Eddie Izzard, William Adams, and the changing value of life.

During my junior year of high school, three sophomores presented at our weekly high-school-wide assembly.

"Great," I thought. "Another presentation about which I could not care less."

How wrong I was.

It was only a fifteen, maybe twenty minute presentation, but that was all it took to shake me to my core. The presentation was on the genocide in Darfur, and the horrors beyond just the mass slayings -- refugees living in deplorable situations, not the least of which included unsanitary water, dirty clothes, and, for the women, a constant fear of being raped. To this day, I can't say why I was so impacted by the presentation -- and I'm not sure it matters. What did matter was that after the presentation, I felt compelled to do something. Writing a letter to my congressmen seemed less than trivial; I wanted to actually help.

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The video above, hilarious though it is (it's Eddie Izzard, of course it's hilarious and brilliant), also highlights a sobering truth, one also reflected in our reading regarding natural disasters. The higher the body count, and the more foreign the body, the less we can comprehend; worse, the less we care.

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Music, for as long as I can remember, has been an inextricable part of my very being. I've always been a big believer in the power of music, in its ability to lift and move and shape and change us in ways no other thing or medium can. Holding firm to this belief, I decided to organize a benefit concert, raising both awareness as to the atrocities in Darfur, as well as money for those afflicted. The first year, the concert comprised of local bands, and managed to raise $12,000. The second concert, a year later, featured the Format as the headliner, and raised another $12,000. Those two concerts, to this day, remain two of my greatest personal (though, of course, I had help from friends, family and strangers alike), achievements.

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And yet, what can we do, when news of such calamities finally reaches us? Beseech the government to intervene, knowing that our voices rarely register as more than white noise, that we're asking someone's child to risk themselves for someone else's child? Are we to leave our lives, depart for the afflicted country and provide aid, knowing full well the danger represented in doing so? Public information campaigns are good -- awareness an issue is necessary to place it in the public discourse, but that only goes so far -- the action the knowledge beckons us to take is what matters. Often, that action is money. We donate to charities, to individuals, to non-profits and NGOs and any other organization we feel can help. But after that? After we've sent our checks or clicked "OK," what then?

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I don't write about the concert to boast, but rather to point out my shortcomings, that being, I never did anything after I donated the money. I never followed up to see if the funds made a difference, if the organization I donated to -- CARE -- kept their word (at the time, I had no reason to distrust them, though now I understand I perhaps should have). Worst of all, I never kept up with the situation, and I can't help but wonder if the music mattered more to me than the cause. Once, the number of deaths moved me to action, yet as the numbers grew, the more I became numb to the reality; Izzard and Adams proved their point. As the years passed, the genocide in Darfur became less important to me, and when I tried to pick up the passion once more, I couldn't find it.

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Raising funds for something you care about is good. Causes need money to thrive, certainly to survive,  but donating money is one of the most disengaged forms of advocacy. When something strikes us in such a way that defies Eddie Izzard or Adams, that makes the numbers not an inconceivable sum but a horrifying reality, money shouldn't be the only thing we seek to provide.