A day in the life of a 10-year-old child laborer

7am: School starts. Wake up as late as possible to wash your face, throw on your uniform, pack your snack, and get all your books and notebooks together. Doing these tasks inappropriately may lead to getting a beating at school.

1pm: School ends. You were nodding off a lot of the time anyway. Rush home for lunch and a tiny rest.

1:30pm: Arabic and Urdu lessons at the mosque start. Here you gain a religious education and the basics of 2 more languages to add to the Hindi and English you're learning at school.

5pm: Lessons at the mosque end. Go directly to the screen-printing shop, where a stable of young boys keeps the operation going.

7pm: Leave the screen-printing shop for your job assisting the local slum medical dispensary.

11pm: Shift at the dispensary finishes. For the 4 hours a day you give there, you receive 300 rupees (about $5) a month.  $5 a month.  You head right back to the screen-printing shop.

3am: Shift at the screen-printing shop finishes. For the 6 hours a day you give there, you will receive 50 rupees (about $1) a week. This wage holds for your first 3 years, which is your “apprenticeship”. (You actually learned the entire job in the first week.)

At the age of 10, you are earning almost $10/month for your family by working 10 hours a day. That works out to an hourly wage of a little more than 3 cents.

Age 13

After 3 years of this, you will quit school so you can work at the screen-printing shop 13 hours a day. Your apprenticeship ends and your pay as a screen-printer jumps to $1.50/day. Combined with a minor raise at the dispensary, you are now earning about $55 a month for your family. With 17 hours of work per day, that works out to almost 10 cents an hour. Due to the death of your father 3 years earlier, you are the primary breadwinner in your family.

Age 15

After several years, the dispensary pay climbs to $12/month, and the screen-printing shop slowly raises your wages until they reach $2.50 a day. Now you are earning $85/month, or about 17 cents an hour.

Age 16

At this age you are able to find more legitimate work at a local mall that pays $3.50/day for 10+ hours, 6 days a week. You now earn over 30 cents an hour, a wage that won't get you out of the slum but at least seems within the bounds of human decency. However, you will never get the chance to repeat the missed years of school. You will never make up for the childhood play that you lost. You may never recover from the health problems you picked up from sitting/standing/working for 18-20 hours a day during your growing years. And your family won't be any closer to ending the cycle of poverty that forced you into your child labor career in the first place.

This is not the story of every child laborer. Many do much easier work, for fewer hours. Others do much harder work for just as many hours. Not all have to start by age 10. Some start as early as 2 or 3. (As hard as that is to believe, yes, you can pick up trash and you can beg as early as age 2 or 3.) Obviously not everyone loses a father, but a surprisingly large number of people under these conditions lose their father or some other family member at an early age. Some children get paid a little more than this. Many get paid even less. Some are able to continue going to school. Many never go to school at all. And some eventually are able to work their way into even better jobs, where they can reasonably support a family outside the slum without their own kids having to work. But many will be stuck in the very same jobs they did as children for the rest of their lives, as will their own children.

There is nothing in our basti that bothers me as often as the cycle of child labor that I see on a daily basis. Lord, be with those kids. Lord, help me to find some way to address the issue and work together with them towards a more fulfilling life.

The same fever is not the same fever

Three weeks ago I had a fever. I started getting headaches, my skin was achy, I became very tired, and a crazy red rash spread all over my body from head to toe. It might have been a mild case of Dengue Fever, or it could have been any number of other viral infections. A little more than a week after the first symptoms, I was fine.

It wasn't until I got better that I realized how many other people in the slum were sick. My good friend's baby had a fever. So did his aunt. So did my language helper. All five people in the family we ate the feast with were sick. So were four members in another family we knew. So were all sorts of other people in the basti – one here, one there. Rose, gratefully, never got sick, nor did our landlord or their family, but almost everyone else we knew seemed to have at least one family member go down.

