Children

Today, the sun kissed us at the Bay of Bengal. As sure as the sea salt wove its foamy fingers upon my goose prickled skin, it tasted like Bangladesh.

I rode the waves towards Bangladesh's oldest temple by speed boat.

Child labor is a normal thing here, not to be put socially to the same standards as Western views. Here, there is child labor because if there wasn't, children would have less ways to feed themselves, and still less likely to go to a non existent school.

The reason I speak of this was because that seemed to be my focus today, starting at the speed boat. The speed boat driver's assistant was a young boy, not more than eleven or twelve. His job was to sit at the tip of the boat to steer. By steer, it seems that steering meant to use his body weight to tip the boat along.

His face had so much fortitude in hardship, his blood full of the salt of sweat that long converted any tears he might of had. Hardened with dirt and caked in grim "do what I need to do" cement, he was a stone armored product of why children have been around longer than the word "fun" existed.

I looked at him and felt so much awe at his strength. I never got his name, just a picture...

Landing at the other side of the dock, past the dividing line of "fresh"water brown and sea water green (how fresh is debatable, though their term is "meashtie pani" which means sweet water, I'd say that is a more debatable term). I saw what seemed to be a fourteen year old rickshaw driver, he was so young, and he working in that type of life already.

What is the line between pure child and blamed upon adult? Innocent and guilty?

At the temple I took several pictures of little ones, they were more interesting to me than the sights. I fell in love with the Burmese women, selling their clothing, with shawls of beautiful patterns that D.C. girls seem to love. I thought of Sai and Tarika while looking at the designs. The women were so young and had peach colored designs painted on their cheeks and forehead. Selling in Bangla and making a living, getting married, and then having children who move on to do something similar.

I met a child named Ayatullah, asking if we wanted a picture taken on my camera. I took a picture of him instead. So many of them, not sure how they make ends meet, if they have parents nearby.

My longest encounter with the child labor force was with Rafique, the assistant to our driver. The back end of the ancient open roof truck did not lock, so he simply stood behind it, keeping it locked with his body weight. No seat, no barrier, just keeping on the end ledge in the Cox Bazaar traffic.

What makes these children smile? Running at each other with empty one liter soda bottles in epic sword duels, games of futbol if they can find a ball suitable...but not us. We are work, we don't make them smile, just help them on their living. Handing Rafique a 10 taka note, or the boatman's assistant, the Ayatullah...did not dent their faces (though Rafique had adorable dimples when he bashfully refused some sprite I offered him), it was just a part of life, not a reprieve in the sunlight, just another bit to the end of the say sum total of the cost of rice and lentils, maybe fish or some other meat if possible.

These children, they make up the future cogs of the human machine, one that is being stream lined in Bangladesh's digitization. Where will they be in a future of high rise building and natural disasters predicted by the onset of Global Warming? I want them to have a place here, well it doesn't matter what I think, look at the speedboat's assistant, he has hardened himself to handle anything, regardless of where his joy is placed.