A New Beginning

by Mark David Abbott

  Amira walked carefully across the rickety bamboo bridge that led out over the lake to the toilet platform. It was still dark, and she had to be careful not to miss her step and fall into the stinking black water below. She nodded at Farzana who was there before her, then turned, gathered up the folds of her nightgown and squatted down. She looked back down the bridge toward the slum she called home.

  Lights were coming on as the slum dwellers, those lucky enough to have a job, awoke for a long day of toil in the garment factories. A thick haze of smoke already hung low over the collection of ramshackle huts, only to get worse as cooking fires were stoked, and the traffic built up on the roads bordering the slum. Amira tried not to breathe too deeply. She had been born here and had spent all her adolescent life in Korail Basti, the largest slum in Dhaka, but you never got used to the smell. The fumes rising from the still, ink-like surface of the lake soaked into your hair and skin, and no amount of bathing or scrubbing seemed to get rid of it.

  On the far side of the slum were the fancy apartment buildings of the wealthy, rising high above the single- and double-story corrugated iron and scrap wood hutments. Amira gazed at the twinkling lights of the apartment buildings and dreamed of a better life. She had been in those buildings once before, helping her mother as a housemaid for a week.

  She still remembered the incredible space each family had to themselves. Each person with their own bedroom and toilet, instead of a one-room hut where four people slept together on the floor. Toilets with water that came from a tap instead of a dirty plastic bucket. Kitchens with cupboards full of food, and a gas cooktop that would light with a single press of a button. Instead, she had to squat beside the open drain and cook chapattis on a smoky fire while her little sister sat in the dirt and mud of the narrow filth-strewn lane. Amira sighed. No sense in daydreaming. She had to prepare food for the family before her father went off to his job in the factory, and her mother went to clean the apartments Amira dreamed about.

  She cleaned herself and pulled the skirt of her nightgown down quickly as she stood. One day, she would get out of the slum and do something to improve the life of her family. She had to. She didn’t want to end up like her mother, an exhausted, dried-out shell of a woman, all dreams forgotten, all hope for a better future abandoned. She had to do something so her parents could at least spend some years in relative comfort. They had worked hard all their lives to provide for her and her sister. Now it was her turn.

  Amira wound her way through the muddy alleyways that crisscrossed the mass of huts. She paused at a junction, checking where she was; there were no signs, and she hadn’t been to this part of the slum before, so wasn’t sure which way to go. A frail old man in shorts and a vest, squatted on his haunches beside the lane, and she asked him for directions. He looked her up and down, then waved down the lane. She thanked him and continued in the direction he had shown as he cleared his throat, coughed up a large globule of phlegm, and spat in the dirt.

  Karim Abdul was a name she had heard spoken many times in hushed tones. There were countless stories about the man who ruled over the slums, but she had never seen him, only men who worked for him. The men who collected money each month for the illegal electricity connection and the supply of drinking water. Karim Abdul controlled everything that came in and out of the slum, and few people dared to cross him. She was nervous to seek his help, but Farzana had told her if anyone could get her out of the slums, it would be him.

  She approached a hut, larger than the others, three men loitering outside. They watched her approach and leered, making comments to each other, which she couldn’t catch, but the intent was clear.

  Steeling herself, she asked, “Karim Chacha hain? Is Karim Uncle here?” He wasn’t her Uncle, but everyone referred to him like that, it made him sound less threatening.

  One of the men, a thin young man with a straggly beard, nodded and waved her inside the open door. Amira looked back the way she had come. Did she really want to go through with this? She remembered how her exhausted father dragged himself off his bed in the morning before work, after coughing all night. She had to do something. She ducked down and entered the hut.

  Inside, a large man in a white vest and checked sarong sat on the floor, eating chapatis and what looked like chicken curry. Amira’s stomach rumbled. She couldn’t remember when she had last eaten meat. It was too expensive for her family.

  The man looked up, his eyes roaming over her body, spending too long on her chest area, and she subconsciously pulled her duppata down in an attempt to hide her shape. He licked his lips and belched.

  “What do you want?”

  “Sir… Someone told me you could get me a job in Malaysia.”

  “See this little princess?” he laughed and winked at the man cooking his food. “Wants to travel. Work in a foreign country.”

  The other man sniggered and went back to his stove, turning the chapati over in the flame before tossing it onto the plate in front of Karim.

  Karim turned back to Amira, his face stern.

  “Why do you want to leave here? Stay here with me. I will give you a good life.”

  “Sir.” Amira gulped. “I need to earn more money. My mother is tired, and my father is unwell. I want to send my sister to school. They told me you could help me. If I work in Malaysia or Thailand, I can earn enough money to send home to my family.”

  Karim nodded and tore off a piece of chapati, mopped up some chicken curry, and stuffed it in his mouth. He chewed noisily, his mouth open, curry stuck to his lips and the side of his mouth. Amira looked away and took a quick glance around the room. It wasn’t much different from hers, slightly bigger, but he had a television and electricity. The rumor was he had a big house in Baridhara near the American School, but he spent his days here in the slum, keeping a tight control on what went on. She looked back at Karim who was taking another mouthful of chicken curry.

