Power and Passion (4 page)

With a frustrated moan, she tossed away the
covers once more and stood up. She stepped into her slippers and
padded over to her desk, where her computer sat idle. The screen
came to life, filling the dim room with bright white light. Sara
squinted as she sat on her comfy, cushioned rolling chair and
swayed back and forth for a bit, tapping her fingernail on the
mouse, waiting for an idea to hit her.

Still nothing came to mind. But she had to
start somewhere, so she sat forward and put her fingers to the
keyboard. "Fundraiser event planning," she typed into the Google
search box, and immediately twenty-one
million
results
popped up. Sara's mouth dropped open, and she laughed quietly.

"Well, maybe there's
something
here I
can use," she said to herself as she scrolled down the page. So
much information out there—where should she begin?

"Planning Your First Nonprofit Fundraising
Event" read the headline on the third or so link down the list, and
when Sara clicked on it, she found herself on a blog about
marketing—not quite what she was looking for, but she gave the
article a read anyway. "Sponsors…prizes…food?" she read aloud as
she scanned the page's bullet points. Who knew there would be so
much involved? So far in her position at the SO, Sara had planned
only track meets and swim meets, equestrian events, and bowling
games as well as pep rallies and information sessions for the
athletes and their families plus a few interested individuals from
the community. On the rare occasions she had a little extra time,
she had planned team-building trainings for the staff at the
Emirates office, but that was the closest she had ever come to
putting together any sort of non-sports-related function, and she
was sure they were nothing like a gala would be.

For starters, we wore sneakers and ate
lunch out of takeout boxes
, she thought as she clicked on
another link, one that took her to a page about fundraisers and all
they entailed. After perusing that one, then another, then another,
she came to the conclusion that they all said the same things and
that there were three questions she had to answer. First, what kind
of event did she want it to be—a fancy-dress gala like Pierce
mentioned? Something sports related? A business luncheon? Second,
where would it take place? That was almost a no-brainer. There were
so many amazing venues in Dubai, from grand hotels to brand-new,
state-of-the-art indoor sports facilities should she decide to go
that route. It seemed her problem in this category would be too
many options, not too few.

"Oh, to have such problems in all areas of
my life," Sara said, her fingers clicking away on the keyboard as
she wrote down all these notes.

Last, who would help her in this
undertaking? Certainly it would be too much legwork to cover by
herself. She could scout out possible locales, meet with vendors
for refreshments and music, even draft invitations and get them
printed up. However, if she had to do it all alone, this event
would not take place until about five years down the line. It did
not have to happen tomorrow, but sometime within the next six
months, Sara figured, would be a good timeline. Plus it would
coincide with the really big event: the Special Olympics final
games taking place in March.

Sara sat back in her chair. Running a hand
through her long, pillow-tousled hair, she pondered this whole
idea. Was she capable of planning and executing a big fundraiser
event? And what about a gala? Since Pierce had said it, she could
not get the word out of her mind. It represented so much to her: a
true achievement and a chance to raise some awareness and real
money for SO. Most of all it was a challenge to her own skills and
fortitude. Could she give of herself enough to make this event
happen?

A question for another time
, she told
herself at last while the printer on the desk rolled out her pages
of notes. She'd typed up a rough proposal of sorts, something she
could show her boss the next day. Just that much left her feeling
satisfied, her mind no longer bobbing and reeling. Reaching out to
turn off the computer monitor, she brought her other hand to her
mouth, covering up a yawn.

Sara swiveled around in her chair then
practically launched herself across the room to her bed. Burying
herself in the duvet once more, she was at last able to drift off
into a peaceful sleep.

G
ift baskets in the Middle
East are something to behold
, Joan thought as she stood before
her office desk, eyeing the one that had been delivered to her only
moments earlier. Back in California she'd gotten the old
oranges-and-apples variety and occasionally one with decent
chocolates or some nice cheese. But this…

First of all it wasn't even a basket. The
contents came packaged in a beautiful, square, dark-wood box, a
desert scene with date palms and camels engraved all around its
sides. Around that were intricate, colorfully painted designs.
Underneath one band of the ribbon sat a card, and Joan slipped it
out carefully. Written on it in a delicate script was,
"Congratulations on your achievement. From all at Skills for
Hope."

This immediately brought a smile to her
face. She knew she had recognized the box. Skills for Hope was a
nonprofit that supported a project that employed older skilled
workers to teach young people how to produce crafts by hand, thus
preserving this time-honored skill and providing muchneeded
incomes. Joan had met the organization's young female founder a
while back and had an interesting conversation with her about the
various skills-development projects they supported around the
world. The founder was incredibly dedicated to her work, and Joan
had been truly touched when the woman had expressed how much she
admired her.

Beneath the cellophane, the lid of the box
was open, displaying the tantalizing contents inside. Joan slowly
pulled the wrapper away, and as she pulled it off, a mix of sweet
aromas wafted out. She breathed it in deeply then reached down and
picked up one of the individually wrapped chocolates the box
contained. This was camel's milk chocolate—not just a delicacy
there but a true untapped resource. It was lower in fat than cow's
milk, higher in vitamins and minerals, and was said to contain many
unique properties. Joan brought the candy, covered in gold-colored
wax paper that was folded very neatly at the ends, up to her nose
and inhaled deeply. The smell of it was subtle but divine. She
remembered the first time she and her husband had tried one soon
after it was launched in Dubai. She had been wary at first to eat
anything that had come out of a camel's body; they were great
creatures to be sure but not very concerned about hygiene, and she
feared the chocolate would harbor in its taste the harsh, gamey
smell that camels always seemed to have.

