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James Peron is the author of "Die, the Beloved Country?," "Zimbabwe: Death of a Dream," "Exploding Population Myths," and other books. He is the editor of the book "The Liberal Tide: From Tyranny to Liberty" and has written for numerous publications including the Johannesburg Star, the Wall Street Journal (Europe) and other publications. He is working to establish the Centre for Liberal Studies in Berlin in conjunction with the Institut für Unternehmerische Freiheit.
Her mother looked at her and shook her head. “What am I supposed to do you with you.” She poured some water out of a dirty looking pitcher into a pan hanging over the fire. The woman wiped her hands for a second and studied the slight girl. She shook her head again reluctantly. “You certainly aren’t strong enough to work in the fields with your brothers. And you aren’t pretty enough to find a husband and we can’t afford a dowry for you anyway.”
The woman took a handful of rice and dropped it into the water. “We don't have enough to feed you. Not now that your father has left us.” Reluctantly she dropped another handful of rice into the pot. She sat down on a straw mat next to the girl. The child snuggled up against her mother and the woman wept.
The girl knew that she needed an education. If her mother could only afford to send her to school things would work out. She could go to the city and and find a job. She could send her mother the money she needed so badly. But what hope did she have of school. She couldn’t afford textbooks. Even the paper and pencil that she had were more than her mother could afford. They ate less for a week just to be able to afford that.
There was only one hope for the child. She needed to find work. It could be anything just as long as it covered her schooling and left a small amount for food. But in the village there were very few jobs for anyone. It was a rural area and most people, like her family, farmed to eat. They had little surplus left over.
The only choice before her was an hours walk. There in the next town a local man had many looms and woman and girls would weave rugs for him. The pay was not much but it was more than any of them dreamed of earning. But these jobs were in high demand. There were so few positions and so many who wanted to fill them. Those who didn’t succeed would slink off ashamed. They weren’t ashamed because they were not offered the job. They were ashamed because they knew what other option was the only one left for them. That too required they leave for the city. But girls who took this position never came home again. They simply couldn’t face their families. Everyone said they were visiting relatives instead of telling the truth.
She didn’t want that for herself. So early the next morning, long before the sun itself had arisen, she quietly dressed. Her bare feet was soon covered with dust from the road. She was determined that she would make the trip and that she would get a job. She carried her old school satchel. She wasn’t sure why she brought it but she felt better having it in her hand.
The rising sun momentarily blinded her. She stopped for a second and dreamed about her future. This job would change her life. It would change her mother’s life as well. She smiled to herself and then continued walking but at a slightly quicker pace.
She heard the clicking of the looms long before she saw anyone. Like giant crickets on a hot summer’s night the clicking sound would rise and fall rhythmically. She turned the corner and saw the small building. In fact it barely qualified as a building at all. It was more a frame with a straw roof. A couple of dozen women and girls were already weaving madly. They were paid for each rug they finished. Those who worked faster earned more. Two looms sat empty. She could only hope this meant a position would need to be filled. As she came to where a wall should have been a woman looked up and saw her.
“He’s not here yet” she said, never letting up with her work. “You’ll have to talk to him if you want to work.” The girl smiled at the thought and started to say thank you. The woman interrupted: “There,” she said nodding toward the other side of the building, “wait there with the others.”
The girl looked through the shop and saw a dozen or so woman and young girls sitting patiently by the the side of the road. Her heart sank. With so many and only two empty looms what chance did she have. Her eyes dropped toward the ground. She didn’t want to look the others in the face. They were her enemies. They wanted the job she needed so desperately. As she passed the last woman in line she stopped and sat down beside her.
Depression took over. She opened her school satchel and pulled out her pencil and a piece of paper. It was one of the last she had. Using the satchel itself as a desk she started drawing. The page filled with wondrous designs, with swirls and squares and circles. And though she had just the one pencil the page seemed to fill with colour. It was an illusion caused by the way she drew more than anything else. Soon another dozen women were sitting to her left Each time another pair of bare feet walked past her she felt worse. Each pair of feet were an indication of another pair of hands seeking the two empty looms.