It was in the midst of this little epidemic that I realized how different my experience still is from the experience of my neighbors. For me, getting the funny rash/fever was a little bit of an adventure. I enjoyed trying to figure out what I had. I was somewhat uncomfortable, but not horribly so. I had to take it easy for a few days, but I don't have a lot of responsibilities anyway. When I went to endure a 2.5 hour liturgy near the tail end of the illness (at a church we have to walk 2 miles to get to), I made it a little bit of a personal contest to see if I could continue to stand up without passing out. I observed my symptoms closely, and was ready to go to a doctor the moment that anything extraordinary happened, but nothing occurred that forced me to take the fever very seriously.

It is not that way for my neighbors. For them, even the “mild” fever hits their health hard. They don't have the background of good rest and nutrition and exercise and easy living that I have, and so their bodies have far less leeway. They are really wiped out when a virus makes their body work that much harder. The adults get less work done. The kids miss school, some more than a week. Death is a real possibility for babies and young children and the elderly and those whose bodies are already wracked by other thing. In families where multiple members are sick, a lot of the normal life stops.

And these little epidemics are something that happens a lot in the basti.

I am reminded that no matter where I choose to live, or how I choose to live, for me it is a choice. I wasn't forced into this life, and I could leave it whenever I want. And no matter what possessions or connections I give up, I haven't given up my education, my stable and healthy upbringing, my foreign passport, my medical insurance, or my access via friends and family to as much money as I would ever need (no matter how little might be in my own bank account).

I hope, through this life, to know the poor better. I hope to have solidarity with them in some way, to understand their hopes and fears to a deeper degree than I could if I didn't live with them, to be able to form a community together that will benefit both of us.

But I am reminded that as much as I have solidarity with them, I will never be them. And because of that, they keep having to suffer in ways that I don't, even when we share the same fever.

Inviting those who can't pay you back

The tension was clear.

Our friends explained their dire financial situation. Their landlord, who is prejudiced against Muslims, had bumped their already inflated rent another 25% in an effort to get them to leave. They used everything they had to pay her, and now could not afford food. Their teenage daughter (who had just started school for the first time) had to be pulled out of school to help them rush to finish the next batch of the wallets they make. Until the wallets are finished and the father goes on a trip out-of-town to sell them, they will not have money. And to make matters worse, the entire family has been sick with fever.

Why was there tension? Because the family had a desperate financial need, and knew we had money, but didn't want to ask. They had already taken a very small loan (American equivalent $5) from us the previous month. Now they couldn't pay back that loan. They wouldn't ask us for money again under those circumstances. For our part, we don't want to increase their indebtedness to us, and are afraid we might mess up the relationship even more if we start giving them money as gifts. So we didn't offer, and they didn't ask.

These decisions tear us apart on a daily basis.

We couldn't leave it at that. So as a small gesture, we invited them over for lunch the next day. We made a huge feast (by our standards), the biggest we've ever made in our little slum home. Though our cooking left a little to be desired, some of it turned out okay, and we had a nice time together with good conversation. It didn't solve any of their issues, but they got a high-calorie meal at a time when those are few and far between, and we got to have a good time together that strengthened our friendship rather than making it more awkward.

I don't know what the long-term solution is. But for now, I felt that we were able to love them a little bit.

After our friends left, I remembered Luke 14:12-14.

He said also to the man who had invited him, “When you give a dinner or a banquet, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors, lest they also invite you in return and you be repaid. But when you give a feast, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind, and you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you. You will be repaid at the resurrection of the just.”

Ironically, we had invited to our feast the very people who could not repay us. And I got an insight into Jesus's wisdom and love. A feast is something people share in together. It is not a soup kitchen or a food distribution. It brings the providers and the beneficiaries together, and as long as the host is gracious, can be a meal among equals even when the participants are not financially equal. It shows the trust and friendship involved in letting another person come into your home. It makes the experience about community, rather than about the provider or the beneficiary. A true feast shared together in a home adds dignity, rather than taking it away.

Jesus tells us that instead of inviting those who are already our friends or our relatives, those who are assumed to be in our own financial circles, we should invite into our homes those who cannot afford to have their own feasts. And from everything else that Jesus does and says, I have to believe this is done with the hope that those people will be added to those we consider our friends and family.

