finding rickshaw.

My visit to Mexico at the impressionable age of nine left me scarred and saddened.  It was inconceivable to me how small children could be strewn on the streets like garbage, begging for food or money with imploring eyes and dirty hands. The destitution I saw tugged at my heart; I couldn’t bear even the thought of witnessing it again. But I couldn’t walk away either. I thus adopted a child through Children International to help from afar – and trained myself to emotionally remove myself from the situation if I were ever again to behold poverty in real life. So when I encountered the abject conditions in India, I resolved to keep walking ahead – to prevent myself from feeling too much for a discouraging and bleak cause – a cause I knew to truly be so much greater than the pain that felt so real to me.

The visit to the Taj Mahal changed that. A little boy, a child labourer named Raj, approached the group with the intent to sell key chains for ten rupees each. Now this was nothing new to us, and it seemed that everyone (the 60 Westerners attending Sonya’s wedding, that is) had become accustomed to ignoring soliciting kids. However, Raj was smart. And charming. And relentless. And impressed at least 100 rupees out of at least ten people in our group. I think he was actually only down three key chains at the end of the hour he spent with us, but up about 1,000 rupees. He effortlessly corrected my flawed Gujarati and proceeded to translate for me in Hindi.  And when Jesse asked him if he spoke other languages as well, he claimed to speak six more. And then he proved it. He rattled off full sentences with perfect accents. The kid was clearly brilliant. And that was the saddest part of all. Instead of applying his intellect, he spent his time selling key chains on the streets to tourists, depleting him of his potential. In the slums and in the unofficial child labourer industry, the nine-year-old was a success. He probably had a quota to meet and a family to supply for, so there was no way he would be able to go to school. And when we asked him about education, he essentially confirmed our assumptions.  The thought of Raj and his clever wit and impending dismal future stayed on my mind for days.

Child Labourers Class.

So the following week, when Broheim took us to the URC to visit the child labourer class, I was blown away. This was by far the most meaningful initiative to me, probably because it was so close to my heart and the recent experience in Agra. The class did not take the children off the streets, nor did it inhibit them from selling. Instead, it offered them the option to go to school on their own time. The kids were permitted to come and go as they could, for an hour here or an hour there – just enough to get some education – while continuing to earn the money they needed. And they seemed to cherish every minute of it. There was none of the customary grumbling and griping about having to go to school. They seemed fascinated and proud of everything they were learning. And were so excited to show off when the new “teachers” (i.e. broheim, the parents and I) entered the room. One kid told us that when he grew up, he was going to be a teacher too. It is no wonder that broheim speaks of the work he’s doing with such ardor and enthusiasm.  It is amazing. And fulfilling. And it makes me so proud that broheim is making an impact with a cause I had once rendered hopeless. I had been so wrong; I could actually see the hope that day – glistening right there in the kohl-lined eyes of the children of the slums.

Broheim and me.

Love / miss you, broheim.

-sister

~ by findingrickshaw on January 28, 2009.

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