mother.”

“Oui!”

“C’est vrai!”

The women besieged Andrew MacIntyre, crowding around him, blurting out their sad stories in broken English. For a moment, Olivia almost felt sorry for him.

“Silence!” His voice drowned out their pleas and complaints. The babble died away. He raised his fist as though to batter the closest of the supplicants. Then he let it fall to his side. “The next person who makes a sound will be arrested and thrown in jail.” Despite his rough words, though, he appeared uncertain.

She had a premonition of triumph.

“Miss Alcott, I’d like to speak with you in private.” Grasping her by the arm, he led her towards his motor car. He opened the door on the passenger side and practically pushed her inside.

Her heart leaped in her chest. Had she won? Or should she be worried? 

 

~ ~ ~

If you believe, as I do, that lasting peace can only be achieved through non-violence, and that every human has a spark of divinity, leave me a comment.

Thank you.

P.S. Cheyenne Blue is also doing a Charity Sunday post today. You'll find her blog here: http://wp.me/p3bGOl-qC