Rana left the vehicle and approached the girl, greeting her in Bengali. The girl didn’t reply. A woman in her thirties appeared in the doorway, clad in a sari and headscarf. After listening to Rana, she spoke a few words and set out on foot toward the river.
“Ashik and his sons are fishing,” Rana said. “She will fetch them.”
Josh climbed out and waited with Rana beneath the date palm. A few minutes later, the woman returned with a wiry man and three teenage boys, all reed-thin with clothes that hung like drapes from skeletal limbs. The man approached them warily, looking at them through eyes stained pink by the tropical sun. While Rana made the introductions, the man sized them up. His face was gaunt, his skin stretched taut over bone. At last, he welcomed them with handshakes.
“Salaam,” he said. “My name, Ashik.” He pointed at the boys. “These, my son.”
Ashik spoke to the woman in Bengali and led them into the center hut. They took seats on a rug between the rough-hewed frames of two beds while the woman busied herself preparing the midday meal on a mud stove. The hut had no electricity. Its interior was illuminated only by daylight filtering through the doorway and a window on the opposite wall.
“He’s invited us to lunch,” Rana told Josh. “It will be ready soon.”
“Dhonnobad,” Josh said, putting his hands together, palms flat, and bowing his head slightly in a sign of respect. “That is kind of you.”
Ashik returned the gesture, then said something to his youngest son who was standing just outside the door. The boy disappeared for a moment, then returned with the girl, guiding her to the rug and speaking gently into her left ear. She sat down cross-legged, hands in her lap, and stared blankly at the wall. The boy sat next to her, regarding Josh with open curiosity.
“This is Sonia,” Rana said, translating for Ashik. “Her head was injured in the fall. She is mostly blind, and she can hear out of only one ear. She can still speak, but not well. Conversation is exhausting to her. She will need to lie down soon.”
Josh looked into the girl’s vacant eyes. She was a beautiful child with a graceful ovate face, a pixie nose, caramel-colored skin, and bone-straight hair. In a different world, she would have had her pick of suitors. Now her body was a prison, her mind bound in chains.
“How old is she?” he asked.
Rana spoke to Ashik, then shook his head. “She’s fifteen now, but she started working at Millennium when she was thirteen. The manager falsified her papers.”
Josh made a note in his notepad. “I’ll try to keep my questions brief. I’d like to know what she was working on when the fire broke out.”
Rana translated for Ashik, and Ashik spoke to his son. The boy leaned close to Sonia and murmured the question in her good ear. The girl didn’t seem to register that he had spoken. For a poignant moment, Josh worried that the impact from the fall had wiped her memory clean. But then her lips parted and a word escaped.
“Piccola.”
Josh struggled to suppress a smile. If she could remember, she could testify. The conditions would have to be right. They would need experts to convince the court that she retained capacity despite her injuries. But once the procedural hurdles were cleared, she would make a spectacular witness—the kind that would haunt a juror’s dreams.
“Where was she located on the sewing line?”
This time Sonia’s response came quicker. “She and her sister, Nasima, were in the finishing section,” Rana translated. “They sewed on the labels.”
“What does she remember about the fire?” Josh asked.
After listening to her brother, the girl spoke for at least a minute, possibly two. The effort left her winded. She leaned her head on her brother’s shoulder as Rana interpreted.
“She remembers loud noises and shouting. The lights flickered and then went dark. They found a window and lay down on the floor. The smoke was thick. Nasima made a mask out of pants to help her breathe. She remembers the heat, and the screams of workers jumping from windows. Nasima tied pants together into a rope and told her to climb down. She was terrified, but she went. She remembers falling. Then nothing.”
Josh nodded and scribbled on his pad for a while, allowing Sonia to bear up under her pain. It was a lesson he had learned from Maria after his first interview at Casa da Amizade. The hardest stories are like the people who tell them, she had said when his questions made one of her girls cry. You have to give them room to breathe. He had lived by that creed ever since, training himself to be patient and putting the human before the headline. It had won him the trust of people the rest of the media couldn’t reach.
