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Thank You, Mr Harkin, Sir!

United States

Thank you, Mr Harkin, sir!
When US Senator Tom Harkin proposed a boycott of the products of child labour,
Western campaigners applauded. But there were unforeseen consequences
for the children of Bangladesh, as Shahidul Alam reports.

No. No photographs. Saleha is scared. Many a time she has hidden under tables, been locked up in the toilet, or been sent to the roof in the scorching sun for two or three hours. It happens whenever foreign buyers enter the factory. She knows she is under-age, and doesn’t want photographers messing things up – she needs the job. The whole industry has suddenly become sensitive. Owners want their factories open. The workers want their jobs. The special schools for former child labourers want aid money. No photographs.

Neither Saleha nor any of the other child workers I have interviewed have ever heard of Senator Tom Harkin. All they know is that pressure from the US, which buys most of Bangladesh’s garments, has resulted in thousands of them losing their jobs at a stroke.

According to a press release by the garment employers in October 1994: ‘50,000 children lost their jobs because of the Harkin Bill.’ A UNICEF worker confirms ‘the jobs went overnight’.

The controversial bill, the ‘Child Labor Deterrence Act’, had first been introduced in 1992. A senior International Labour Organization (ILO) official has no doubt that the original bill was put forward ‘primarily to protect US trade interests’ – Tom Harkin is sponsored by a key US trade union, and cheap imports from the Third World were seen as undercutting American workers’ jobs. ‘When we all objected to this aspect of the Bill,’ says the ILO official, ‘which included a lot of resistance in the US, the Bill was amended, the trading aspect was toned down, and it was given a humanitarian look.’ It was when it was reintroduced after these amendments in 1993 that the Bill had its devastating impact in Bangladesh.

The child workers themselves find it particularly hard to interpret the US approach as one of ‘humanitarian concern’. When asked why the buyers have been exerting such pressure against child labour, Moyna, a ten-year-old orphan who has just lost her job, comments: ‘They loathe us, don’t they? We are poor and not well educated, so they simply despise us. That is why they shut the factories down.’ Moyna’s job had supported her and her grandmother but now they must both depend on relatives.

Other children have had no alternative but to seek new kinds of work. When UNICEF and the ILO made a series of follow-up visits they found that the children displaced from the garment factories were working at stone-crushing and street hustling – more hazardous and exploitative activities than their factory jobs.

‘It is easier for the boys to get jobs again,’ Moyna complains, pointing to ex-garment boys who have jobs in welding and bicycle factories. Girls usually stay at home, doing household work and looking after smaller children; many end up getting married simply to ease money problems.

In the wake of the mass expulsion of child garment workers it was plain that something had gone very wrong. UNICEF and the ILO tried to pick up the pieces. After two years of hard talking with the garment employers they came up with a Memorandum of Understanding. This guaranteed that no more children under 14 would be hired, that existing child workers would be received into special schools set up by local voluntary organizations and would receive a monthly stipend to compensate them for the loss of their wages.

Some garment owners feel that, instead of doing a deal, they should have called the US bluff and continued employing young children. ‘We export 150 million shirts a year to the US,’ says one. ‘The K-mart $12 shirt would have cost $24. Bill Clinton would have lost his job.’

As of now 10,547 of the estimated 50,000 children have been registered, and of these 8,067 have enlisted in school. Most weren’t registered initially, as few garment owners admitted having children working in their factories. Many lost their jobs before the registration process began. Unregistered children, regardless of their age or their schooling, are not admitted into the scheme.

Saleha is tall for her age. Though in her factory there are quite a few under-age children, in most factories children that look small are no longer taken. This is what Moyna and Ekram and the other children repeatedly say: ‘We didn’t make the size.’ In a country where births are not registered there is no way of accurately determining a person’s age. Children with good growth keep their jobs. Children who look smaller, perhaps because they are malnourished, do not.

The reliance on size rather than age means that many children are still at work in the factories – and many have no inclination to take up a place in one of the special schools. Take Sabeena. Her factory is colourful with tinsel when I visit and many of the girls have glitter on their faces. It is the Bangla New Year and Eid all in one and they are celebrating. Sabeena proudly shows me the machine she works on. She is almost 14 and, like Saleha, big for her age. She has been working at a garment factory ever since she finished Grade Five, about 18 months ago. Until then, schooling was free. There was no way her parents could pay for her to go to school and, with her father being poorly, Sabeena needed to work to keep the family going.