However, that was not the case—no, not at
all. In fact it was the opposite. Once she had popped the candy
into her mouth, she was surprised by its smooth, creamy texture and
its sweet, slightly salty taste, so different from the aggressively
sugary confections she had grown used to in her home country. This
gift box contained an array of them, from dark chocolate to caramel
filled and nut encrusted. She set this one aside for the moment to
keep herself from eating it—and all the rest.

Next she picked up a date; there were
several varieties in the box, all laid out in neat rows. This one
was an Emirates date; she could tell by its soft flesh and moist
skin. Some others in the array were drier, and all were deseeded
and stuffed with a range of fillings: pistachios, almonds, cashews,
lemon peel, and candied orange. Some were even chocolate covered.
The variety was no surprise—dates were a staple there, served at
meals or as snacks, at home and at restaurants, on special
occasions and simply as an everyday treat. Many tourists and expats
brought home boxes of them as gifts. Joan had sent some to friends
and colleagues back in the States more than once.

On the other end of the desk, her phone
rang, drawing her out of this reverie over the thoughtful gift the
Skills for Hope group had sent. She placed the date back in its
nest and set it aside to eat later then picked up the call—another
friend from the nonprofit world congratulating her on this latest
victory.

"Thank you so much," Joan replied. "But you
know I don't do this work alone."

As the person on the other end talked, Joan
watched her assistant, Mina, a petite, energetic woman who had been
with her for many years, come in with the plaque she'd received at
the awards dinner the previous night. She placed it on a shelf near
the window. A ray of sun hit it just right as if it were a natural
and purposeful spotlight.

When the call ended, Joan hung up the phone.
Then she motioned at the award, its metallic inscription literally
sparkling in the afternoon light. She shook her head. "Maybe we can
find somewhere else for that. Looks like I'm trying to show it
off."

Mina smiled and glanced around the office
then raised her hands in the air, palms up in a questioning
gesture. "You find a place, and I'll gladly move it."

She was right—Joan had so many awards;
almost all the shelves and walls were filled. Statues and trophies,
plaques and certificates, all of them displayed not to flaunt her
greatness but to remind her of how far she had come and how much
more she still wanted to do. She had started this organization from
the bottom up—no small feat, she knew, for a female expat in the
Middle East, much less one from the United States. But what she had
done there was not just a testament to her own fortitude; it was a
monument to how far that land had come—and how misunderstood it
truly was by the outside world.

Westerners saw only the bad things on the
news: the bombings and conflicts and religious extremists. They did
not see the many individuals from different nationalities and
cultures who desired to live peaceful, constructive lives. One
could not, Joan had come to realize, tarnish all with the same
brush.

Like many people in the West, the diverse
people in the Emirates worked together to build great things, not
just the massive skyscrapers of Dubai or the grand malls and
splendid architecture but organizations such as hers that helped on
a personal level. People cared for one another there; that was
something that had surprised her at first. But it had not taken
long for it to become one of her favorite aspects of the
culture.

"Mina, please help yourself," Joan said,
pointing at the box full of sweets as she took a seat behind her
massive desk, every inch of it covered with papers and folders.

"Hmm, don't mind if I do," Mina replied,
eyeing the box for a moment before selecting a camel-milk
chocolate. "I like it when you win these awards. We always get such
good treats." She smirked at Joan, who grinned back. Mina knew that
Joan was not concerned personally about the awards, but she and the
staff were pleased for her as they knew how tirelessly committed
she was and how hard she worked for the cause.

The two had a comfortable, familiar rapport
born out of their many years of working long hours, always side by
side. Perhaps Joan was the one with the big ideas, the grand plans,
and the know-how, but Mina was the one who made things work, who
took care of the phone calls and the follow-ups Joan simply did not
have time to do herself—and Joan was well aware of this fact. She
treasured Mina and was regularly asking her how she felt and if
there was anything she needed. She was concerned about her
assistant not just because she did so much work for the
organization and for Joan personally but because she was a smart
and talented individual who had many years of good work to do ahead
of her. This was just a stepping stone for Mina, and Joan wanted to
see her succeed.

"So what's lined up for today?" she asked as
she sat down behind her desk, moving her computer's mouse to bring
the screen to life.

Mina chewed her bite of chocolate quickly
and sat down on the other side of the desk. She put down the
schedule planner she'd been carrying under her arm and opened it to
the current date. Every inch of the paper was covered with
scribbled notes and reminders; receipts and Post-its crowded the
edges. Mina liked working for Joan. She had learned so much and
picked up many skills along the way. She loved her job and felt
very fortunate to be part of an organization that made such a
positive impact on the lives of others. Even her parents back home
in India were so proud of the work she was involved with; they
always told her how they would keep all her relatives updated on
what she was doing at her job.

"Well, we'll have the usual media to deal
with first, of course. Your morning is booked. Two magazines, three
TV shows, a couple of Podcasts."