At last, when Sonia’s eyelids grew heavy and he was afraid he was about to lose her, Josh leaned forward again. “Can she tell me anything else about Nasima?”
When she heard her sister’s name, Sonia lifted her head and blinked away sleep. Her reply came out in a whisper.
“Nasima called her Khamjana—hummingbird,” Rana said. “She misses her very much.”
Josh took a breath, sensing he had pushed the girl as far as he could. “Please tell her she is very courageous. She can rest now.”
Rana passed along the message, and the boy helped Sonia to one of the beds. She curled up on the mattress and closed her eyes. As soon as she was situated, Ashik gathered the older boys on the rug. After a moment, his wife placed a tray in their midst and knelt beside it, serving steaming cha in mugs. While they sipped their tea, she brought them plates piled high with rice, curried potatoes, and boiled fish. Finally, she passed around a basket of flatbread.
“River fish,” Ashik said proudly. “Fresh.”
They ate until they were satisfied. Afterward, Ashik’s wife fixed a plate for herself and took it outside. The boys sat quietly, watching Josh, until Ashik sent them away.
Josh collected his notepad and spoke to Rana. “I’d like to know what he saw that night.”
Ashik listened to the translation, then turned toward the doorway and stared out at the yard. In time, his gaze shifted and his memories began to emerge. Josh examined his face and saw the strain in the wrinkles around his eyes, heard the tremor of anguish in his tone, and beneath it the darker notes of shame and guilt. He understood Ashik’s burden better than most. He was a man damned to live every day in the presence of his own powerlessness, a father who saw his child suffering but could do nothing to save her.
Rana gave voice to Ashik’s story. “He was home with his sons when he heard the first explosion. They went outside and looked at the factory. The power was out in the area, and it was the only building that still had electricity. After the second explosion, he saw the flames. He called the fire department and went to the factory gates. But the guards were only letting workers out. No one could get in. He heard screams and saw shadows falling. He didn’t realize until later that his daughters were among them.”
Rana looked at the floor, and Josh saw tears in his eyes. “The fire trucks took a long time to get there. By then it was too late. They forced the gates open, and a few people managed to get in. They found Sonia near the entrance. Nasima was beside her. The people took pictures, but then the firefighters closed the gates. Later that night, ambulances came. One of them took Sonia away. Ashik went with her. She was at the trauma center for two weeks. Then she was moved to a hospital. A month after the fire, they sent her home. But Ashik had no one to take care of her. He couldn’t support the family driving a rickshaw. He had to move back to the village. His new wife is a distant cousin. His uncle arranged it. This is his uncle’s land. Ashik helps him fish.”
Josh met Ashik’s eyes and nodded compassionately. “I have a few more questions. Did any of the brands that made clothing at Millennium ever contact him after the fire?”
“Some people came a few months later,” Rana said eventually. “They said they were from the US. He told them everything. He thought they were with the media, but he never heard from them again. Now he doesn’t know. That’s why he was suspicious when we showed up.”
Josh was immediately curious. “Does he remember anything else about them?”
“There were two men and a woman,” Rana explained. “One of them was a translator.”
Josh pictured his source at the Lincoln Memorial and wondered if he’d sent them.
“Go ahead and tell him about the lawsuit,” Josh said, “but downplay the money part. I don’t want him thinking about dollar signs. Just the possibility of justice.”
Rana nodded and began to elucidate their proposition. Meanwhile, Josh watched Ashik’s wife sweeping the dirt outside the hut. He imagined the man’s sons casting their nets into the river, hoping to snare a catch to sell at the market. It was a hardscrabble existence. Whatever chance the family had to escape poverty had burned in the Millennium inferno. Yet the three-trillion-dollar global apparel machine continued to hum, minting money for the brands.
