once upon a time there was a continent, country, classroom
it looked like this
thousands of hungry children
hungry to learn and play with organic language
streamed through shuttered light
passing wood worn habitats of humanity
taking a seat
they opened their head
they opened their heart
they opened their mouth
Inside Drapchi prison near Lhasa, Chinese guards beat Tibetan nuns and monks with rubber hoses filled with sand.
They applied electric cattle prods to their bodies, sending wire cranked juice through skeletons, extracting screams. Denounce the Dalai Lama, screamed one soldier, a young lackey from Human Province. He tightened metal screws around a woman’s wrists, bending them back at a horrendous angle until she screamed from pain, Never!
He wiped her blood off his broken glasses and increased the pressure. It was a job.
I am doing my DUTY, he screamed.
Save my face, sang a Chinese girl, an innocent victim of the national genocide one-child policy wringing out a mop made of spider webs inside water rainbows.
She languished in a large bland cavern classroom at a private business university in Fujian. It was private because all the students had failed higher level exams for more prestigious universities. They settled for this prison. She cleaned crumbling uneven cement floors with strands doing her Duty.
Beijing operatic actors fashioned death masks for their performance in a funeral formula.
Once upon a time there was this small dusty town at the edge of the Medina. A huge decrepit filthy amazing series of connected passageways branched off the square.
A traveler found some high quality silver bracelets, inspected old Tuareg jewelry, rugs, carpets, bowls, dishes, green ionized utensils, a long bullwhip, elaborate Berber bags and junk. In a courtyard men bought and sold bags of recycled pots, pans, brass, and silver as merchants haggled.
The day was hot. The souk was cool. As he walked past endless supplies of mass produced stuff for tourists he slipped into photographing mode without being obtrusive. The camera is an eye and mirror.
He was lost on purpose. He knew every twist and turn and followed the smell of leather. Inside a small narrow corridor he turned into a maze of tight alleys. People lived in poverty here, their scraps of clothing on thin lines in stale air.
Inside a small room a boy, 10, applied coats of thick viscous liquid paste to leather. The traveler wanted to make a photograph of his face. An older boy demanded too much money. They offered him a chair.
The bare room was 8x10. The fumes were overwhelming. The traveler sat, negotiated and tried to avoid inhaling the fumes. No ventilation. A dim light, empty walls with leather punching tools, piles of treated leather, new leather needing the brush. They engaged in broken animated conversation and when the traveler knew they had no deal he left.
This was the only way to deal with some people, show them your back, show them the soles of your shoes. Business is business. They sang. Brushing down leather.
They were part of the production process puzzle.
An area of low wages. In these under-regulated workshops you either keep up the pace or go hungry.
The boy earns $6 for a six-day week. Child labor and economic exploitation.
UNICEF has targeted Moroccan authorities to persuade artisans to stop hiring children under 12 and release those already employed for a few hours of schooling each week.
Metalworking is the most hazardous field, followed by jewelry and mosaic-making, because of the chemicals used. Children working with slipper-makers are exposed to vapors from the glue and dust causes respiratory problems for those working in the pottery sheds.
Child labor was linked to the politically sensitive question of educational provision.
Poor families regard schooling as of little use in the real world.
There has been little pressure as yet from political parties, trade unions, or wider public opinion for any stricter stance on child labor.
In the old slave market sun burned past the Red City throwing light into dust as men shoveled their way through earth, hauling stones with broken wheelbarrows. They dumped large round chipped stones in a site where a man in his straw hat picked them up laying them end to end.
Donkeys clipped along a busted narrow road. Some hauled carts of fruits and vegetables stacked in boxes to the clear blue sky. Others pulled wooden rolling semi-trailers of mattresses, end tables, odd furniture pieces to a distant home.
Homes were all cinder block. Men made the blocks, loaded them on pallets so donkeys could pull them to sites where they lay broken and whole waiting for generations to finish their education and get to work.
Donkeys pulled everything past men and boys repairing bikes and inoperable scooters along the road. Women with babies strapped to backs paced dust. Old men in djellabas hooded against wind shuffled in slippers.
Men prepared tea in alleys. They chopped leaves bought from an old man on his bike with fresh smelling mint spilling out of his crushed baskets. They brewed water, crammed leaves into a dented polished tea kettle, poured in water, threw in huge blocks of white sugar, closed the lid, poured some into a small glass, swished it around and poured it back into the tea pot. They poured tea by raising the pot high above the glasses so the murky sweet liquid would mix well.
Bad teeth in the country was a big problem.
“We’ve allocated a percentage to Asian sweat shops,” said a textile importer.
“To be specific, China, Thailand, Saipan, Malaysia, Vietnam, Burma and Cambodia — where one-third of the 60 million people make less than 56¢ a day. Laotian factory slaves are working overtime.
"They have absolutely no choice in the matter and a buck a day is a hell of a deal. Once the feds and W.T.O. leave us alone we should realize a handsome profit when all is said and done.”
“That’s nothing,” said an analyst, “it’s a two prong effort. We’ll construct air bases and military installations to control Middle East air space and two, we’ll let American corporations buy all the
(fill in the country here)
assets. We’re sitting on vast oil fields. Sweetmeat.”
“Perfect,” said the V.P. “Where’s my cut?” staring at a fleischer dripping blood.
A security advisor spoke. “Last March we launched the largest psychological operations in our 225 year history. We have eleven Psychological Operations Companies with 1,000 PSYOP personnel working to sway
(fill in the country here)
to join the rebuilding effort.”
“Are the PSYOP leaflets proving effective?” asked Colonel Sanderson with extra crispy clipped wings on his shoulders. He was molting. “We want them to see the democratic side of our occupation and walk on the bright side of life.”
“It’s a fine line, but propaganda is more based on untruth,” said a philosopher. “Their illiteracy rate is pretty high,” snarled a shoeless education major from Oxford.
Namaste,
Hugo in France recently connected with his thoughts on the Orphan Tourism article. This is what he wrote.
Hugo met Benoît sailing over The Silver Sea to Uruguay.
"It happened Benoit made a trip in a neighboring country named Cambodia.
"And there he saw. He saw the refugee camps on the border. He saw and he realized.
"He began the first Cambodian foundation to help children. The task was huge and often thank less.
"He had to deal with a lot of people, customs and beliefs. Blind or deaf children were considered as useless and cursed beings. You have no sight because you have a bad karma. You have a bad karma because you were evil in your previous life. You have what you deserve, so I must not care. At the time, there wasn't even a Braille system for Khmer language. They had to create it, with help from the Thai Braille language.
"He had to use his trust with great caution. Try to explain long term big projects to people more interested in small time big money.
"And however, here he is. Here they are. Twenty years later, they have their first few bachelors. Those who don't pursue studies do traditional work, earning money for their families, who don't see them as useless anymore. The foundation is recognized by Unicef, and its staff is mostly Cambodian.
"We discussed about humanitarian associations, and he said to me a lot of them are runby either unprincipled or too naive persons. Due to his financial work experience, he was able to give his own association a solid and viable structure.
"But this kind of practice is not so common in such organizations. He also told me about the complete stupidity which is called child sponsoring. Attract western compassion, but create division. I am a sponsored child, you are not. The road to hell is paved with good intentions..."
Cambodia roads are red dust.
Thank you Hugo.
Metta.
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