The kids don’t know better
Factory managers prefer younger sewing helpers.
Their eyesight is better, their little fingers nimbly trim threads and they don’t fuss about backaches and neck pain.
“It works for everyone,” says Smitha Zaheed, who volunteers with the Dhaka-based Independent Garment Workers’ Union Federation.
“Factory owners get
workers who are not demanding . . . while the parents get to keep what
the kids earn because the kids don’t know any better,” she says.
But even at 9 years
old, Meem knows money helps buy things and improve the quality of life.
She knows it’s a tough world. Is she tough enough?
“I
want to work in a bigger factory one day … there is more money,” she
said one morning. But she is also intimidated by the idea. “But what if I
get lost there? I have heard there are hundreds of operators. And I
will never be able to know their names. Maybe I should stay here always.
This is so close to home.”
Meem
and Taaniya don’t think it is wrong that they are not in school.
Everyone they know works in the garment factory industry or as domestic
help.
The two girls would
share what they had learned over lunch of curries or lentil soup and
rice. Taaniya, ever the wise older girl, spoke of things her family
could now afford: a new bed, a new goat and many more salwar kameezes.
Taaniya told Meem that
if she earned enough, she wouldn’t have to get married and move away to
live with some strange man who might like her, or might not.
She could also buy a colour TV set one day, Taaniya said.
Taaniya is the third of four siblings and she regularly buys gifts for her oldest sister’s daughter.
Cheap fashion has
fuelled a social revolution in Bangladesh. It has given women more
economic freedom, and to an extent, the power to make some decisions. By
all accounts, working women are changing their lives, their families’
lives. There is more food in homes, and cleaner clothes. There is
electricity, even if it’s one bulb, and there are toilets.
But it has come at a price.
Meem liked playing in the rain. She liked sleeping in on Sundays and holidays. She liked playing with her three baby sisters.
The factory has become her life, the life she will likely know for a long time, maybe all her days.
Quiet acceptance
At the end of my first
day of work, I returned to my Dhaka hotel a little after 6 because I
didn’t stay back for overtime. My back hurt, I had a nosebleed from
sitting in the wicked heat, and my head ached. I was hungry but couldn’t
eat. I smoked half a pack of cigarettes and watched the minutes tick by
until 9 o’clock and I knew Meem would have finally left for home.
My backache was worse the second day. So was the despair.
The third day, I didn’t want to go back. I didn’t want to see Meem. I didn’t want to see her ever again.
It was mostly because
Meem did not look unhappy. She was okay with working 12 hours every day,
she didn’t see anything wrong with sitting on the floor, she quietly
accepted the backache.
I could only think of another 9-year-old girl: Arshiya.
Arshiya, like Meem, is
bony with short cropped hair, an elfin smile. They are both smart and
clever. They are witty and fun to be around. They are partial to hugs.
Arshiya is my best
friend’s daughter, lives in an affluent neighbourhood in South Delhi,
attends a private school, is fluent in two languages and learning
German, is good at taekwondo and plays piano.
Last year, she wanted to be a jumbo aircraft pilot; this year a NASA scientist.
I remember nuzzling her head under my chin and teasing her: “As long as you don’t flunk math.”
A week later, I met Meem.
The little girl who did not attend school anymore, never had any time to play and dreamed of being a sewing operator one day.
As Meem would say: Sab bhalo, it is all okay.