The Appeal of Nonviolence

Rose and I have been tutoring kids in our room.  In our first session one of the older kids hit her younger sister.  That behavior is usually acceptable in our neighborhood, but I wanted to model something different.  So I told the kids in Hindi, "In this room, there is no hitting."

During a later class, it happened again.  Rose had heard what I had said the first time, and again told the kids, "In this room, there is no hitting."  Saeed, an 8-year-old boy, piped up.

"This is a good room!  This is a beautiful room!"

Coptic Christians Respond in Love

Al-Jazeera Media Network

Cairo, Egypt

Abdul Sami was one of 581 men crushed by military forces during a Muslim Brotherhood sit-in Thursday. His wife, Najma Bano, is now a widow. To most Egyptians, Najma is a statistic, another woman widowed by the sectarian violence that has plagued Egypt. But Najma knows that she is more than a statistic to someone. And that someone is not who she expected.

“A woman came and introduced herself as Mariam George from St. Mina's Church,” Najma shared. “She told me that the church had heard of our loss and wanted to reach out. She told me that her own son had been killed two years ago. She was also distraught after losing her only child. But she wanted to use her experience to comfort me. I couldn't believe that she would care about me in this time. It has made all the difference in the world.”

Ms. George declined to be interviewed, but gave a short statement to our reporter. “Our Lord Jesus Christ tells us, 'Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.' Ever since I realized that He had comforted me, I have been able to comfort others who were suffering the same loss.”

Mohammed Saad shared a similar experience. “When the government killed my son, two men came from St. Mary's Church to offer condolences. They told me that they did not agree with the violent actions of the government and that they would help me seek redress if I wished. They also told me that St. Mary's would be there for me if we needed any assistance with the burial. We are a poor family. We could not have laid our son to rest properly without their help.”

What Mo. Saad saw later that day shocked him even more.

“When I bought the newspaper and saw the headline about the churches that had been destroyed, it made me sick. These people have been so compassionate to us. Everyone in the neighborhood has known their care at one time or another. Then I read the article and saw that St. Mary's was one of the churches that had been destroyed! And yet the very next day these Christians from that church were with me, offering me help!”

At that, Mo. Saad's eyes welled up and he was unable to continue.

A large contingency of Muslims is planning a counter-protest today to oppose the actions against the churches. Mohammed Salman of the Muslim Federation for Christian Rights explained, “We understand [the Muslim Brotherhood's] distress regarding the government's actions. It is a complex political situation, and will take some time to resolve. But by attacking the Christians, they have completely marginalized themselves. Who has ever heard of a Christian hurting anyone? Who has ever heard anything but kind words from these people?  The extreme elements of the Muslim Brotherhood have now lost all support. They will not be relevant again in Egyptian politics for a long time.”

Pope Tawadros gave a public address this morning at St. Mina's Cathedral. He spoke about Jesus's parable of the Samaritan's love for the Jew, and related it to the need for Muslims and Christians to care for one another in times of crisis. The Pope was unavailable for comment afterwards. 

A church representative was asked for the Coptic Church's response to the Muslim reaction to the church attacks. “We deeply appreciate the love and solidarity we have received from the Muslim community,” said Bishop Youssef. “Unfortunately, our servants and members are greatly burdened right now in taking care of the victims and families hurt by the government actions against the Muslim Brotherhood, as well as those affected by the attacks on our own churches. In the future when their needs have been met, we hope to meet with these Egyptian brothers and thank them.”

Bishop Youssef then left in a church vehicle. He was reportedly attending an emergency council of bishops to determine the strategy for providing a protective ring of Coptic volunteers to stand against military forces during future Muslim Brotherhood sit-ins.

This is a fictional article.

Basti Women and the po-po

Forty-five people came together from our slum to attend the protest. Over 40 of them were women, nearly half of those girls. Muslim, Hindu, Christian, in saris and salwars and burkas, from elementary school girls to the elderly, the whole spectrum was represented. They gathered in the city center, joined by 50-60 more women from other slums and a few middle-class NGO workers, and got ready to march on the police in protest over their negligence in a string of horrific rape cases in our city and across the country.