The owner appeared. He looked at the long line and shook his head in despair. He knew what would happen. Each woman or child would tell him sad stories, stories of poverty and desperation. Some would hint at how they could make him happy. The many who wouldn’t be hired that day would be angry. Some would cry. Others would scream at him. Many would just walked away silently. A few would quickly pack their few belongings and disappear seeking less dignified options. It was a burden he didn’t want to bear. But what little he earned fed his family.
He could not hire anyone until he had seen them all. That would take most of the day. Even as he spoke to them others would still arrive hopeful for a position. They would all wait there until he had seen the last one of them. He would point to two of them and quickly leave. The next morning the two new employees would arrive early and he’d tell them what was required. No one bothered to ask about wages. Those this poor would accept anything. And he never had much to offer them.
By the time her turn came the girl had filled her piece of paper. She quickly put it and the pencil back in her satchel. She quietly stood up and went to the man. He looked at her much the same way her mother had looked at her the day before. “So small,” he said. “What can a girl so small do with looms that are so large?” He didn’t say anything else. As she started to stand the next woman came rushing in to take her place. She knocked the child to the ground and her satchel fell from her hands, its meager contents splayed in the dirt. The man chastised the woman and reached down to help the girl up. He then picked up the paper, the pencil and the satchel.
“What is this?” he asked her holding the paper in his hands. “Did you draw this?” he asked the child. She merely shook her head in affirmation. He smiled at her and said she should wait with the others.
For two hours she waited. The sun grew hotter as the day seemed to go on without end. Eventually the last woman was seen. The exhausted man stood up and pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow and then his neck. He looked at the sea of faces, eyes wide open in anticipation.
“The two I pick will be here tomorrow at sunrise,” he said. Each time he had to do this he would make the same announcement, then point at the lucky ones, and then flee the site immediately. He couldn’t stand the response from those not chosen. His arm flew through the air. “You” he said, “and you” finally pointing to the girl. Before she could thank him he was gone. She found herself crying from joy.
She left quickly for home. Unlike the man she did not flee out of fear. She didn’t notice anything else that was happening around her. She didn’t hear the swearing or the wails of despair. She found that, though tired from sitting in the hot sun, she ran like she had never run before.
That night she and her mother hugged and laughed and cried together. Tomorrow she would see the man regarding the work. She would ask him to put her on a loom in the afternoon and evening. And though it meant walking home alone late at night it would allow her to attend school in the morning. And then at mid day she would run to him so she could work. Weekends were so much better. Though she still worked each day she didn’t have school. She was allowed some extra time to rest.
For many months she worked happily. The man wanted her because her designs were so original. He wanted her to weave them into the rugs she made. She did as he requested and to her amazement found that the demand for her rugs exceeded that of the others. Soon her’s were the most popular that they made. He paid her a small bonus to help the other women weave rugs with the same designs. Demand was definitely higher and he found he could charge more for these special rugs. The women who mastered these designs found that they could earn a bit more for each one. For this they were thankful to the young girl. The man even bought her an entire pad of paper and pencils of many colours.
At night, before bed, she would design new rugs. Each morning she would walk to school for half a day. And then she spent most of the day weaving her own rugs. But the man also paid her to spend time with the other women explaining her drawings to them. Just after sunset she would walk home where her mother had some food waiting for her. Each pay day was so glorious. There was enough for her school costs, some for her mother, and she found that she had a small amount she could save for school in the city when she would seek a high paying job—well high paying in comparison to weaving.
After some months she had a small nest egg. It wasn’t enough for her to do anything with it yet. But by the time she finished school it would be sufficient . She would study the skills needed to work as a secretary. That would take her a few months and the money would cover her expenses. Then she would find it much easier to find a new position that paid much more. This dream stayed with her and made work, as hard as it was, a joy.
It was one Saturday that the entire village was buzzing with gossip. Tourists had come to town. Tourists were not seen very often in this part of the country. When she got to the factory there was a great commotion. Off in the distance she could see the three visitors: a man, his wife and their son. While she had never seen a tourist before she didn’t want to waste her time gawking at them. She had dreams to weave.
