2007 Essay Contest - 1st Place Essay - Age 13 -17

Compassion and the Working Child

 

By Priscilla M. - Age 17
Cairo, Egypt

My heart is overflowing with compassion for them. My eyes are overflowing with tears because of them. My spirit knows I will always fight for them; the children of the world.

It happened a week ago. As a member of the church youth, I had graciously volunteered to accompany a team of university students on a trip to the garbage village in Egypt. Yes, I live in Egypt, where one can’t help but notice the reticent, ill-looking children loitering on the maze of streets in Cairo. This image though, at that time, did not strike me as abnormal; on the contrary, I hardly even noticed the hoards of children around me in my everyday maneuvers around Cairo. I had become numb to the sight of the poor and weak, never once asking myself what life these children lead. They were out of my bubble, and I never noticed them while the transparent encompassment held me captive for far too long, until now.

That day, we drove slowly over the mounds of waste and garbage. I was nauseous, thinking to myself that no human was capable of leading a life in this part of hell. The odor wafted up into my tensed nostrils as it gradually leaked into the car and through the closed windows. I glanced at the people outside behind the protection of the car window. They were living in this part of hell, but I paid no heed to this as I supposed that they didn’t mind it, and felt that it was their everyday duty to collect garbage from thousands of homes in Cairo. I later realized that it was not only my perception that was warped, but that of every human. Through the corner of my eye I suddenly spotted a child squatting in a mound of garbage, gaping at us. As soon as I glanced at him, he quickly shifted his round, black eyes back to the garbage and began to sort through it. I could see his hands touching mold and slime, things I did not recognize. I jolted my head back and looked around me to see if anyone had witnessed what I had just seen. I pressed my face to the window again, hoping to catch one last glimpse of the child, but as I did so I realized and endeavored to understand why it was that all of the garbage sorters were children: small, dirty, underfed, and overdeveloped children as a result of this grueling work forced upon them.

All day and every day, this was their life; they knew nothing else. With their tiny bodies they labored and would sort through all of the garbage in hopes of recycling most of it and creating something to sell. The men would collect the garbage, heaving it all over the city, and the women’s job was to weave and create beautiful and intricate ornaments. I bought one of these crafts but I couldn’t fully appreciate it. It cut through my heart to think of the children who had to endure strenuous labor at such a young age. My bubble was slowly disappearing.

We gave the children some food, mostly rice and beans to last them some weeks, but we also indulged them with chips and candy. I have never seen children so ecstatic over food. After I took one on my lap, we began to sing them songs; and after the first confusion as to why we were displaying such overwhelmingly benign behavior, their faces beamed with delight and joy, not to mention gratitude. I could not comprehend my own ignorance. Was everyone like me? People just sat at home, threw away their garbage and never gave it a second thought. When I finally wrenched myself away from those children, to see those faces fall was more than I could bear. I went home, not knowing if I would ever go back. The children went back to work, sure that I would never go back.

I went home with a mind full of images and thoughts foreign to me. My instant cure was to watch some television. As I flipped through the channels I stopped on the one where Oprah was on. I sat up as soon as she started talking. A picture of a little boy with haunted eyes was shown to the audience, and his eyes were the spitting image of the little boy I had seen that day. This boy was a child slave in Ghana, forced to work on a fishing boat doing strenuous labor in the night. I couldn’t deny or ignore it anymore, and I knew that I would go back to that child, back to help all children who faced the same injustices. I had witnessed only some of the hurt placed on children around the world, but now, I am thankful for the little experience I had, which proved to be a blessing.

Later, my friend gave me a picture she had taken of that boy who had so captured my heart. I keep it with me always. It is a treasure unlike any other, inducing and pushing me to serve God in ways unimaginable.

2007 Winning Essay - 1st Place - Age 12 and under

Looking at a photograph, what do I see?

 

By Colleen Kelly, Age 12
Quincy, MA

My soft hand caressed the faces of poor, working children in photographs. Staring at their faces, feeling their pain, adrenaline rushed through my body. I was angry. These photos revealed lives without childhoods. The pain and sorrow I felt for the working child would impact my life tremendously. I was sitting in a middle school classroom looking at these photographs and wondering what I could do. My wise teacher came up to me with a suggestion to go to a Friday “end child labor” meeting.

At first that amused me because, I mean, me, a regular person, make a difference? I went to a meeting on a Friday. I wasn’t the most enthusiastic about it, but I went. Then, my teacher brought all the new members down the hall to a little display case. I always thought that case was a TV or something. I didn’t really care about it. The teacher started to tell a story of a little boy whose name was Iqbal. Iqbal, age four, was sold into child labor in a carpet factory because his family had debts to pay. When he worked in the carpet factory, he barely had enough food to survive each night. Finally, one day at the age of ten, he escaped. He finally got out. Eventually he was able to share his message about what he went through in the factory.

A few months later Iqbal received the Reebok Human Rights Award in Boston. All the kids were touched by Iqbal’s story. We now wanted to do something to help working children like Iqbal. The teacher continued by telling us that when Iqbal returned to Pakistan, he was riding his bike and he was shot and killed. At this moment, goose bumps were shivering through my body. I think it was the same for the rest of the kids. The teacher took a long pause and pointed to the display case that was to the left. He said that inside this box was a carpet that Iqbal had made. Iqbal actually visited our school the day before he accepted the Reebok award. We were all shocked. The teacher kept talking about Iqbal and what Broad Meadows did to help. The students back then wanted to do something, so they decided to start a school in Pakistan in Iqbal’s honor. The teacher said, “we can’t do this!” However, those words are not in the vocabulary of Broad Meadows students. They raised over 147,000 dollars and built a school in Pakistan! The teacher was amazed; he never thought that twelve-year-olds could do it. When he finished the long story, we went back to the classroom. It hit me like a ton of bricks why all these young people are here at the meeting. They heard the story; they felt the same compassion I did when I heard the story. Now I finally understand what kids my age can do to help the tens of millions of children like Iqbal all over the world.

Compassion for the working child is basically tough love to all of us who attend “end child labor” meetings. For us, it’s not just having compassion for the working child, it’s actually doing something to help working children help themselves.