My Story. By Jenna F. Rays of sunshine are precious diamonds to me. For rarely do those golden beams filter

Transcription

1 My Story By Jenna F. Rays of sunshine are precious diamonds to me. For rarely do those golden beams filter in through the dirty windows. Our only light is an ancient, electric lamp in the middle of the room, which harshly illuminates our haggard faces as we weave. The sole evidence for the unseen sun is the heat: sweat drips from our chins and our arms. The only other movement in the room is our hands. They fly about in perfect rhythm with each other as the shuttle goes back and forth. Today is no different than any other. I do not even know the date. Is it still 2009? But the date is not of importance. We will weave in until we are instructed to stop, only to continue the unending toil the next morning. At midday, I hear voices outside the thick wooden door to this weaving room. The heavy locks on the outside of the door are undone: their metallic sounds echoing through the room. The door swings open, and three people enter. At the sight of them, my heart fills with a black cloud. The first two are tall, and their heads brush the ceiling. Their faces are hateful and scarred. Their prey, a young boy, is dragged in behind them. The boy is an unfortunate new arrival. A rope binds his hands, but the only incentive he needs to quell any obstreperous actions is the small handgun held to his skull. Brimming with tears of rage, his black eyes dart around in terror and roll like those of a savage horse. He then looks askance at men who hold him captive. The boy needs not worry though for now. These men are docile compared to Badal.

2 Badal the master. He is the reason why I so rarely venture into thought as I sit weaving. If I do think, his evil face haunts every corner of my mind. Badal is the one who has been controlling this nightmare of a life for nine years; I am his slave. The others in this room, with dull eyes and haggard faces, are his slaves. The boy, now being forced to sit down into the empty space next to me, is his slave. As the boy sits, tears, heated by my boiling anger, threaten to run down my face. But these tears are not for him they are for Sakina. For the last few days, I hoped that she would return. But I realize that the boy is her replacement. She is gone forever. Was it not enough to have made her work at the looms for five years? What right do these men have to force girls like Sakina into prostitution? With guns, with threats, and with deception these enslavers manipulate our lives. If they want Sakina to become a prostitute, she becomes one. When they decide to make me follow in Sakina s footsteps, I too will be sold into prostitution. If they want us to weave all night and day to meet our quota, it is done. We have no choice. Like trees in the wind, if we do not bend to their wishes, we break. They break us in so many ways. Anali, now weaving the other side of the room, was tricked into coming into Badal s service with promises of work and an education. After her first step into this building, she was trapped. She found work of course, but for no pay; she received education, but it was a schooling in injustice. Her sunken eyes and

3 skeletal figure testify to the treatment she has received. Dhara, like Anali, had also been exploited by our enslavers. Ten years ago, her husband s farm was failing, so she took out a loan from Badal. Now, she the only one left of her family: her husband fell sick and died after being overworked and her children were sold off as prostitutes. Ten years of work and the death of her family members are still not enough to pay of her loan from Badal. I wonder if she will ever be free from him. These women are just two of the many these enslavers have broken or are breaking. I am not exempt from these stories of sadness. When I was little, I was called Naima. Though I had been born in the poorest part of a city in India, my life had been a joyous one. I had a family, and would play for hours with my young brothers. On a trip to the market, my siblings and I had initiated a game of tag. Venturing into the alleyways adjoining the market, I had laughed gleefully to myself at my cleverness. What I had thought was the perfect hiding spot was really my entrance into wretchedness. And my siblings never did find me, for Badal did. Ever since, I have been a slave. My story certainly seems like a nightmare or a dark, Bollywood drama. Yet, this is my reality. Though I am only fifteen years of age, the memory of being a poor, but free child is a distant dream. I wonder how many people would look up from their cell phones, would turn off their televisions, or would stop their cars if they realized that our daily lives were spent in misery. Would they believe that we are whipped and beaten if we show the slightest hint of disrespect to our enslavers? Would they be incredulous to hear that we weave for countless hours a day with no break? Would they shudder at the

4 feel of my hardened, arthritic, fifteen-year-old hands? Would they weep when they see I can be sold into prostitution, or even killed, at the word of my enslaver? I am suddenly jolted back to reality. The boy, sitting next to me, has clumsily knocked over his weaving. After standing it back up, he attempts to manipulate the tangled agglomeration of string in front of him. I see he is having trouble. The men have briefly left the room, and so, amazed at my own temerity, I talk to the boy. What is your name? I ask him. I do not know what prods these questions, but somehow I feel a connection with the boy. I know how it feels to be captured like prey in the claws of these monsters. I have also experienced what the boy will go through in his enslaved life: hope of rescue, anger, vehement nostalgia, despair, and finally indifference. But, curiously, my indifference is fading with the arrival of the boy. I wait a few seconds for him to answer, but he only sullenly casts his eyes down, avoiding my gaze. Eternity passes. They cannot hear you, I say, referring to the men. The boy looks around suspiciously, and then answers me in a whisper, Sahas. Sahas, put the shuttle here, I say as I point to the loom. I find the end of the string so that he can begin weaving. This however, does not seem to help him. His childish fingers clumsily attempt to weave, but to no avail.

