Not a Real Problem… Really

"Coffee?" asked Robert Johnson. He was my boss. He was an old balding man in his early fifties and was expected to retire within year. He had short grey hair behind his ears, and his eyebrows were thick and silver. The top of his head was shiny in the right light, like a mirror catching the sun. His eyes were a vivid shade of electric blue. His skin was the color of water mixed with clay. He always wore a nicely ironed suit, even on casual Friday.

"Just water," I said. Unlike most people, I actually cared that coffee was the result of large corporations like Starbucks forcing people in third world countries to work very hard in very harsh conditions for very low pay. It still shocked me that other UN members seemed totally oblivious to the horrors of the coffee trade. It was their job to know these things.

Johnson got up from the 'L' shaped desk, which was in the center of his office with one side touching the wall. He walked slowly to the mini refrigerator, which was against the wall behind the desk. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the coffee pot, which was on top of the mini refrigerator, and he took a water bottle out of the mini fridge and tossed it to me. I made a futile attempt to catch it, but I dropped it. The 'L' shaped desk was meant for confrontations like the one we were about to have. On the side of the L that was touching the wall, it was a regular office desk. There was a computer, a lot of loose papers, several pens scattered about, and pictures of him and his family. On the other leg, there was nothing on it, just the dark brown polished surface, which was so shiny you could see your reflection in it

"All right, so you have a complaint to file?" he asked, in a monotone, as he sat down in his chair again.

"Yes, I do."

Johnson paused, as if waiting for me to continue.

"I don't feel like we're doing our job," I answered, trying to keep my composure.

"How so?" he asked. I sighed. This was going to be a much longer meeting than I had originally planned. He was totally ignorant to the catastrophe that I was about to confront him with.

"The people of Sierra Leone are suffering. They are in a state of civil war. Both sides have killed thousands of people. The civilians are in a constant state of terror. They never know when and if they will have safe lodgings. Food has become scarce and expensive. Furthermore, the RUF and the APC kill whoever they want to without any reason. They have both recruited children for their armies. They give these children marijuana and cocaine so they can fight longer and harder. But then we, on the other hand, have done very little to settle this conflict. We watch people die so that we don't have to go into the war zone," I explained. He nodded, solemnly. He appeared unfazed by the horrors going on in Sierra Leone. I bit my lips together to prevent myself from commenting on his lack of reaction. This was really happening! How would he feel if it was his family being killed by a reckless army? He would want an outside influence to help him survive on a day-to-day basis.

He paused before answering, as if he was a parent trying to think of how to tell their child Santa Claus doesn't exist.

"You are very new at this job. You're not grasping the entire picture. It would be considered unsafe to bring UN workers into Sierra Leone. They don't want us to intervene," he said, with an irritated edge to his voice.

So what if they don't want us to intervene? It is our job! The very least he could do is listen and pretend that he cares! Now I wanted to scream at him. We could stop all of this, but only if we were actually doing what we were supposed to be doing! All we would have to do is send in peace keepers and hold meetings with higher positioned RUF and APC members. I wanted to say "What are you? Blind?" I wanted to remind him that westernized countries were not the only nations that matter. I wanted to tell him to look at the world around him. That's what he's supposed to do, right? That's supposedly his job as a UN member, right? I wanted to tell him, in vivid detail, what was going on in Sierra Leone, so that he would grasp the severity of the widespread violence. I wanted to show him the innocent civilians, and make him listen to their stories so that maybe - just maybe - he would have a clear understanding of what people go through every day.

I took a deep breath, trying to hide the fact that I was seething and about to boil over. I stared at the khaki pants I was wearing for several seconds. Both of my arms tensed up. If I could have gotten away with it, I probably would have grabbed his shoulders and shaken him. I probably would have screamed bloody murder in his ears.

Instead of yelling at him, I crossed my legs and folded my hands in my lap, and I recited the brief monologue that I had rehearsed over and over in my mind.

"I realize that if we intervene, then we will be risking our own lives. But there is so much more at stake. Think of the people in Sierra Leone. The UN has the power to stop - or at least prevent - all of this, but we don't use it. I thought this job would be much different. I thought that we would actually be trying to solve these problems, and not just sitting around watching," I said.

"Look, we don't have the time for this. There are other more important issues that we need to worry about," he said. He glanced over at the door behind me, and then he gave me a stern look, right in the eyes. His glare was thick enough to shoot holes through me. His fists were clenched on the table. I'd like him to tell me that it was no big deal if it was his country in ruins.

"I guess I'll be going now," I said. I stood up to leave. I really should consider a new job, I thought to myself.

A/N- Please review! I wrote this in English class as a response to the book A Long Way Gone. I realize it's not the best writing ever, but it had a deadline so the quality may have suffered. I hope you enjoyed it!