| Children's Lessons on Labour |
|
|
|
| Written by Chelsea Temple Jones | |||||||
|
What can a person learn by accidentally acquiring a child labourer? "The father bird protects the baby birds from..." I squint to read the answer. I am cross-legged on my bedroom floor with torn bits of notebook acting as fill-in-the-blank science flashcards. The boy crouched across from me seems lost, and the bags beneath his eyes look heavy against the flickering orange lantern light. The answer is enemies; father birds protect their babies from enemies. Mother birds do nothing. This is the sexist nature of Nepali schoolchildren's textbooks. We've been over this flashcard several times and I begin anxiously folding it, irritated because I wanted to be in bed hours ago. The boy stares at me, hoping for a hint. His eyes are like yellow globes in a flat, sleepy face. He has some Sherpa blood--at age 15 he is half my height, but built to be broad with steady legs to scale the Himalayas like his ancestors. His name is Monu. He is a servant, and he must memorize the basics of English if he is to climb to sixth grade. I encountered Monu a few days following my arrival in Nepal. I woke to the sun painting my pocket-sized bedroom pink. The room belongs to my Nepali host-family. I heard crying roosters and a knock on the door. In the hallway stood Monu, holding a mug of fragrant milk tea. I took in his excited smile and assumed him to be younger than 10 years old. I thanked him, and without a word he turned and scurried away, glancing back as if to double-check something. During morning meal I didn't see Monu. "Is that your son?" I asked my host-parents, who laughed in response. "Our son is far away, going to become an engineer," said my host-dad. Both of their children live abroad. My host-mom explained that Monu belonged to a family "in the village" and he would stay with them to do his schooling in the city. Distracted by my lingering culture shock, I accepted this answer. I was eager to begin my research on human trafficking in Nepal, and on the way back to my bedroom I stepped over Monu as he quietly swept the carpet with a horse-haired brush. In the coming weeks I saw Monu rush in and out of the house sporting his school uniform. In the afternoons he stood on the roof looking at mountain peaks poking out from behind the cityscape. There, he absorbed the street sounds of honking horns and revving motorcycles, which floated up to the tip of our four-storey home. Monu never spoke to me. He seemed to float around like a friendly ghost without a word. I didn't see his silence as a problem since I'm not someone who warms to kids easily. I watched Monu as he helped my host-mom prepare the meals, then he would fill his plate with double the food of anyone else. He always had seconds and thirds. Yet, he ate alone, on the steps outside of the kitchen. For weeks I assumed Monu slept in a bedroom upstairs until I saw him crawl into a cubbyhole that might normally be used for storage. Upon a rather snoopy, close inspection I saw that the walls were marked with dirt, and the floor padded with blankets. Monu's schoolbooks stood in a tattered pile in the corner. Gradually, I learned more about my host-family. My host-dad is a chipper man who hums and sings and works for the government. He also acts as Monu's math tutor. My host-mom is pious and gentle with well-manicured nails. She is a teacher at a government school for girls. Unlike many women of her caste, my host-mom is unafraid to talk about taboo issues such as domestic violence, or the dropout rate in her classroom if free pads aren't available for girls beginning menstruation. She boasts a portfolio of advocacy with Amnesty International and she helps to run a publication to represent regional women's teacher's unions. I asked my host-mom to explain Monu's domestic kinks, expecting it to come down to caste--my host-parents are Brahmins, Nepal's highest caste, while Monu's tattered shirt and saggy grey sweatpants suggest that he comes from a lower caste. She told me Monu is too shy to eat so much in front of everyone else, and he insists on sleeping in small spaces to replicate his village home. With Monu nodding obediently at her side, I once again accepted this answer. One day, I finally got used to Kathmandu. Preoccupied by my work, the gritty third world became the backdrop for an average day, and for a moment I forgot that children were running around and cleaning beneath my feet. I fell into my routine, quietly swept along by a small brigade of child labourers. They seemed to appear here and there naturally, as though they were as static and practical as furniture in a room. I discussed my research with anti-trafficking advocates over meals prepared by their part-time staff. I even met an American working for Little Hands, a children's rights group, who employs a young girl to do his laundry because he can't find anywhere else for her to go. In neighbourhood restaurants "tea boys" served me, and in rundown beauty parlours girls offered to cut my hair. For the sake of survival, many of these children behave like adults, authoritatively collecting bus fare and bargaining fiercely over papayas and oranges. Over a rare dinner out with two girlfriends, one a lawyer, I mentioned Monu's strange circumstances. The lawyer sighed, "I guess its true when they say child labour will never stop until the rich refuse to employ children." Her words cut the air, slicing my invisible forgetfulness. I tried not to look stunned and stupid since I never