“My mother took me back to Africa seven times before she died,” Zoe went on. “She loved it as much as a person can love a place. She was on the vanguard of AIDS relief. She championed microfinance before it became a buzzword. She built water systems and bush clinics and funded medical trips into conflict zones. She worked with anyone who cared about genuine philanthropy—the love of human beings. She had only two enemies: cynicism and greed.
“If my mother were alive today, she would praise Africa’s economic growth and fledgling middle class. She would encourage the expansion of free enterprise and support efforts to make aid smarter and more efficient. She would hold high the banner of trade as a rising tide that lifts all boats. But she would not abandon our system of foreign assistance. Indeed, she would argue that generosity will always be necessary because the profit motive that drives trade has no mechanism for meeting the needs of the poor. The reason is simple: the poor cannot pay.”
Zoe’s voice took on a stronger cadence. “Today, around the world, the poorest people struggle to feed their children and keep them in school. They have no way to afford life-saving medicine, no way to fund an adequate justice system. Those of us who have the means must help them. We in America are not blind to this. Generosity is one of the great legacies of our nation. But some among us are suggesting that we close our eyes.”
“We are in a position to all but eliminate the transmission of AIDS within a generation, but we’re scaling back PEPFAR. We’ve saved countless lives through the Malaria Initiative and the Global Fund, but we’re retrenching on our commitments. In Zambia where I work, hundreds of children are brutally raped each year, but their abusers get away with it because prosecutors don’t have access to DNA. These are problems that money can solve, but the market alone won’t solve them because there is little in it for the businessman. Generosity must deliver them.”
Zoe glanced around the panel. “Confronted with the crises of debt and deficit, we face an equally momentous crisis of conscience. On one side are our fears. On the other is our humanity. It is at moments like this that we prove our true character.”
She hesitated on the threshold of decision, her heart racing with adrenaline. She could conclude cleanly or toss a hand grenade at the dais. She fixed her eyes on her father and saw the stillness in his frame. The blankness of his expression pushed her toward the precipice.
“I know the inconvenience of humanity. I know what it feels like to be …”
Suddenly, her father winced and she saw pain in his eyes. She paused ever so slightly and softened her words.
“… to be alone in a vulnerable place. Today in Africa and all around the world there are people whose names will never make it into the history books—people living on the margins of society, amid war and famine, violence, and disease. We will never meet them, but we are no different from them. They do not need welfare or dependency. They need generosity and empowerment. We are in a position to offer that. If we do, history will judge us kindly. If we do not, God help us.”
When she spoke the last word, Zoe sat back in her chair and retreated inward to a place she could not define. She heard the speeches that followed and the questions and answers, but the rest of the proceeding carried the faded edges of a dream. Occasionally, she glanced at her father, expecting to see anger, but his eyes held only sadness. He declined to question the panel and left the hearing room as soon as the adjournment was announced.
Zoe followed suit, pausing only to shake hands with Senator Hartman and to give Frieda Caraway a hug. Trevor met her at the exit and guided her through the horde of cameras and journalists. They left Dirksen by a side exit and walked around the Capitol to the National Mall. The wide grass of the commons was half-dead, trampled by tourists, but the clouds had broken up and left the sky full of light.
“There’s something I want to know,” Trevor said, sitting beside her on a bench. “What did you mean at the end? When were you alone in a vulnerable place?”
The pain in his voice made her cringe. “If I tell you, it’ll be worse.”
He took a sharp breath. “It’s that bad?”
She nodded slowly.
“Tell me anyway.”
Zoe watched a young father throwing a Frisbee with his daughter. The girl was seven or eight years old, and her smile was frank, uncluttered by the world. “It happened the summer you left for Harvard,” she began, and told him the whole story.
When she finished, he massaged his face with his hands. “Clay Randall. I should break his kneecaps. Why didn’t you say something?”
Tears came to her eyes. “There were times I almost did. But it never seemed right.”
He shook his head wearily. “Sometimes I wish Dad never got into politics. Partisanship turns friends into enemies.”
“I never wanted to be his enemy. I just wanted an apology.”
Trevor looked resolute. “I should break his kneecaps.”
“Please don’t,” she said, laughing softly.
“The press is going to have a field day with the hearing.”