  He was an older man, perhaps in his fifties, and if you didn’t look too closely, he looked like anyone else’s father in the slum, except more well fed. The scar that ran diagonally across his left cheek and eyes that bored straight through you when he fixed you in his gaze hinted at a more frightening reality. What looked like a tiger’s tooth capped in gold hung from a thick gold chain around his neck, and on the floor beside him lay three mobile phones.

  He looked up and studied her face for a while until she looked away.

  “Yes, I can send you there, but it is very expensive. Do you have money?”

  Amira looked down at the floor, tears in her eyes. “I have nothing.”

  “Okay,” Karim nodded thoughtfully his eyes not leaving her face. “Don’t cry. I can help you. You can pay me back from your earnings when you reach Malaysia.” He smiled, exposing a mouth full of rotten teeth. “You will earn so much money, it won’t take you long. Then you can buy your mother and father a big house.” He broke into a smile which only made him look more menacing. “Don’t worry, Karim Chacha will look after you.” He gestured at the remnants of his curry. “Would you like something to eat?”

  18

  John came back to the bench with a packet of tissues and two ice-creams.

  “Here, take these before they melt.”

  Adriana raised an eyebrow, but Amira eagerly reached for the ice-cream. John winked at Adriana, passed her the other ice-cream, then opened the packet of tissues. He wiped his fingers clean, then passed two clean tissues to Amira and Adriana before sitting on the grass. While they finished their ice-cream, he thought back over the story Amira had told them. He realized, despite the horrible things that had happened in his past, he still lived a blessed life. A life where he didn’t have to struggle to put food on the table, a life where he had clean running water and a comfortable bed. So many things he took for granted, yet here was a young lady who had risked everything to travel to a strange land so she could provide for her family.

  “Amira, we’ll work out a way to get you out of the house. We can keep you safe, then
arrange for someone to send you back home.”

  “No, Sir.” Amira wiped her fingers with the tissue. “You don’t understand. I can never go back home until I’ve paid off my debt.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Adriana, frowning.

  “Hassan Sir does not give me any money. He told me he paid Karim Chacha and said I must work for free until I pay my debt. If I don’t pay him back, I can never return, and he told me he will have my family killed. My parents and my sister.” Her eyes welled up with tears again. “He’ll tell Karim Chacha. Karim Chacha rules the slums. He is a bad man.”

  “It’s okay, Amira.” Adriana placed her hand on her shoulder. “We will find a way out for you.”

  John nodded. “How much do you owe him?”

  “Three hundred and fifty thousand taka.”

  Adriana looked at John. “How much is that?” she asked.

  John pulled out his phone, opened the currency app, and did a quick calculation.

  “Even if Hassan is honest and pays you a decent wage, it would take you almost eighteen months to pay him back.” He shook his head. “Bastard,” he muttered under his breath. He looked at Amira, tears still running down her cheeks. If life had worked out differently, he might have had a daughter her age. He made a decision.

  “It’s okay Amira, I’ll pay him.”

  Both Adriana and Amira looked up in shock.

  “John, how much is it?” Adriana asked again.

  “Don't worry about it, I’ll cover it. Amira, I will take care of the debt. You can go home.”

  “Thank you, Sir, Ma’am.” Amira started crying again. “Thank you.”

  Adriana put her arm around Amira and looked across at John and mouthed a thank you.

  Amira wiped her face and looked up.

  “But Hassan Sir, he will be very angry. He’s also a bad man. He beats me. The money won’t be enough. He will still punish me and my family.”

  “Amira, it’s all going to be okay.” John leaned forward, looking her in the eye. “We can call the police. He has employed you illegally, and he has abused you. He will be in big trouble.”

  “No, no.” Amira jumped up and shook her head. She looked frantically back and forth between John and Adriana. “Please don’t call the police. The police are bad. Please, Sir, don’t call the police.”

  “It’s okay, Amira. The police are good they will arrest him,” Adriana reassured her.

  “No, you don’t understand.” Amira wiped her cheeks and shook her head. “The police brought me here.”

  19

  Six months earlier

  Amira crouched in the corner of the bamboo hut and tried to make herself smaller. It had been a week since she had made the boat journey from Bangladesh to the coast of Thailand, then loaded onto a truck with twenty other Bangladeshi men and women, and driven to the camp.

  Scared and hungry, she wished she was back home in the familiar surroundings of the Korail Slum. What had started out as an exciting adventure had turned into a nightmare. She was huddled in a hut with thirty women and children, some from Bangladesh like her but most from Myanmar, Rohingyas fleeing persecution from the brutal Myanmar regime. Somewhere in the hut’s darkness, a woman sobbed quietly. Amira knew it was a woman. The children had stopped crying long ago, too tired and weak from their long journey and lack of food.

  The women had it easy compared to the men. Amira had already seen a man beaten to death by their captors. She didn’t know why, but rumors whispered amongst the Bangladeshi women were he had failed to pay the traffickers the full amount for his journey. Amira hadn’t paid either, but Karim Chacha had given his guarantee she would be safe until she reached her destination and started earning. Then she would pay the traffickers back.

