A child stood in front of me, his grimy hand spread out in a gesture to ask for money. I looked at his face — brown, rough skin smeared with streaks of dust and dried tears with dull eyes. I looked at him again and again. His scrawny body, due to meal-less days and insufficient nourishment, was crudely hidden by thin garbs. I felt a sudden surge of emotion for him. His sad eyes raised countless questions in my mind. No sooner did he see my hand dive into my purse, his eyes lit up. But the hand re-emerged empty for something forced me not to give him money. The momentary glow on his smudged face vanished as I said, “Maaf karo.”
The signal turned green and I was out of there like a bullet. The last I saw of him, he stood frozen, surprised at the sudden turn of events. I wondered what he would do. I viewed the dusky setting of the city outside the car window. It looked like a landscape — a mural. Orange clouds were dotting the sky. Night was about to set in. Suddenly, the beggar boy came back, blocking all other views. He, with his extended hands, tarrying on the streets for a new car and a new prey.
My mum and younger brother were waiting over tea for me. I greeted them as I sat down, devouring the creamy scones, while sipping piping-hot tea. Again, the boy was back. I could vividly recall his squalid cheeks and fragile body. The street urchin must be hungry. I felt a lump in my throat. The scone became tasteless. He did not go to school. He lived in a slum.
“Saba,” My mother’s soft voice interrupted my uneasy thoughts, snapping me back to reality. Her look was one of concern. “Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” I said meekly. “It’s just the heat making me dizzy.” I gave her a reassuring smile.
After that, off and on, I would recall the sight of the boy — on my way to college or shopping — he would be there with a new face and a new voice.
A repair shop owner slaps one of his minor labourers. He pushes him and the kid falls to the floor. The owner blurts out a series of abuses, not at all fit for a child’s ears. He gets up, his head hung low and his face crimson with humiliation. A battered ego.
What can the child do? Nothing.
A cute, adorable child sits at Hasan Square from morning to evening. In traditional Pathan dress, with kohl in his eyes, gazing into space, saying nothing. His father, handicapped in the Afghan war, sits next to him. The boy is prettier than the average child. Fair and chubby, he receives a lot of attention from car drivers and pedestrians.
As I sat in the room with my father, Imran, my nine-year-old brother came into the room, perplexed. “Dad, what do we call a man who does gardening.”
“I don’t know. Go ask your mum,” my father retorted.
“But she said I should ask you,” he explained.
“Why do we send you to school? Ask your teacher and don’t bother me,” my father exploded.
Next day, sitting at the dining table, the family was engrossed in a heated debate. “You must not eat with your left hand. My teacher says that,” Imran innocently gabbled. The comment was directed towards my elder brother, Farhad.
Farhad got up and slapped Imran on the face. “When will you learn to respect elders? How can you talk to me like this? Go straight to your room and don’t come out till I ask you to.” Large tears rolled down Imran’s cheeks. My parents nodded in approval.
I sat quietly. Event after event contoured the problem, clearing away the eerie mist. The root cause came out. The beggar, the minor mechanic and Imran! Although they belong to different tiers of society, there is an analogy between them. They are all children. They are all innocent. They are united by a similar grudge, an indictment against all adults who claim to be authority. Their basic rights are exploited. They are not acknowledged as separate entities. Children’s rights are not accepted as human rights.
Every day, more and more children are coming out on the streets. Child abusers and traffickers victimize thousands. The government is asleep and the citizens deep in slumber as well, oblivious to the stark realities of life. Children are falling in the trap of forced prostitution. Social workers parch their throats with lofty claims. They merely pay lip service in an environment which needs concrete steps.
Children’s rights are the building blocks for a solid human rights culture and the basis for securing human rights for future generations. A child needs special protection and care. They must be able to depend on adults to take care of them, to defend their rights and to help them develop and realize their potential. But it remains a dream in the midst of thousands of children castigated by felonies. They are freely exploited at home and on the streets.
It is a child’s right to be heard, to have his opinions on matters affecting him taken into account. In our lofty magnanimity, we impress our own opinions on them.
A beggar’s perseverance nauseates us. A newspaper seller’s pleas are brushed off. We chide our house servants for being clumsy. Sometimes, a long-lost shadow of sympathy would rest on our moods. We would blame the state’s slothfulness. “We are all prisoners of our own jails,” someone rightfully said. The state is not the only one responsible for these children. Being members of society, it is our social responsibility to tackle problems in the social arena and not add to them.
According to the Human Rights Convention of 1959: “Mankind owes to child the best it can give.”
A child is a human. It is every child’s right to grow up under shelter, in a family environment. What do we see around us? Street urchins squandering their childhood on boulevards which are their dwellings. They grow on their own, like wild mushrooms. Some have homes with too little resources to accommodate them and turn towards the streets for a piece of bread. Their life and death matters to no one. Street dwellers are a fetid but veritable reality. They need our support. If we comprehend children as humans, we would find it hard to drive past them, leaving them in a myriad of broken hopes and abuses.
Pakistan does not stand alone in child exploitation. Every year, over a million children are victimized the world over. Thousands are butchered in the name of social cleansing. Still, the problem is more irate for an underdeveloped country.
A child stood in front of me, his grimy hand spread out in a gesture to ask for money. I looked at his face — brown, rough skin smeared with streaks of dust and dried tears with dull eyes. I looked at him again and again. His scrawny body, due to meal-less days and insufficient nourishment, was crudely hidden by thin garbs. I felt a sudden surge of emotion for him. His sad eyes raised countless questions in my mind. No sooner did he see my hand dive into my purse, his eyes lit up. But the hand re-emerged empty for something forced me not to give him money. The momentary glow on his smudged face vanished as I said, “Maaf karo.”
