Free The Children. Craig Kielburger

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СКАЧАТЬ submit a simple form. The official told us to come back in ten days to get the visa. When it came time to apply at the Nepalese consulate, I was very thankful my father volunteered to go by himself.

      I wish he could have done the same when the day arrived for my vaccinations. I hate needles. The torture session commenced with the arrival of a stainless steel tray bristling with syringes. And after injections for typhoid, yellow fever, diphtheria and tetanus, the doctor announced that this was only the first round. “Come back in a week, and we’ll take care of hepatitis B and meningitis.” I was feeling like a pincushion.

      Everything was moving ahead, but still I hadn’t heard anything in response to all the faxes I had sent to organizations overseas. Without their input I couldn’t put a schedule together, and without a schedule I couldn’t make plane reservations. Without reservations, I couldn’t give Alam the information he needed. When I called to inquire about flights, the airlines wouldn’t take me seriously, or they quoted fares that were out of the question, and I was due to report to the doctor for the second round of dreaded injections. Grade 8 math was beginning to look easy.

      I retreated to the sanctuary of my bedroom.

      Sometime later that day, there was a knock at my door. My mother walked in with a smile on her face and three faxes in her hand. She didn’t say a word, just held out the faxes. They were all from Asia. They all asked, “When are you coming?”

      The organizations I had contacted all thought the trip was a great idea. They raised none of the concerns that had been raised at home in Canada. They would work with me to develop a schedule that best met my needs, and they assured me I would meet lots of working children. One of the groups, SACCS (South Asian Coalition on Child Servitude), only now realized that the person with whom they had been corresponding over the past several months was twelve years old. They were particularly excited by the trip and what it could do for the profile of child labour.

      Things were looking up!

      Now I really needed to get down to raising enough money for the trip. Besides the money I had saved from doing jobs around the house, and those I landed around the neighbourhood (raking leaves, cat-sitting, and so on), I raided my bank account, sold my hockey cards, and hinted to my relatives that early birthday or Christmas presents of a monetary nature would be greatly appreciated.

      My relatives came through wonderfully. They offered to do whatever it took. A few of them, I knew, had doubts about whether I should even be going, but that didn’t stop them from supporting me as much as they possibly could.

      Everything was coming together. A focal point for planning was something that came to be known as the Samosa Summit.

      Alam had decided to go ahead of me to Bangladesh and spend some time with his relatives. I would meet him there, and then we would set out on our trip across South Asia. He arrived at our house just a few days before his departure for Bangladesh, bringing with him a brown paper bag filled with vegetarian samosas from his favourite Indian restaurant. We sat around the kitchen table and set the samosas on a plate in the centre. I had never eaten Indian food before, and didn’t know what to expect from these triangles of pastry stuffed with minced vegetables and spices.

      As we began to outline my itinerary, I quickly realized that the three weeks over the Christmas holidays my parents had first agreed to were just not going to be enough. We added another week.

      “But what about Nepal?” I said. “It doesn’t make sense to go all that way and not get to Nepal.”

      Another week was added, and another.

      “We’ll give you the seventh week on one condition: that’s it. No more. Seven weeks, period. You can’t miss any more school.”

      As it was, I had to make a solemn promise to do as much school work as I could on the trip. Fortunately, my teachers had not argued against me going. They considered it a good educational experience—but just to be sure, they outlined all the school work I was to try to cover.

      My parents, of course, had a lot of questions for Alam about the trip. Did all the bus and train travel need to be organized in advance? If I fell ill, what would happen? Where would I be staying at each step? Were the places safe? How, in fact, would I meet working children? Could I even expect to get into the factories and sweatshops? Would it be safe to use the still and video cameras I was planning to bring?

      Alam pointed out that there was only so much planning that could be done beforehand, but I think my parents were reassured by his calm, businesslike approach. They knew he had my best interests at heart and would do all he could to make it a worthwhile trip for me, without ever sacrificing my safety.

      Through all our discussions, the samosas sat on the table uneaten. Finally, Alam reached for one, explaining that he had been careful to choose the mildest variety. “In India,” he said, “they are ten times spicier.” I could see that this would be a test of my ability to fit into Asian culture.

      Without hesitation, I took one and bit into it, convinced that if I could handle a Canadian samosa, I could certainly handle India. All eyes were on me as I started chewing.

      My mouth was on fire. I almost gagged. For someone to whom fast food meant pizza or fries, it was quite the mouthful.

      But I was determined not to spit it out. I gulped down a glass of water, swallowing half the samosa in the process. My mouth was still on fire. I tried milk, then yogurt. I gasped for breath and stubbornly smiled through teary eyes.

      Alam shook his head. We all laughed. I had, for the moment at least, bitten off more than I could chew.

      “I have a feeling,” Alam said, “this is going to be a very long trip.”

3 DHAKA

      I had been assigned seat 3B. The KLM flight attendant checked the blue dog tag around my neck identifying me as an unaccompanied minor, and insisted on leading me by my hand to the seat. Slowly and deliberately, she went through all the emergency procedures. When she had finished, she leaned over and demonstrated how to buckle my seat belt. She was back in a few minutes, asking if everything was all right. Just before take-off she appeared again, this time with a colouring book and crayons. I politely declined.

      I looked out the window as the 747 pulled away from the terminal buildings. Soon we were airborne, and below me was a steady stream of tiny cars. In one of those is my family, I thought—a family I won’t see for seven weeks. My mother probably still had tears in her eyes. I recalled my parents’ final words: “Call us each time you change locations or when you arrive in a new city. We have to know where you are at all times.”

      The cars grew smaller and smaller. A strange feeling grew inside me, an uncertainty mixed with intense excitement. The cars below merged into the fabric of the sprawling city, a carpet of life, and then even that was gone.

      It was dark when the plane landed in Amsterdam. After everyone else had deplaned, a flight attendant appeared, examined my charming dog tag, and escorted me off the plane. She directed me to one of the electric carts and we drove off, weaving a path through groups of passengers, honking the horn. I thought, This isn’t so bad after all!

      We pulled up to a door marked “UM.”

      “Unaccompanied minor,” she noted.

      She opened the door and led me inside. “Craig, you have eight hours until your flight departs.” She smiled. “Enjoy yourself.”

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