She sat on the ground in front of her loom and started working. Her tiny fingers weaved meticulously designed patterns. This would be one of the best rugs she had ever made and one of the most profitable. It was taking a little longer but she knew it would fetch double the price of the others. So entranced was she by the pattern that was taking shape in front of her she at first didn’t see the boy standing near her.
It was only the click that his camera made that caught her attention. She turned to him and looked. He smiled at her. She thought: “He has such a kind face.” She stopped for a second to show him the pattern. She was so proud of it and here was someone from overseas standing and admiring her work. To impress him even more she started weaving even faster. She heard the camera clicking a few more times. The boy said something but she wasn’t sure what it was. She looked straight at him and he took another picture. He smiled at her and walked back toward his parents who had been talking to the factory owner.
She couldn’t hear what they were saying. When the boy was standing by his mother’s side he whispered to her. She whispered to her husband. They said something to the owner. He looked shocked. Some of the women standing there made off quickly. The owner regained his composure and yelled at the tourists. The girl thought to herself that this was unusual. One does not treat guests this way. One woman who had been standing there listening came running over to the girl. She leaned down and whispered: “You must go away for a minute. It is important. Leave until they are gone” The girl did not understand why but she left. When she returned a short while later the visitors were gone and she resumed her work.
She never saw the photos that were taken. But millions of others did. One magazine had one of the photos on the cover. It was when she looked up at the boy and smiled. Her eyes were wide open in wonder at being the object of this foreign boy’s attention. She was showing the intricate patterns she had created. Her tiny fingers were holding the rug up for him to see. All the bright colours were vividly captured on film. A bead of sweat ran down her check. It almost looked like a tear. The caption said: “The Face of Child Labour”. Inside was an article which used words like “sweatshop” “exploitation” and “child abuse”. Some labour organization in the US was using the boy to speak out on the evils of child labour.
He appeared on Oprah and the several pictures he took that day were shown to the world. He talked about how evil it was that young girls like this, a girl who’s name he didn’t know, were being forced to labour all day long instead of being educated. He pleaded with the audience to help save the nameless girl, and millions like her, from exploitation. The labour group that had funded his trip also had a Senator in their pocket who was proposing new legislation to restrict the import of goods made through “the sweat and blood of tiny children with hands gnarled from hard labour for little or no reward.”
The boy spent an entire hour pleading the case of child labourers. He talked about his life of privilege and how the rich of the world had an obligation to the poor. Oprah cried. Housewives across the world wept along with her. The new legislation passed easily. And everyone wanted to know about this nameless girl.
The labour group, of course, had followed the rugs produced in this tiny factory. They found the local wholesaler who purchased in bulk. They found his international wholesalers. They even found the retail outlets in the United States and Europe. They proudly published their “List of Shame”. They produced brochures with the girls face on them. Inside they listed the companies that were to suffer economic boycotts for exploiting the poor girl on the cover.
The major retailers immediately stopped selling these rugs. And, of course, they stopped buying them as well.
The effects were not felt immediately but in short time the factory owner was hearing that surpluses of rugs were pushing down prices. Demand fell for not only his rugs but for all the rugs produced by the poor people of his region. The women at the factory were afraid that without work they could not feed their families. He assured them that it was only temporary. Nothing like this had ever happened before and had not their rugs been most in demand. So be patient he pleaded. Everything will come out right.
In Brussels, the European Union, not wishing to appear heartless, passed similar regulations. It was no accident that European rug makers had jumped on the bandwagon started in the States. They even wore shirts with the girl’s face on it. They carried placards with her photo as well.
The factory owner was horrified. He couldn’t understand what had happened. Wholesalers were no longer ordering any of his rugs. Even worse some were demanding he refund their money and take the previously sold rugs back. “How can I do that?” he asked them, “Can we take the money back from the women who made them? Can we empty their stomachs of the food they have already eaten?” One of the wholesalers handed him a brochure printed by some anti-globalization group. He just stared at the face on the cover. He knew her so well. He saw her as his own daughter. He was so proud of her work and happy with her designs. She had a future he had been telling his wife. He didn’t know what to say. Then the wholesaler shocked him even more.