Rana interrupted his thoughts. “He wants to know if Presto can make trouble for him, and for his eldest son in Dhaka. I told him no, but he wants to hear it from you.”
Josh spoke candidly, holding nothing back. “They’ve already made all the trouble they can. It’s you who can make trouble for them.”
When the man understood, he spoke a burst of words, staring at Rana.
“He’s willing to fight,” Rana said, excitement buoying his voice. “He doesn’t care if they give him money. He wants the world to know his family’s story.”
Josh bowed his head, honored by the man’s courage. He smiled grimly. “I can promise him that. The world will hear.”
INTERLOGUE
Malaysia
February 2008
KLIA EKSPRES TRAIN
KUALA LUMPUR, MALAYSIA
FEBRUARY 12, 2008
6:55 A.M.
The clouds of sunrise were like a wedding dress draped over the earth, red silk piled upon gold, weaving new patterns in layers and folds. Jashel saw her reflection in the glass, saw Farzana smile at him, dimples cleaving her cheeks, her lips spread in a gracious arc, showing the gap between her front teeth. She was everywhere around him now, on the teeming streets of Dhaka, in the waiting room at the agency, on the plane, in airport terminals, even in the line at passport control. Every time he saw a purple headscarf veiling dark tresses, he remembered her, pined for her, wished the world were different, that his father were still alive, that his family were secure, and that he had married her in the New Year as he had planned.
But it was not to be. Allah had spoken. The planet had turned. The cable had snapped, the crane had canted, and the concrete blocks had fallen thirty meters from the sky, crushing his father into the ground. It was a death as shocking as it was untimely. In an instant, Jashel’s destiny changed. His father had no savings. He had poured all of his earnings into the land and the house and the animals in the village of Matiranga where his family lived. Jashel was the first of eight children. He was twenty now, a graduate of primary school but not secondary. At the age of fourteen, he had left the classroom and followed his father to Chittagong to build factories and apartments for the elite. His earnings had paid for the education of his siblings, but the amount was not enough to support the family. With his father gone, he knew only one way to keep the land in his mother’s possession. He had to find work abroad.
Jashel looked out the window as the train glided toward Kuala Lumpur, saw the sun peek out from behind the clouds, brightening the city skyline. He thought back to the day he welcomed Mr. Amin into his mother’s home and took a new path into the future. Mr. Amin was from Dhaka, but he was well known in the village. He was a recruiter for an outsourcing agency that placed able-bodied Bangladeshis from the rural areas in employment overseas—construction and housekeeping in the Middle East, electronics in Southeast Asia, and apparel in a dozen countries between Jordan and Vietnam. Although the contract was written in English—a language Jashel did not speak—Mr. Amin had scrawled the key terms in Bengali.
The factory was Rightaway Garments, the country Malaysia. The length of the contract was three years. The agency would obtain all the necessary documents—the most important being Jashel’s passport, work permit, and airline ticket—and cover the levies and fees, including the cost of a physical exam. The agency’s counterpart in Kuala Lumpur would house him in a dormitory and manage his employment. His basic pay would be eight hundred Malaysian ringgits per month—about two hundred ten dollars—for eight hours a day, six days a week, plus time and a half for overtime. In exchange, Mr. Amin’s agency would charge a onetime fee of two hundred thousand taka—roughly twenty-five hundred dollars.
The recruitment fee had nearly scuttled the deal. Jashel’s family had no way to cover it, short of selling their land. But Mr. Amin had been ready with an alternative. He told Jashel that most of his recruits required loans to pay the fee. His agency collaborated with a lender who offered financing at a reasonable interest rate, so long as the debt was secured by property.
“In garments, you will work overtime,” the recruiter explained, scratching out figures on a pad. “That will raise your monthly pay to one thousand ringgit. At that rate, you can repay the loan in eighteen months while still remitting ten thousand taka to your family per month. After that, you will be able to remit twenty thousand taka per month. A good deal, no?”