Before they even started marching, the most intense rainstorm of the year hit. Clothes and signs were drenched. The street filled in with deep puddles. But right in the middle of the heaviest rain, the women began their march.

They shouted slogans, held signs and banners, and blocked the street as they marched through them. Within twenty minutes, the police realized what was happening and freaked out. They ran ahead of the marchers and attempted to blockade the entire road just to prevent the marchers from reaching the central government buildings for the state.

Those police officers were a foot away from putting the last metal gate barrier in place when the women reached them. It was no match. The women grabbed the barrier and drove back the police, four officers stumbling backwards under the weight of the crowd. A second heavy barrier segment went crashing to the ground right next to me as the women hit it, and the throng surged through. The police retreated to headquarters as quickly as they could for reinforcements.

As the marchers approached the Parliament building, cameras appeared everywhere. A television crew waited at the gates of the building. When the women reached the gates, 40-50 officers were waiting there for them. The military were also called in...for what? Because the police were afraid of the women? Because they wanted to intimidate the women? Soon law-enforcement/military numbers were over 100, and matched the number of marchers 1-to-1.

Someone came in with portable amps and microphones, and the women began making their demands. Stricter laws for violence against women, new police procedures, heightened transparency and accountability for the police. The police/military formed a three-or-four-deep ring around the now small-looking group of protesters. But they continued to shout their slogans and make their demands with spirit. A dozen young teenage girls held up their banner for the cameras. Two young men with the Democratic Youth Federation helped lead the chants and made speeches alongside the female NGO workers and other women from the slums.

In short time a delegation of eight women was allowed inside to speak to the higher authorities. For about an hour, protesters outside continued to chant slogans and speak to the media. Eventually the delegates emerged, their petition given and their concerns heard, but no concrete ground given other than promises to continue the conversation the following day. What future action will come of this remains to be seen. But I can say with certainly that I have seen the women of the basti stand up for their rights against the authorities with a passion and belief in the righteousness of their cause that I couldn't have imagined before.

Attached below are a couple of photos from near the end of the rally, after the skies had cleared, most of the military had left, and the police had calmed down.

Gai

When I used to spend a couple nights a week hanging out with Cambodian kids in Bangkok’s red-light districts, my favorite kid was Gai.

Gai was 13 or 14 when I met her, though she could have passed for 10. Unlike some kids, who worked hard to sell their flowers to marks, Gai seemed like she could care less. Her dismissive attitude to that work, and the fact that she liked to draw and color and play tic-tac-toe with me, was all it took. I was hooked.

I think the fact that she wasn’t anyone else’s favorite kid also played a role in it. The woman who was her caretaker on the streets didn’t act like her mother, and didn’t seem to give her the best care. She wasn’t as cute as the younger kids who sold flowers, and didn’t try hard to be liked. And so I liked her. A lot.

I remember the first time Gai got sick. She was off the street for weeks at least. I think that it was months, though my memory might be faulty. I remember when we finally saw her again, when she was brought to the red-lights in a sidecar but couldn’t even get up and go out on the street yet. I was incredibly worried for her. But she seemed to get better over time.

In August 2011, I went out into the red lights of Bangkok for the last time. I don’t even remember which night I saw Gai last.

Three weeks ago, Gai died.



I surprised myself by crying a little when I wrote that sentence. I’ve cried for Gai off and on over the last two weeks, but I expected to be past that by now. It had been a number of days since the last time.

Honestly, I don’t really feel like I have the right to cry. Gai was my favorite, but I hardly knew her. As we were both transplants into Thailand, we didn’t have a lot of common language. We saw each other off and on, played games off and on, and did a tiny bit of schooling, and that was it. Since I left Bangkok in 2011 I hadn’t seen her, and as so many other things came up I honestly didn’t think about her a lot. If a friend hadn’t gotten word to me that she had passed away in that hospital, I never would have known.

But I do know, and as little as I really knew Gai, her death still breaks my heart.