Taking home 2,200 taka ($52) a month (with overtime) Sabeena, at 13, is now the main breadwinner in the family. She is lucky to have work, though she would rather study. She laughs when I talk of her going to school. She has mouths to feed, and to give up her job for a 300-taka-per-month stipend for going to school simply wouldn’t make sense. Besides, the special schools only teach up to Grade Five. The better students, who have studied that far, find they have neither jobs nor seats in the school. So Sabeena’s studies begin at around eleven at night, with a paid private tutor, usually by candlelight. At seven in the morning she has to leave for work. Seven days a week.

Money is a key concern even for those children who have been received into the special schools. At the school run by the Bangladesh Rural Advancement Committee (BRAC) in Mirpur, the children gather round a worker doing the rounds. ‘When do we get paid, sir?’ they keep asking.

Despite the promises, not a single child that I have interviewed has received the full pay they are owed. In some cases field workers, eager to improve their admission rates, have promised considerably more than the stipulated 300 taka ($7) per month. In others, unfounded rumours have created expectations that the schools cannot meet.

Shahjahan (pictured on the facing page) was one of the lucky ones admitted to a BRAC school. The 300 taka per month is a small sum for him too, but he works in a tailoring shop from nine till eleven in the morning, and again from two-thirty in the afternoon till ten at night. He doesn’t complain. Though the scheme does not encourage it, he feels he is getting the best of both worlds: free schooling, including a stipend, as well as paid work and a potential career.

A strange question
Did they like working in garment factories? The children find this a strange question. They earned money because of it, and it gave them a certain status that non-working children did not have. They put up with the long hours. The exceptions remind me that it is children we are talking about. ‘I cried when they forced me to do overtime on Thursday nights,’ says Moyna. ‘That was when they showed Alif Laila (Arabian Nights) on TV.’

Child workers are popular with factory owners. ‘Ten- to twelve-year-olds are the best,’ says Farooq, the manager of Sabeena’s factory. ‘They are easier to control, not interested in men, or movies, and obedient.’ He forgets to mention that they are not unionized and that they agree to work for 500 taka ($12) per month when the minimum legal wage for a helper is 930 taka.

Owners see Tom Harkin as a well-meaning soul with little clue about the realities of garment workers’ lives. ‘As a student, I too hailed the Bill,’ says Sohel, the production manager at Captex Garments. ‘I was happy that someone was fighting for children’s rights. But now that I work in a factory and have to turn away these children who need jobs, I see things differently. Sometimes I take risks and, if a child is really in a bad way, I let them work, but it is dangerous.’

The notion that a garment employer might be helping children by allowing them to work may seem very strange to people in the West. But in a country where the majority of people live in villages where children work in the home and the fields as part of growing up, there are no romantic notions of childhood as an age of innocence. Though children are cared for, childhood is seen as a period for learning employable skills. Children have always helped out with family duties. When this evolves into a paid job in the city neither children nor their families see it as anything unusual. In poor families it is simply understood that everyone has to work.

The money that children earn is generally handed over to parents, who run the household as best as they can. Most parents want their children to go to school. But they also feel that schooling is a luxury they cannot afford. The garment industry has increased the income of working-class families in recent years and this has also led to a change in attitudes. Many middle-class homes now complain that it is difficult to get domestic ‘help’ as working-class women and children choose to work in garment factories rather than as servants. This choice – made on the grounds not just of better economics, but of greater self-respect – is one many children have lost because of the Harkin Bill.

The US is wielding power without responsibility. A nation with a history of genocide and slavery, and a reputation for being a bully in international politics, suddenly proclaims itself a champion of people’s rights, but refuses to make concessions over the rates it will pay. The dollar price-tags on the garments produced in some factories suggest a vast profit being made at the US end. The buyers claim that what they pay for the garments is determined by ‘market forces’. The garment owners make the same claim with regard to the conditions of employment for their workers. Both are simply justifying their own version of exploitation – and to address child labour without addressing exploitation is to treat the symptom, not the disease.