Though the numbers were indeed attractive, Jashel had not made his decision hastily. He took the matter under advisement, seeking counsel from other families whose relatives had sought greener pastures outside Bangladesh. While no one in Matiranga had migrated to Malaysia, their stories were generally the same. The labor was grueling and the hours long, but the pay was far better than anything in Dhaka or Chittagong, at least for unskilled workers.
A week later, Jashel signed the contract and promissory note, and his mother executed a mortgage on her land. After that, he paid a visit to Farzana. He found her washing clothes along the banks of the river with her younger sisters, her raven hair uncovered and tied behind her in a bun. She stood up when he approached, clasping her hands behind her back. He kept an appropriate distance out of respect for the traditions and for her honor as a virgin.
“I have to go,” he said in Bengali, looking deep into her eyes. “I am sorry.”
She nodded stoically, but her bottom lip began to quiver. “How long will you be gone?”
“Three years, perhaps six,” he answered, struggling to hold his emotions in check. “Your father will find you another husband.”
A tear escaped from her eye. “Tell him that yourself.”
“You would wait for me?” Jashel asked, hardly able to believe it.
She looked out at the river twisting away into the distance. “I will wait, but only if you promise to come home.”
They stood in silence for long seconds, the water flowing lazily behind them, in no hurry to reach the sea. How badly he longed to take her into his arms, to stroke her hair and kiss the sorrow from her cheeks. He had been dreaming of holding her since they were children. But the time had not yet come.
“I will come home,” he said.
He left her there with a plainspoken good-bye and walked back to the village, her face emblazoned upon his heart. He loved her like his own. Of that much he was sure. But the future he had no way to predict. He didn’t know what awaited him in Malaysia, or how the years would change him. He had no idea when he would return to the village, or if Farzana would be there, watching for him when he did.
The train pulled into KL Sentral station and the doors slid open with a quiet whoosh, allowing the passengers to disembark. Jashel stood up and took his suitcase—a beat-up Samsonite rollaboard—off the rack. He shouldered his backpack and trailed the rest of the group onto the platform. There were six other Bangladeshis with him, all from Mr. Amin’s agency, all destined for Rightaway Garments. Only one of them spoke passable English, but his reading skills were rudimentary. They stood in a huddle, observing the other passengers make their way toward an escalator with signs posted above it in languages none of them unders
tood.
Jashel pointed at the escalator. “Ye upaya,” he said, at once confident and nervous. “That is the way.” The others nodded in unison, grateful to have direction.
Following the path of the crowd, Jashel led them up to the bustling terminal and scanned the floor for the escort Mr. Amin had promised them. The scene was overwhelming—the swirl of travelers, the chatter of languages, the bright lights and digital screens and faces in a hundred shades of color—but it was no longer novel to him. Dhaka had given him a glimpse of the wider world. He was a quick study and unafraid of new experiences. He knew how to adjust.
“Assalamu alaykum,” said a gray-haired man with glasses.
Jashel shook the man’s hand. “Wa alaykum assalam.”
“I am Foysol,” the man said in Bengali, surveying the group. “My agency works with Mr. Amin. Good. All of you are here. Come along. Our transport is waiting.”
They walked together through the throng and left the terminal for the sidewalk. A van was standing at the curb, its sliding door open.
“We will go to the factory first and process your paperwork,” said Foysol. “Then you will have a day of training on the machines. After that, I will take you to your dormitory.”
The young men piled into the vehicle and Foysol climbed behind the wheel, driving them out of the station. Since his departure from the village, Jashel had tried to picture Kuala Lumpur by conjuring photographs from old textbooks. But the sprawling metropolis he saw through the windows rendered all of his musings vain. There were towers everywhere, glistening in the sun. There were giant bridges and manicured parks and grand buildings and sweeping motorways with expensive cars that stayed in their lanes and honked only occasionally. The streets were immaculate, the pace of life rushed but orderly.
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