blatantly thought of Monu as a child labourer. Monu does not work in a sweatshop or a notorious Nepali carpet factory. He can go home to his family on holidays. He is never hungry. Yet, the lawyer was right; Monu unknowingly personifies a rampantly common issue in the Kathmandu Valley. Until then I considered child labour a systemic problem with systemic solutions, something I could help mitigate by keeping a sharp eye on the products I purchase in Canada, and perhaps some monetary donations to far away NGOs when I can afford it. I never thought I would be living with a child servant. At the same time, I was writing about girls trapped in brothels, or sold as domestic sex slaves. I began to connect Monu to my investigation into trafficking. I learned that Monu's family is paid a lump sum by my host-parents for his services. In exchange, my host-parents provide his schooling, food and clothing. Monu is a vague example of bonded labour. In the world of trafficking, bonded labour is a grim thing if a family unknowingly sells its children to a person with abusive intentions, something not uncommon in stories that end with children in brothels. Yet, my host-mom is proud to have Monu. Because there is no school in Monu's village, and his father is a construction worker, likely earning less than 100 Nrs (60 Canadian cents) each day, my host-mom believes that she is doing him a favour. As long as he keeps his grades up, he can stay. "The last boy, before Monu, he never read," she told me, so she sent him home. Feeling guilty for not figuring it all out sooner, I tried to give Monu a break. I routinely bought him candy, and once walked him to a bookstore for an English Dictionary and a book of his choice. He plucked an illustrated Nepali folktale for children off of the shelf without a word. I tried to explain to my host-parents that I no longer needed tea in the morning, but Monu continued to serve me. I invited Monu to join us for dinner, but he refused. I introduced him to pizza one evening at a local restaurant, but after inhaling each slice he remained quiet, too shy to speak. Monu's silence with me continued, although I would sometimes hear him responding to my host-mom's orders in Nepali. He has the deep voice of a gruff man that doesn't match his frame of a little boy. I learned that Monu likes to do quiet things on his own. He dislikes studying, but he enjoys dissecting appliances only to put them together again, and he can lean over the counter with his ear to the radio for hours. Once, I accidentally walked in on him as he was dancing in the kitchen, which earned me a few days of deeper, less welcoming silence. Because his midterms are approaching, I'm helping with English science so he can stay in this home for at least another year. He wants to sleep after working for more than 12 hours in a day, but he must study to keep his job. My host-mom had to coax Monu to sit and talk to me because he is so timid. She did this with sweet tea and a pastry. That was nearly two weeks ago. Now we have fallen into a routine of sleepy study sessions beginning around 9:00 p.m, after his housework is finished and the city's electricity is routinely extinguished for the night. Child labour, I've learned, is not an easy problem to solve in a place where school is not mandatory, and people must sell their children because they are poor. Culturally speaking, children's rights are not clear. My host-mom believes she is enhancing children's rights by employing a child. I do not agree, but social change does not happen quickly enough for Monu to make it through childhood successfully without my host-family's help. There are organizations to help children, but they are overrun with work trying to rescue domestic labourers who are abused or enslaved in the worst ways we can imagine. Monu, at least, is safe. I have no other ideas for him. When it comes to the father bird protecting the baby birds, Monu's fill-in-the-blank options are these: crane, nest, enemies, and roost. It is more a matter of memorizing English than comprehending science and sexism. "The father bird protects the baby birds from..." I am fading now, exhausted. Monu's posture straightens and he smiles. "Maoists?" I look at him in disbelief. Between his silences he has only ever told me memorized sentences about fauna. I have never heard him crack a joke. He suddenly looks frightened by my reaction, so I let out the laughter. Monu laughs, too, and he can't stop. He is on the ground, almost teary. Somewhere inside he is cheeky, able to mock the new ruling political party whose history of bloodshed throughout Nepali villages, like his own, is a contentious topic. We laugh so hard that we are too tired to move on to the next flashcard, but I'm glad he's finally figured this one out. Personally, I'm still confused. I am leaving this house now, partly because my host-parents are demanding a rent I can no longer afford, and partly because I am uncomfortable with a child doing my chores. I am worried for Monu. He has no friends, and no outlet for his hobbies. Most crucially, he is expected to be studious without having the time or tools necessary to study. His life may depend on his book smarts. Tomorrow I will try to convince my host-parents that Monu really was studying long after they went to bed. I hope they give him credit for trying hard, because I doubt he understands enough bird-related words to pass his exam. Comments (1)
 Write comment
| |||||||
|
|||||||
Show/Hide comments
Show/Hide comment form
| < Prev | Next > |
|---|