  The women tensed as footsteps neared the door and shrank away in fear at the sound of the padlocks opening. Someone wrenched the door open, and a shaft of blinding sunlight fell into the room.

  “Aapyinmhar,” he shouted and hit the doorframe with a bamboo pole.

  Amira didn’t understand what he was saying, but all the Rohingya women got to their feet and filed out the door, she and the other Bangladeshis following them out. They lined up in the sun, blinking against the bright light. Next to them, the men filed out of their hut and lined up as well.

  One of the guards pushed the women and children into a straight line, then counted them, then moved to the men’s line and did the same. Reaching the end, he looked puzzled and counted again. The numbers weren’t right, and he shouted at the other guards who were watching. Two of them ran into the hut and after a moment dragged a man out and dumped him face down on the ground in front of them. The main guard walked over and screamed at the man but got no response. He nudged him with his toe. Again nothing. Crouching down, he pulled up the man’s head by the hair and looked at his face. With his spare hand, he slapped the man hard. There was no response, he was either unconscious or dead. The guard let go, and the man’s head dropped to the ground with a thud. The guard muttered something to the other guards, then stood up and looked at the men and women standing in front of him.

  He pointed to two of the Rohingya women and gestured toward a wicker basket lying on the ground. Fearfully, they approached and squatted beside it. Removing the lid, they reached in and pulled out a handful of rice and made it into a ball. The guards prodded and pushed the other women forward, and they lined up in a queue as the two Rohingya women handed out a ball of rice to each one. Amira took hers, then squatted in the dust. It was old rice, hard and dry, but it would be the only meal she got that day, so she chewed it slowly, making it last as long as she could.

  The women sat in the dust and ate, all eyes on the body of the man lying in the sun, flies buzzing around his head. No-one wanted to end up like him.

  Amira shifted uncomfortably in the dirt. She was hot and thirsty. They had been left in the sun for about three hours, and the heat was relentless. There was nothing to drink, and some of the older men and women were lying on the ground, weak with dehydration and hunger. They had moved the children into the small amount of shade offered by the walls of the huts, but the adults had to remain in the sun that beat down mercilessly, sucking all the moisture from their bodies. The guards had dragged the dead man out of sight, and they now lazed in hammocks strung from trees at the other side of the compound.

  In the distance, an engine could be heard, the sound increasing as it got closer until a vehicle appeared along the track, sounding its horn as it pulled up on the dirt track outside the gate. Amira and the other women felt a surge of hope as they looked at the vehicle, a black and white pickup with Police written in large letters on the side and a red and blue light bar on the roof. The doors opened, and two policemen climbed out, straightened their uniforms, and pulled on their uniform caps. Amira glanced at the guards, expecting them to panic, but they didn’t seem to be worried at all.

  Instead, the head guard walked over, pulled open the gate, and stood aside as they walked in. A discussion ensued, involving a lot of laughter and slapping on the back. Amira’s hopes vanished. These policemen didn’t look like they had come to rescue them. The refugees watched as the head guard reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of cash and counted off a thick chunk of notes before handing it over to one of the policemen. The cop handed it to his colleague without looking at it, then glanced over at the women. He said something to the head guard who stepped aside and gestured in their direction.

  The cop walked over and stood in front of them, his hands on his hips. He cleared his throat and spat on the ground, then turning his head slightly, he called out to the guard who came over and stood beside him. The cop continued looking at the women, his eyes studying all of them. He pointed to a young girl, and the guard waded into the group and pulled her out. Her mother wailed in distress and tried to hold on to her daughter’s arm. The guard kicked her in the stomach, and she howled in pain, doubled up on the floor. He dragged the girl through the dirt and dumped her at the feet
of the cop. The cop pointed to two others, and the guard pulled them out too, each time kicking and punching anyone who tried to prevent them from being taken. The cop’s eyes roamed over Amira and passed on, then looked back as an afterthought. He pointed at her too, and Amira flinched.

  Was she being rescued or was something worse in store for her? She had no time to think as she felt the hands of the guard gripping her by the arm, hauling her to her feet. The cop turned and walked back to the pickup as the other guards ran forward and pushed the four girls after him. They loaded them into the pickup, the two younger girls whimpering in fear, as the cries from their mothers carried across the jungle compound. Both cops climbed back into the vehicle, and with a wave to the guards, did a three-point turn and headed back down the track.

  20

  “So, let me be clear, Amira. The police brought you from the camp here to Bangkok and gave you to Hassan?”

  Amira nodded.

  “The other girls too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Bastards.” He sat and stared off across the park, deep in thought.

  “Well, that complicates things,” he said after a while. He glanced over at Adriana who was watching him closely. He really didn’t want to get involved in anything like this. His life was back on track. He was comfortable, he had money, he could do what he wanted. Rescuing a girl from ill-treatment at her place of work was one thing, but the last thing he wanted was to get involved in something as controversial as this was turning out to be.

  “Shit,” he cursed under his breath. He looked at the young girl sitting forlornly on the bench. What if it was his daughter? He sighed. He could never live with himself, knowing he had walked away and left a young girl to a life of slavery when he could have done something. And besides, there was Adriana. He made a decision.