Just a couple days after I found out about Gai's death, a friend of mine played a song that he had written recently. The song has hopeful lyrics, but its melancholy tone makes it quite clear that we yearn for something we have not yet seen. The song made me cry for Gai. I recorded him singing it and sang along with the recording on my computer. I got all the pictures I had of Gai, and mixed them with pictures of her native Cambodia and the red-lights she had to work in, and spent hours late at night making a movie that expressed what I was feeling (no, you can’t see it, only two other people have ever seen it and they both knew Gai). I learned to play the song on guitar, and sang it myself. Somewhere in the song and the pictures and the time making the movie, I processed through my thoughts.

But there’s only so far that processing can take you. Because it still comes down to the fact that a teenage girl died after going through a lot of suffering in her life, and no amount of processing I do is ever going to make that feel right.

In After Shock: Searching for Honest Faith When Your World Is Shaken, Kent Annan writes:

If one of my children were diagnosed with a fatal disease, it would reveal nothing new about the world or God. I shuddered while typing that. Friends are going through this now; the most awful things imaginable already happen all the time.

For those who live by some faith, who want that faith to be eyes-wide-open honest, who want to be able to respond to goodness with gratitude, isn’t life itself a kind of continuous crisis of faith?

I believe that God is love, and God is powerful, and that God cares deeply for us. And I also believe that it was really, really wrong that Gai died last month. Unless you’ve completely sheltered yourself in some OC suburb or something, you’ve got to come to terms with a God who exists in a world where little girls are trafficked into the seediest parts of Bangkok and where some of those little girls die. As Annan said in another part of his book, any faith that can’t deal with that ought to die, because that’s reality.

I believe that the world as God intends it to be has not yet come. I believe that God’s Kingdom is already here in some sense, and yet is strikingly absent in the most important sense. I pray for God’s Kingdom to come, for justice to be done and all to be made right. And I know that I better be devoting myself to joining in His work along those lines as long as I’m here. Because to be in a world like this and do nothing is not something my heart could tolerate.

I pray He brings you back Gai.


When the Lord Brings Us Back (unpublished song by Tom Wuest)
Psalms 126, 115, 30

Gracious God bring us back
Captives of our false gods
We have eyes, yet cannot see
We have ears, yet cannot hear

     Those who sow in tears
     Will one day reap with joy
     Restore us O Lord
     Praise God all you saints
     Who plod through the dark of night
     Joy comes with the dawn

When the Lord brings us back
We’ll be like those who dream
Laughter will grace our hearts
Songs will spill off our tongues

     Those who sow in tears
     Will one day reap with joy
     Restore us O Lord
     Praise God all you saints
     Who plod through the dark of night
     Joy comes with the dawn

     Joy comes with
     Joy comes with
     Joy comes with
     the dawn

Out of sight

When we left India two weeks ago, our friend Rodda was about to have her baby.  It had been due three days earlier, but hadn’t arrived yet.  The pregnancy had not been easy, and we were worried for her.  Rose visited her at the hospital and brought her food just an hour before we left.  Our best intuitions tell us that the next few weeks and months are not going to be easy for her either.

Two, three, four days after we left, Rodda and her baby were still on my mind.  But as the first week and then the second passed, I realized that I remembered her less and less.  Soon I only thought of her once every few days.

There are so many others.  Akil Bhai and his family who we lived with, Shahmim who had just found his business non-viable and was trying to get new work, Ali waiting to start his 12^th year of school, Mohammed hoping that his back gets better soon.  The kids working in the shops, the men and women and children begging on our streets, the toddlers sorting through the trash for recycleable scraps.

I haven’t forgotten them.  And I won’t forget them.  And I am still praying for them.  But as long as we are not living there, I remember to remember them less and less often.

Follow-ups on my other blog

My last three stories all ended up coming back to the point that what we do in America affects people everywhere else.  A friend of mine implied that he wasn't sure there was a connection, and so I decided to start posting about those connections on my theological blog.  I'll be making 16 posts - every Wednesday and Friday of Lent - and the first six will focus on the command to "love your neighbor as yourself."

