Breaking chains with a pen: A child’s dream of education
During my time as a volunteer for the UK Bangladesh Education Trust (UKBET), I was granted the opportunity to provide academic mentorship to a few children. These children were not "ordinary" by any means; they were gifted. Like warriors marching relentlessly to the battleground, these children were armed with a weapon mightier than swords: a pen. Equipped with the pursuit of knowledge, they strode fearlessly towards an unknown life—a life of forced labour.
One of them was Hamza. Unjustly thrust into the harsh world of child labour in a cruel turn of fate, Hamza grew up working with his uncle in their chotpoti shop. While many of us aspire to grand ambitions, Hamza's dream was simple: he longed to know what it was like to sit in a classroom, to be given homework, to call himself a student instead of a worker. He yearned to play football with the schoolchildren he watched through the bars of the school gates. For most of his nine years, he believed that dream would go unfulfilled.
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Upon first meeting him, I was warmly welcomed by the ceaseless clatter of Ceylon olives crashing against the tin roof of their room, followed by Hamza's radiant smile. From that moment on, our journey together began. I taught him how to convert proper fractions to percentages, while he taught me to see life from an entirely new perspective.
The first couple of months were admittedly challenging. At times, I would sit patiently, awaiting Hamza's arrival amid the turmoil of everyday hardships faced by those living within the crumbling walls of the slums. Mothers shouting vehemently at their children for losing a pencil they had worked hard to purchase, the noise of rickshaws arriving as fathers walked into their homes with barely a few hours' worth of earnings—it all seemed too overwhelming.
Gradually, it started to become easier. Over the course of six months, Hamza, along with his peers, guided me to capture the essence of life from a humbler vantage point. In our first class, I brought small gifts as a customary gesture. To my surprise, Hamza persistently refused to accept them. When asked why, he told me that he had never received a gift from his family, let alone a stranger. I probed further, asking him about birthdays, to which he responded that he did not know when his birthday was. After all, there was never an opportunity to celebrate it.
Often, we tend to forget that the children who spend most of their lives next to sidewalks are real human beings, with hopes and dreams just like ours. We pass by them every day, without really noticing, to the point where it becomes so routine that it fades into the background. If we fail to fulfill our responsibility to show concern where it's needed, and if we don't make even a small effort to be dutiful citizens, then who will?
Looking back, some of the exchanges we all had were truly unique: like the time when Hamza and his siblings ecstatically asked me if I had ever boarded an aeroplane, or when they argued among each other for 15 minutes regarding the price of my iPhone, ultimately concluding that it was Tk 10,000—which, according to them, was also enough to purchase a whole commercial aeroplane.
Needless to say, a Hamza exists in every corner of our country: a child whose talents, qualities, and dreams slipped through our fingers, lost to the eternal chains of child labour. Ambitious children with hopes of becoming somebody washed away with the tides of hazardous labour due to societal neglect and ignorance.
In this scenario, Hamza was fortunately rescued by the non-profit I volunteered for. Sadly, that is often not the case with the victims of thousands of cases of child labour towards which we tend to turn a blind eye. For every Hamza saved, there remain 30 more Hamzas who remain bound by the merciless grip of forced labour.
Often, we tend to forget that the children who spend most of their lives next to sidewalks are real human beings, with hopes and dreams just like ours. We pass by them every day, without really noticing, to the point where it becomes so routine that it fades into the background. If we fail to fulfill our responsibility to show concern where it's needed, and if we don't make even a small effort to be dutiful citizens, then who will?
The effort the children put in every time they picked up a textbook, their competitive drive to achieve higher grades than their peers—all of it pointed to a potential that is almost permanently lost. To think that the talents and skills of such curious young minds may, in some cases, perpetually remain underutilised is an injustice in itself. According to a recent study, over 47 percent of child labourers in Bangladesh were not attending school, and from my own primary research, 73 percent of them reported a desire to one day receive some form of schooling. Despite their aspirations, they remain in the clutches of often-benighted employers.
As the next generation moves forward, with many of us fortunate enough to benefit from education, let's commit to taking initiative. Let's strive to make positive changes in society, even if they are small acts, such as offering an extra bottle of water to someone in need. Or perhaps something even simpler, like a warm-hearted smile and a gesture of empathy to a child caught in these difficult circumstances. While these may seem insignificant to many of us, for them, it could make their entire day.
I no longer teach Hamza or his siblings now, and to my knowledge, his family has relocated to a remote village in search of better opportunities. While I do not know what he may be up to these day and if he still thinks that aeroplanes cost Tk 10,000, I sure hope he has been able to find a means of achieving his dreams and ambitions—perhaps starting simply with the chance of sitting in a classroom.
Wajahat Shams Wajih is a two-time winner of The Daily Star Award for Excellence for his outstanding achievement in IGCSE and International A Levels examinations. He is also a Bronze Awardee from the Duke of Edinburgh (DofE).
Views expressed in this article are the author's own.
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