Free The Children. Craig Kielburger

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СКАЧАТЬ had learned that knowledge was our key, that the only way adults and students would take us seriously was if we knew what we were talking about and had a good response for every question. We had to be able to defend our views.

      Of course there was still an attitude from some adults we met that we were just a “cute bunch of kids” who had started a club. They wouldn’t take us seriously, just flash that all-knowing smile of approval that usually comes before a pat on the head.

      That didn’t deter us. We just pressed ahead.

2 TORONTO

      Pinned to the wall of our Free The Children office was a large map of the world. We had sent dozens of inquiries to organizations located all over that map, and with each response the world seemed to shrink. Our neighbours were no longer simply the kids down our street in Thornhill. They were the kids in India, in Africa, in Brazil. More than ever I thought of us—all of us—as the children of the world.

      Human rights organizations around the world sent us photographs of children released from bonded labour in carpet factories, newspaper reports of protest marches by children, and the ever-shocking statistics on child labour they had gathered from sources throughout their country.

      It was through one such organization that we learned of an explosion in a fireworks factory in Rhotak, India, that killed twelve children and injured dozens of others. From our fax machine emerged the startling pictures and media reports. I immediately sent copies, with a covering letter, to Barbara Hall, the mayor of Toronto. Free The Children asked for permission to speak to city council. Permission was granted, and the council members were obviously moved by the material we placed before them. They were uncertain whether any fireworks brought in by the city were being made by child labour, but they promised to investigate, and they passed a resolution not to purchase for city events any fireworks made by children. There were no doubts in our minds about such a resolution. These were hazardous jobs. Many children had been killed or scarred for life.

      As school closed for the summer, I was more enthused than ever about what we were trying to do. Besides the fireworks issue, our other major concern was the news from India that Kailash Satyarthi, one of the leaders in the fight against child bonded labour, was being harassed by police and threatened with imprisonment. Later we learned that he had been detained.

      Was there anything we could do? We decided to write a letter to the prime minister of India, insisting that Kailash be set free, and we organized a three-thousand-name petition. Both were put in a shoebox, which we wrapped in brown paper and mailed to the Indian government in Delhi. We had worked very hard, and it was an action we hoped would have some impact. A year later, when Kailash came to Canada to speak about his humanitarian work, he recalled the shoebox containing all those names of Canadian children. “It was one of the most powerful actions taken on my behalf,” he said, “and, for me, definitely the most memorable.”

      A highlight of the summer was the community garage sale we undertook to raise money for Free The Children and help spread our message. About fifty of our friends signed up to help.

      I don’t think our parents knew what hit them. We had put out the word that FTC wanted to collect anything and everything we might be able to resell. Soon the donations started to arrive: old toys, books, furniture, clothes—you name it. They were heaped across our backyard and throughout our house.

      We sat down and looked everything over.

      “What we have,” one of us concluded, “are countless piles of junk.”

      “Junk, but not useless junk.”

      “Some of it needs a little fixing up.”

      And for days we washed, cleaned, painted, sorted, and labelled. Of course, in between we played ball and cooled off in the swimming pool.

      The night before the sale, a couple of us slept outside in a tent with our dogs to protect all of the merchandise.

      At five-thirty the next morning, the first customers arrived. We weren’t quite prepared for what the following hours would bring; it was something a friend would later describe as “a character-building experience.”

      To every person who showed up, we explained our purpose for having the sale. Many of them congratulated us, and added a donation to the price of whatever they purchased. Others were just out for a bargain, including one guy who tried to walk off with a computer after paying only two bucks. My brother, Marc, the rugby player, put a stop to that.

      But it was much more than just a sale. Older kids dressed up as clowns to entertain younger kids while their parents shopped. There were organized games, bead bracelet vendors and a lemonade stand. We had FTC members with petitions on clipboards going through the crowds. TVO brought in a film crew.

      As the crowds grew, so did the traffic problems. People we hadn’t seen in a long time came by. Strangers became new friends. Whenever someone asked who was in charge, one of the FTC crew would step forward, much to the visitor’s surprise.

      That summer we learned more than what books or teachers could have taught us. We learned to take the initiative, and follow through. We learned a greater sense of self-worth. We discovered we could do more than talk about the world’s problems. When we set our minds to it, we could make a difference.

      When school was set to resume in September, my mother took me aside. There was a serious matter on her mind. Throughout the summer, our house had become a rather public place, with kids and parents coming and going non-stop. The telephone and fax machine rang all hours of the night with messages from our contacts around the world. Our house was in a constant state of turmoil. My parents had been very patient through it all, but the strain was starting to show.

      “I think it’s time for you to quit,” my mother said. “You’re about to begin Grade 8. This is your last year of elementary school, and it is an important year. Your dad and I have to go back to teaching. You have accomplished so much. But this can’t go on. We have to live as a family. We have to get back to having a normal life.”

      I went to my room to think about what she had said.

      At first, when Free The Children began, we received as much as we gave—we enjoyed the feeling of self-worth, happiness, the new insights and a sense of accomplishment. But now we had reached a whole new level of commitment, that point when real giving does not come without pain. Despite the pain, I knew in my heart that I could not quit, that our group had to at least try to do more. I had learned too much about the abuse of children. I was no longer the person I had been five months before.

      But I also knew the toll it was taking on the family, how disrupted all our lives had become. I sat in my room a long time before coming out.

      “I’m sorry, Mom. I know it’s been hard for you and Dad with everything going on around here,” I said. “But I just can’t give up now. You always tell us that we have to fight for what we believe in. Well, I believe in this.”

      It was a turning point for my parents. Until that moment, they had seen Free The Children as a phase, a group of kids with a noble purpose who would eventually go on to other pursuits. But now they realized for me it had become a mission.

      My parents looked at me long and hard and saw the commitment in my face. “All right,” my mother said. “If that is your decision, we’ll support you.”

      And that support has never waned. Though not long after, СКАЧАТЬ