5 At that moment, the bolts on the door are once again drawn on the other side of the door. Badal, accompanied by his two men, strides in to examine his recent catch. Badal is fearful to look at and difficult to describe. One can almost imagine a mist of evil and avarice around his dark, scarred face. His heavy eyebrows, like thunderclouds, contrast against his black eyes. His iron hands are gripping a cruel whip, and the shape of a handgun is outlined in his pocket. Grinning a malicious, greedy smile, Badal walks over to the trembling Sahas. He is not good for weaving, but we can send him to rock quarries, Badal says in a low voice as he scrutinizes Sahas. He reaches for Sahas s arm in order to feel his muscles, but Sahas shies away, knocking over the loom in front of him. A crash resounds and the other women jolt to attention. The loom lies in pieces on the floor. The room is frozen all attention is on Badal. Badal s fists clench. His face twists into a fiendish grimace. He waves his hand to signal his men over. They grasp Sahas s arms and viciously turn him over so he is prostrate on the floor. In a second, Badal s whip is out. He brings the lash down in Sahas s bare back, ripping his flesh. Again, the lash comes down. Sahas cries out in agony. Between lashes, Badal angrily growls, Your mother already owed me a lifetime worth of work. Your workload will double until you can pay this off too. I sit motionless, my eyes following the assiduous lashes. I am aghast. A double

6 workload for Badal would kill even the strongest man Sahas, who is at most eight years old, will be dead in a week. I feel despair. We are but marionettes made to move and dance at the slightest movement of our puppeteer, Badal. A feeling now wells up over the despair in my soul. It is a tiny ripple at first, slowly growing into a giant wave. In my nine years here, never have I ventured to let this feeling flourish. My indifference, like a water dam, had quelled the violent rush of waters. But nine years of watching the injustice of my enslaver has worn away at that dam. Sakina and Sahas are the final cracks. Sahas continues to scream in pain. The blood flows freely off of his back. He may not have to work double, for Badal may kill him first. With every lash, the dam inside me is getting weaker. My hands are damp with sweat, and my heart is beating quickly. I know that if I speak, I face the same fate as Sakina or worse. But I cannot stay silent any longer Stop! I cry, standing up. You will kill him! My words have the desired effect. Badal, speechless, drops his blood-stained whip and stares at me. His incredulous gaze sends shivers down my spine. The longest moment of my life passes. Bring her over, Badal says eerily.

7 Without another word, the men hurry over, grip my arms, and force me down on my knees before Badal. Badal walks around until he is facing my back. A searing pain accompanied by a horrid crack of the whip tears down my back. I stay silent, knowing from experience that protest only brings more lashes. Five more lashes rip open the flesh and scars on my back. Tears blind my eyes, and I bite my tongue desperately to keep from opening my mouth. Badal ceases to lash me. After barking orders to his two men, I am dragged out of the room. The heavy door closes behind me. They lead me into a hallway, high in the building, with a solitary window. Wait here, Badal says. He goes down another dark hallway. As we are stalled in the hallway, I crane my head to look out the open window. My eyes open wide, and my heart flutters. Can it be? I see the afternoon sun. Its golden light illuminates the earth far below us. My attention diverts to a man riding his bike in the crude streets. Oblivious to the world around him, he sways to the beat of the music streaming from the headphones around his head. I cannot see his face, but I imagine a pleasant smile lighting his countenance. Whether he knows it or not, he is free. He can come and go as he pleases. He can feel the glorious rays of the sun upon his back; I only feel the sting of the whip. I want to yell down to him, but my voice would only be carried away in the breeze.

8 I do not know if I will ever be free if this nightmare will ever end. When Badal comes back, I will be taken to some unknown place, probably to be sold as a prostitute. My future, as well as the future of the other slaves, is a path draped in a black haze. I don t know how many thousands of Naimas or Sahases or Sakinas there are in the world. But I do know that we need to be free.