Child labour and sand mining
Last week, I understood how completely fortunate I am. I visited an illegal sand mining site at a creek near Mumbai and saw children much younger than me struggling under the sweltering sun with loads too heavy, carrying that most ubiquitous mineral, sand, to and from overloaded barges.
Accompanying a team from the non Governmental NGO Awaaz Foundation, I did not expect the sudden emotional surge that the visit gave to me. It was an ordinary day when we set out, picking up people on the way. I was half asleep in the car and heard snippets of excited conversation about the area we would visit.
When we stopped, it was on a dusty side road next to a dirty creek. We walked up to the sand loading area. Suddenly, my attention was arrested by the thin pathetic face of a boy, stooped over but manfully struggling with a burden too heavy. I kept looking at him. Could he be my age? Much younger from his face, but his body was strangely muscular, with a bony skeleton showing through. I was compelled to ask about him. Oh, there are many children here, said our guide, some of them 10 years old. I looked around me with greater attention. The ground littered with rubbish and spilled sand. Scraggly mangroves at the outskirts of the area where the sand had been piled. Rickety barges piled with sand, and people carrying tin pails on their heads, in hundreds. My little boy was just one of them. How many others were there?
Before I had a chance to find out, our little fishing boat, on which we were going to the main mining area in the middle of the creek was ready. I balanced on the thin, swaying wooden plank and imagined having to do it with a heavy load on my head. I thought of my school and of how hard we felt we were working to gain a good education for our own future welfare. Why was this boy not in school?
The blazing sun was pounding down on my head and I watched the crabs and mud skippers on the marshy banks of the mangrove forest we were passing. I saw the distant line of barges nearing, accompanied by sweating, straining, heaving men. We alighted on one of the barges, and I saw, with horror, another child, this time silently pulling up bucket after bucket of sand from the creek bed, 40 feet below. His companions took the bucket from him and threw it onto a growing pile of sand in the boat, then passed the bucket to a diver, snorting and blowing water to fill from the bottom. When the bucket was heavy enough, the child pulled it up again. I kept looking at his face. Finally, I worked up the courage to ask: can I talk to this boy?
I tried. The boy, in his torn underpants, was clearly intimidated by me and my city clothes. Why are you not in school, I asked. He mumbled something. What? You had fever? But…but…what has that to do with your being here, on this boat, in the sun, hauling sand from the river bottom? I was not very clever, he said, and couldn’t concentrate with the fever. I remember having fever, and my mother’s cool hand on my head, and couldn’t understand still why having fever meant you had to slave at hauling sand instead of missing a day of school with extra attention from family and extra sleep. The boy shook his head and turned back to his bucket.
I asked again: why is he here? The man with the diamond ring was offering me a cold Coke while he explained. His family needed the money. Enrolling him in school and then having him sick while there meant an extra mouth to feed, without even the benefit of a worthwhile education. He was sick a lot, he said, and his parents were fed up. This way, the boy at least brought in Rs 400 per day, just about half of what an adult doing the same job would earn. Enough to feed himself, anway. I was quiet. The scene around me seemed unreal. I kept watching the boy, not noticing all the others around me and still I could not understand.
I returned to school the next day. I felt different, I went about my work in a daze. Slowly, I looked around again and noticed the computers in a row which I had always taken for granted, I saw the crisp school uniforms and little rebellions like leaving a shirt untucked, I saw my teachers in bright professional clothes, encouraging us to study hard and make something of ourselves. I remembered the little boy who had fever. I knew then that I would never feel the same about myself again, and that one day, I had to help that boy while I studied to reach a place where I could.
Faiz Abdulali
20th April 2013
Last week, I understood how completely fortunate I am. I visited an illegal sand mining site at a creek near Mumbai and saw children much younger than me struggling under the sweltering sun with loads too heavy, carrying that most ubiquitous mineral, sand, to and from overloaded barges.
Accompanying a team from the non Governmental NGO Awaaz Foundation, I did not expect the sudden emotional surge that the visit gave to me. It was an ordinary day when we set out, picking up people on the way. I was half asleep in the car and heard snippets of excited conversation about the area we would visit.
When we stopped, it was on a dusty side road next to a dirty creek. We walked up to the sand loading area. Suddenly, my attention was arrested by the thin pathetic face of a boy, stooped over but manfully struggling with a burden too heavy. I kept looking at him. Could he be my age? Much younger from his face, but his body was strangely muscular, with a bony skeleton showing through. I was compelled to ask about him. Oh, there are many children here, said our guide, some of them 10 years old. I looked around me with greater attention. The ground littered with rubbish and spilled sand. Scraggly mangroves at the outskirts of the area where the sand had been piled. Rickety barges piled with sand, and people carrying tin pails on their heads, in hundreds. My little boy was just one of them. How many others were there?
Before I had a chance to find out, our little fishing boat, on which we were going to the main mining area in the middle of the creek was ready. I balanced on the thin, swaying wooden plank and imagined having to do it with a heavy load on my head. I thought of my school and of how hard we felt we were working to gain a good education for our own future welfare. Why was this boy not in school?
The blazing sun was pounding down on my head and I watched the crabs and mud skippers on the marshy banks of the mangrove forest we were passing. I saw the distant line of barges nearing, accompanied by sweating, straining, heaving men. We alighted on one of the barges, and I saw, with horror, another child, this time silently pulling up bucket after bucket of sand from the creek bed, 40 feet below. His companions took the bucket from him and threw it onto a growing pile of sand in the boat, then passed the bucket to a diver, snorting and blowing water to fill from the bottom. When the bucket was heavy enough, the child pulled it up again. I kept looking at his face. Finally, I worked up the courage to ask: can I talk to this boy?
I tried. The boy, in his torn underpants, was clearly intimidated by me and my city clothes. Why are you not in school, I asked. He mumbled something. What? You had fever? But…but…what has that to do with your being here, on this boat, in the sun, hauling sand from the river bottom? I was not very clever, he said, and couldn’t concentrate with the fever. I remember having fever, and my mother’s cool hand on my head, and couldn’t understand still why having fever meant you had to slave at hauling sand instead of missing a day of school with extra attention from family and extra sleep. The boy shook his head and turned back to his bucket.
I asked again: why is he here? The man with the diamond ring was offering me a cold Coke while he explained. His family needed the money. Enrolling him in school and then having him sick while there meant an extra mouth to feed, without even the benefit of a worthwhile education. He was sick a lot, he said, and his parents were fed up. This way, the boy at least brought in Rs 400 per day, just about half of what an adult doing the same job would earn. Enough to feed himself, anway. I was quiet. The scene around me seemed unreal. I kept watching the boy, not noticing all the others around me and still I could not understand.
I returned to school the next day. I felt different, I went about my work in a daze. Slowly, I looked around again and noticed the computers in a row which I had always taken for granted, I saw the crisp school uniforms and little rebellions like leaving a shirt untucked, I saw my teachers in bright professional clothes, encouraging us to study hard and make something of ourselves. I remembered the little boy who had fever. I knew then that I would never feel the same about myself again, and that one day, I had to help that boy while I studied to reach a place where I could.
Faiz Abdulali
20th April 2013
