February 1999

Caitlin

A MONTH PASSED WITH NO letter from Martin. I assumed he was busy with school. Or maybe there was another postal strike? Then another month passed and I started to get worried. What if he was getting bored of me? Or had found another pen pal? Still, I kept writing, and checking the mailbox daily for a response. If there was no mail, I’d rush into the house, thinking, Maybe Mom grabbed it. She started shaking her head as soon as I entered, anticipating my broken-record request. Every day that passed without contact started to hurt my feelings. Had I offended him?

And then, one day in late March, my mom looked very serious.

“Oh honey,” she said. “I just hope Martin is okay.”

“Why wouldn’t he be?” I asked, my throat tightening.

She told me she had been watching the news, and that things in Zimbabwe were unstable. She mentioned that the economy was failing and food costs were skyrocketing. People were starving as a result.

“Do you think Martin is…?” I stopped myself—too many terrible thoughts were filling my head.

“He’s fine,” I said out loud, as if to assure myself. “He has to be.”

My mom sat on the couch in the den and patted the cushion.

“Let’s watch this together,” she said.

It was a BBC News special report on Zimbabwe that my mom had taped. Suddenly, terrifying images flashed before my eyes. There were riots in the streets: Soldiers were clubbing people. Gunfire sparked and crackled, sirens blared. Small fires blazed as terrified people ran, leaving wounded or dead people behind them. It was chaos. The announcer mentioned international sanctions against Zimbabwe in response to the government’s aid to Congo rebels. It was all over my head. Then the most terrible thought struck me: What if Martin is dead? I fought back tears until I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran up the stairs to my room and flung myself on my bed.

As I sobbed into my pillow, soaking it with tears and snot, I realized how ridiculous I was being. My friend was in serious trouble—he needed my help. There was no time to act like a desperate teenager. I was totally fine, but I had to make sure Martin was, too. And that meant finding him. I pulled myself together and went back downstairs to log onto AOL. I typed “Zimbabwe” into a search. Several articles popped up about severe inflation and how people were struggling to afford basic necessities like food. As I continued to read, I got more and more upset: There were riots in the street because people were literally starving. Poverty existed in the United States, but even most of the poorest people had access to food. Why had Martin never mentioned any of this?

That night, I went into the den, where my parents were watching TV.

“What’s wrong, Caitlin?” my dad asked. “You look upset.”

“We need to help Martin,” I said.

“Caitlin, we know he means a lot to you,” my mother started to say, but I cut her off.

“Can people actually die from hunger?” I asked. My sadness had turned into pure panic.

“What are you talking about?” my father asked.

My mom told my dad about the BBC News report, and how we were concerned that Martin might be affected by the riots.

I suddenly wondered if Martin never shared any of this news to protect me. He knew I would want to do something to help. But I was so far away—what could I do?

The next day, I didn’t go to school. I told my mom I felt sick, and that was true. Those BBC images kept me awake all night. I had a stomachache and felt nauseated as a result. What if he had been shot? Or was hurt in the riots? What if either was the reason he had not written—or worse?

That morning, I wrote yet another letter that said, I’m really worried about you. Please write me back if you get this. I hope you got my last letter. I hope you are receiving my letters. And I hope you are not mad with me.

I didn’t mention the BBC News report, or that I had been researching Zimbabwe, or any of that. I wrote, I’m praying for you. I was so distraught that I wanted to buy a plane ticket and go find him. But I didn’t share this with my parents—I knew they wouldn’t let me go, or even understand why I would want to.