You can view the first post in the series at the following link:

To Trust in God: Thailand and Bangladesh

http://totrustingod.blogspot.in/2013/03/thailand-and-bangladesh.html

What's the opposite of hungry?

I have an amazing language helper. He is only 19, but he is bright, knows what I want, is bold enough to correct me when I mess up and to explain what I'm doing wrong, is extremely patient, fixes not just my vocabulary but also my grammar, pronunciation, and handwriting, praises me honestly and warmly when I do something right, is insistent on staying until the end of our hour each day, and hasn't canceled a lesson once yet.

But this morning, Mohammed had the hardest time with one word. We were doing opposites, and were flying through them. Then we got to "hungry". Mohammed spent two minutes trying to come up with something that would be the opposite of “hungry”. He even asked a friend to help him. Finally, they had an answer. The opposite of "hungry", according to Mohammed and his friend, is "thirsty".

My language helper is very thin. He lives with his family in a tiny home with a dirt floor that floods when it rains. He has been working since the age of 10 so he could pay his own school fees after his father died. Still, I'm sure that he's experienced feelings other than hunger before. There has to have been some time when he was attending someone's wedding, or a guest at someone's house, or was treated at some festival, where he got to be "full" instead of "hungry". To say that he couldn't come up with the opposite of hungry because he had never experienced it would be a bit implausible.

Yet I believe there is meaning there. I spent the first 30+ years of my life without EVER being truly hungry for someone else's sake. In America we spend billions of dollars a year on diets because we eat too much. Some 25% of us are obese and just as many more are overweight, and that's even with eating disorders taking their toll. We try to invent plans that will allow us to maintain our figures while stuffing our stomachs. Fast food restaurants sell lunch meals that have twice as many calories as most third-world slum dwellers get in an entire day.

When I visited India in 2011, I experienced sacrificial hunger for the first time in my life. I ate less than I needed because every bite I took meant less food for someone who needed food a lot more than me. I had already lost weight earlier, but by the time I left India my weight hit 165 pounds, nearly 50 pounds below what it had been when I had left America a year earlier. Yet day after day I kept eating less food than I wanted. Because I could see the consequences.

In America, we don't see. We don't know people who don't know the opposite of "hungry". The closest many of us get to solidarity with their situation is using it to guilt-trip our kids into eating their vegetables. We pretend that our conspicuous over-consumption doesn't pull food off of their plates. We tell ourselves that Central American cattle farms supplying beef for Americans aren't built on the ruins of family farms, that Brazilian coffee plantations aren't constructed on top of land that poor villagers relied on for their livelihoods, that commercial fishing vessels supplying our sushi aren't destroying the livelihoods (and local protein supply) of small-scale fishermen, that laws passed to pad the pockets of our own wealthiest farmers haven't made the situation that much more difficult for farmers overseas. We pass federal laws stating that we will never give any foreign aid that might lead to competition with our own products, even for desperately poor countries for whom that product might be their only available cash crop. We don't ask questions about an economic system that encourages more, and more, and more consumption; more, and more, and more growth. We already consume at a rate the rest of the world will never match, because the sheer land area of the earth could never support such consumption for everyone else. We keep using our 20-25 acres (the area of land it takes to support an average American) without realizing that only leaves a small fraction of that on average for everyone else.

We can ignore such things because we don't have to see them. Because "full" is a much more familiar word than "hungry". Because we've built borders, both physical and psychological, that keep the poor far enough away from our lives and our hearts that we ensure they will never make a significant impact on our stomachs.

This isn't a guilt trip. I don't want you to send money to anyone, grasping for that typical guilt-absolver called "charity". I want you to know that I am BETTER off for knowing Mohammed, even though he forces me to think differently about what it means for me to be hungry and what it means for me to be full.

Get to know the hungry. Learn what it would mean to love them as much as you actually love yourself (in deed, not just in word). When you do, every spoonful of food will become that much more meaningful - both the ones that you still chose to eat, and the ones that you don't. Their world, even their words, are different from our own, but they are still our neighbors. And until we learn to make ourselves a part of their world again, we will not be able to know what it would mean to love our neighbors.