The garment-industry experience has led to an active debate amongst development workers and child-rights activists. ‘What we have done here in Bangladesh is described as fantastic,’ says a senior ILO worker. ‘I wonder how fantastic it really is. How much difference will these two or three years in school make to these children? In three years, the helper could have been an operator, with better pay and more savings. Even if the manufacturers keep their word and give them back their jobs at the end of their schooling, the Memorandum children will hardly be better off, while their peers will have gotten on with their careers. We have spent millions of dollars on 8,000 children. The money itself could have transformed their lives. This is an experiment by the donors, and the Bangladeshi children have to pay.’

Shahidul Alam is a photographer, writer and activist who runs Drik Picture Library in Dhaka. The children’s names have been changed to protect them.


Assane’s story

Assane Diallo is a 10-year-old shoe-shine boy in Ziguinchor, the capital of Senegal’s southern region. Like hundreds of other children from the north of Senegal, he has fled not war, but a bad agricultural policy. The French Government is trying to get the Toucouleur people to grow rice. But their Futa Toro region is too dry and the result is that the Toucouleur, traditionally nomadic cattle herders, are becoming more impoverished.

I come from the village of Bronkagne in the Futa Toro. I used to work for my Uncle Demba cultivating rice, tilling the soil and sowing rice seeds. But we didn’t produce enough and he sent me away.

Uncle Demba told me that it would be hard in the city. But it will be good for me whether or not I bring him back money one day. ‘With travel you gain experience,’ he said. It is good for a child to know suffering. Then I will appreciate life when I am older. That is the Toucouleur way.

Of course I was scared to leave but I also wanted to go. I am proud that he has sent me. I hope I make lots of money. I hope I can come back to my village and give all my relatives presents. And I’ll be wearing jeans and sneakers. I already have this nice T-shirt .

In the village I just wore rags. Sometimes there wasn’t enough food to eat. We worked very hard but there was never enough rain. And rice needs lots of rain. Still, we Toucouleur always find a way to survive. If we can’t make money from farming then we go out and become traders. That is what my family wants me to do.

I already did it last year. I went to the town of Bakel for three months between the sowing and harvesting seasons. I sold baobab and bissap juice on the street for a market woman. I came back to Brokagne with new clothes and gave my uncle money. He was very happy with me. That’s why he wanted me to go again this year.

My aim in life is to be a big trader. As my father died when I was a baby, Uncle Demba inherited his land instead. So now his sons will inherit it from him, not me. That is why I must be a trader. I want to travel to Bangkok and bring back textiles and jewellery to sell here. Then with the profits I will open my own store. That is what we Toucouleur do. If you go to any town in Senegal you will find us with our little stores. My friend’s uncle has a big store in New York.

I am now on the third step to my life goal. The first step was working for my uncle cultivating rice. The second step was selling drinks on the street. Now the third step is being a shoe-shine boy. It is not easy. You have to find people who look like they have a little extra cash and convince them that they need their shoes shined. And sometimes they won’t pay you. They say ‘Oh, I don’t have the change, I’ll pay you next time,’ and you never see them again. They also won’t pay if you get any shoe polish on their socks.

That’s why I don’t want to do this for long. I want to learn how to repair shoes. Then I can work for the older boys who are shoe traders. They go to Dakar [Senegal’s capital] and bring back broken shoes which we younger boys repair for them. I have already begun helping to repair shoes and my friends are impressed at how fast I am learning.

So my fourth step will be repairing shoes and my fifth step will be to be a shoe trader like the older boys. But when I go to Dakar I won’t just bring back broken shoes. I will bring all sorts of things. That is how I will get rich.

I don’t need to go school. What can I learn there? I know children who went to school. Their family paid for the fees and the uniforms and now they are educated. But you see them sitting around. Now they are useless to their families. They don’t know anything about farming or trading or making money. Even though I have never been to school, I can count and quickly give the correct change. I also know how to bargain with customers and always make a profit.

The only thing I need to learn is to read and write. But I have started. People from ENDA [a Dakar-based agency] teach me and my friends every Tuesday evening. That’s good because it doesn’t mess up our work schedule.

My friends told me that a white woman came to talk to them once and told them it is bad that children have to work. She said she would put them all in school but she never came back, and I am glad. If anyone tries to put me in school I will run away. I wouldn’t be making any money. Then I would be ashamed ever to go back to my village.

Assane was interviewed by David Hecht.

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