“Reporters from television were here with their cameras. They want to find the girl. They wanted to know what factory was exploiting such a young child. They are looking for you. You must go back now and solve this problem before we all starve.”
The factory owner hurried back to the village. It took him half a day to return and it was already nightfall. The factory was closed and the girl was gone. He heard the sound of a motor car. Such things were not common so he hid himself. A group of men with camera’s got out. A bright light was turned on and he could see a man standing in front of one the looms. He was talking to the camera that another man held. The owner knew this was not good.
He didn’t wait for morning since he was sure the men with the cameras would be back. He raced through the darkness until he found the girl’s home. He was breathless as he tried to explain to her. All she knew was that he was saying that she must not come back to work
“But why?,” she pleaded. “Does not my work please you?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Are my rugs ugly and badly made?”
“No, child. They are beautiful. It’s you.”
“Me? What have I done?”
“Nothing. They say you must go to school. That you are too young to work.”
“I go to school,” she insisted. She grabbed her satchel and showed him the books she had bought and paper and pencils she could now afford. She showed him the shoes she had purchased just for school “Every day I go to school. And it is the money I earn making rugs that means I can go to school. No money no books. No rugs no pencils.”
“There is nothing I can do,” he told her. “Nothing. Maybe they will leave us alone and you can come back.”
“When?” she asked, hoping that it would be soon enough that she could finish the school year. The owner just shook his head. He didn’t know. He patted her on the head and left. He walked home slowly that night. He didn’t want his wife to see he had been crying. And when he opened the factory the next morning the girl was not there. Some of the other women cried when he told them what was happening. “Who will make the new patterns that sell so well?” asked one grandmother.
Interest in the factory did not stop and sales did not improve. He got another factory owner to take his rugs to town and pretend they were his. But this man also wanted a cut for each one sold. Sales recovered but not like before. Now several looms sat idle and no one was clamoring for the position. They sat idle because he could not sell the rugs.
A few months later the young boy was on Oprah once again to tell the world how they had succeeded in improving the lives of Third World children. The nameless girl’s face was once again shown. The boy told Oprah that he and and film crew had made a surprise visit to the factory. As he spoke a screen behind him showed the results. At the looms were a few old women. Most of the looms were empty now. The factory owner was filmed running away from them. They boy joked about cockroaches hiding from the light. Oprah laughed.
The girl’s face flashed on the screen. The boy, with feigned tears in his eyes and a quiver in his voice, said: “I am so happy to tell you that, because of you we have legislation that now protects girls like this one. She is no longer forced to weave rugs until dawn to satisfy the greedy factory owner. She is allowed to be a child once again. Let the children be children.”
The girl never knew what had actually happened. She couldn’t understand how this boy’s visit had meant her unemployment. She had never heard of Oprah. She waited for a few weeks hoping the job would be reoffered to her. But more and more of those she worked with lost their jobs as well. No one wanted her beautiful rugs anymore. Eventually her savings was used up. She had to quit school and the dreams of her future died that day. She tried working with her brothers in the field but she was too small and too slight to be of much use.The food they had to eat was less and less.
One night she kissed her mother and she hugged her brothers tighter than ever before. Her family then sat outside by the fire. They knew she was leaving and wanted to make it easy for her. In the darkness she packed her few belongings in what had been her school satchel. But it no longer held books, paper and pencils. It held a few bits of clothes and the shoes she had bought so proudly some months earlier.
She crept out the back way. She didn’t want her family to see her leaving. She wanted to hold them and to cry with them. But the shame was too intense. She couldn’t stay. She was costing them too much food and had so little to give in return. She didn’t even have dreams anymore. She wanted to go to the city anyway she kept telling herself. She just never imagined it would be for this. At least there she had something to trade even if it wasn’t her lovely rugs any longer. She never returned home and no one ever knew what became of her.
But around the world her picture was shown. And now, always printed beneath her face, it was accompanied by the words: “Let the children be children.”
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