I never thought I would be writing on this subject . . .

And as a disclaimer, I do not claim to be an expert nor do I claim to know much at all. I am just sharing what I have learned, what I am learning.

The textile factory workers here in Bangladesh went on strike the other week; they want the minimum wage increased. A friend of mine here (let’s call him Monir) described a bit of the conundrum he is in over the textile workers demanding to be paid higher wages. Monir owns a textile factory. Personally, I think it is only right and just and fair that the textile workers be paid more (currently, they are getting 1600 Taka a month, which is less than a dollar a day), but as Monir explained, there are repercussions for being paid more . . . some people will be paid more while others will lose their jobs. And then the factory will not be able to produce what is needed. I also remember learning in economics class how (usually) if the minimum wage is increased, the cost of living also increases, thereby nixing the higher wage.

And then I think, seriously, Monir, I see the life you are living—the lavishness of it. Surely you could pay them more. I recognize not all of Monir’s money comes from the garment industry. I also recognize that Monir is one person, and although one person can make a small difference, this is not where the heart of the problem lies. So Monir talked about the companies that buy the textiles made here in Bangladesh. I am no economist and I am not a businessperson. A conversation pertaining to business can soon be lost on me, but this is what I understood:

Companies come in with an amount they are willing to pay. They want cheap clothes. Who doesn’t want cheap clothes? Who hasn’t gone to Walmart because clothes are cheaper there than at Target or Old Navy and you don’t have to spend as much money? Monir said that the prices these companies are willing to pay for the textiles is not enough to keep the factories running, to allow for a profit, to pay the people a livable wage. The only reason textile industries on this side of the world are even considering these prices is because of the sheer volume. Why are the companies in the US demanding lower prices? Because we the consumers are demanding lower prices.

Everyone is out for his or her own profit, right? That’s what runs the world, the capitalistic society. Two businesses are competing, one lowers their prices a fraction to attract the customers, so the other one must also lower their costs. Eventually, the prices become so low that the businesses must go to where the clothes originally come from to get lower prices so they can still make a profit. Through all this, we the consumers will only now shop where clothes are cheap (we’ve been spoiled), and because of that, the people in these factories are being paid less and less, and when they form a union (it worked in the USA), they may eventually get a higher wage, but it won’t matter because the price of all other living expenses in these countries will go up. And some will lose their jobs.

And then I think about the stores that offer clothes at astronomical prices and people still pay those prices. I have a feeling that where those clothes come from is right next door to where clothes from Walmart come from. I know because people buy the Walmart clothes and the outlandish-priced clothes in the “seconds” markets here in Dhaka. Those factory workers should get paid more, but they don’t. It’s the same wage.

This subject has been written about many times. I have heard many discussions. Many I have eventually tuned out. But I have heard. I try not to shop at Walmart . . . but mainly because I think they treat their employees like crap. Now I have a whole new perspective because I have heard the textile factory owner’s story.

I still think he has too much money and that somehow he could treat his employees better, but I am seeing that it looks like a futile battle on this end when the American consumers are on the other end of the tug-of-war.

I never thought I would meet the owner of a textile factory in Bangladesh. I never thought about what I would say if I met one. I have had many bad thoughts about textile factory owners. Surely, I could have said quite a few choice words concerning them. But then I met Monir. He told me about a girl that went off on him while on a plane when she learned what his job was. He laughed it off. That girl didn’t change his life. Now I have gotten to know his family. I was invited to a thank you party he and his wife threw for those who’ve helped them throughout the year . . . I did nothing but go to a few dinners with them. Maybe Melissa and I opened Monir to a view of the world through our eyes: seeing what we do and why we do it. Maybe that’s affected him more than I realize or maybe that’ll affect him down the road; maybe it won’t. I do know that I can learn from him. And I will tell others this story, this bit of truth.

Don’t shop at Walmart. Learn to do with less. Try to find the fair trade stores where at least they try to only buy from factories where the employees get paid a living wage. I am told Target at least tries (Monir does business with Target). Walmart does not try. Target still isn’t the greatest. I know there are better out there. It’ll cost you time to hunt down stores that try to pay fair costs. Pay a little more and have a smaller wardrobe; it’s not the end of the world.

That little girl and boy might have a chance to eat an ice cream cone.

American Burger

American Burger is a hole-in-the-wall restaurant that looks very sketchy on the outside. I walked by it many times—even after friends said it was fantastic—without going in because it looked so dirty. A few weeks ago, Melissa and I worked up the courage to go in and much to our amazement we fell in love. The burgers are without the usual Bangladeshi taste, and the fries taste like real American fries (none of the egg taste other places have).

Yesterday I was sitting at the counter in American Burger facing the street waiting for my food. I watched as a garbage bike pulled up with a father and son who picked up trash. The garbage bike is a bike attached to a trailer of sorts. I have often seen men picking up trash, and I have often held my breath as I have walked past: it smells awful. Thus far, I have not seen any garbage trucks (I’ve been told the big trucks are only allowed in the city at night).

So the little boy, dressed only in dirty shorts, comes to the door that is right beside me and yells out, “Moyla!” Dirty. Trash. The smell of trash wafted up from the little boy of only seven or eight years (maybe six years?). He was a smiling kid. I watched him as he waited for the trash. His skin was dirty, and unlike the smooth skin of other children his age, his skin looked slightly bumpy, like there was a rash all over him. A man walked out the door and said something to the little boy, touched him on the head.

He should have been in school.

The guy from the restaurant handed the little boy the first barrel, which was too big for him, but he pulled it outside the door and started rummaging. What I was expecting was for him to start pulling the plastic bottles out to sort the trash like I have seen many of the other men working with trash do.

No. The little boy found a fry and put it in his mouth.

My stomach heaved.

Oh, God. I couldn’t watch. But then I looked back. It’s a normal reaction I have. The little boy kept rummaging, putting little remains of food into his mouth.

How could I sit there and eat a burger and fries that were freshly made while this little boy had nothing? Could I be that heartless? I faced the inside of the restaurant, shocked. What kind of a person am I as I turned away because I couldn’t stomach what I was seeing? Should I not eat my food when it came? Should I take it to the little boy? Should I leave? What do I do?

Earlier that day I had been with my friend in her car. We had gone to a store to buy a gift for someone, and as we were driving back, we passed many, many people. Nothing unusual. I noticed a little girl walking across a lot and she was holding a bag above her head. She didn’t have a shirt on, and her ribs stuck out. Again, nothing unusual, but at that time I started thinking about how apparently little she has to eat. Does hunger rule her life? How can she play and be a child when she is constantly hungry? What is life like when all you do is want from meal to meal? You never have enough. You never get to try ice cream. I am not sure why my mind went there because this is a common sight to me. However, yesterday I tried putting myself in her shoes.

I couldn’t. I have never been without.

Bangladeshis love their rice and curry. A common joke among expatriates is that if a Bangladeshi doesn’t eat rice with their meal, then they did not eat a meal. Poor people eat rice with green chilies and salt.

But rice and chilies and salt don’t sustain you. That little girl was testimony of that.

And then I went to eat lunch and saw this little boy.

Many times I see people who are hungry right before I walk into a restaurant, and when I walk out, they are still there asking for something. What do I do? Because there is no easy answer . . . Most of the roads are “owned” by someone, so if someone who begs is standing there, they are paying to stand there. Someone gets a cut of what the people who beg earn. I could buy food for people and watch them eat, but I can’t do that every time because I would never go anywhere. My life would be spent there on the street moving from one person to another. That’s not a bad idea, but that’s not why I am here. I pray someone is called to be that person. I am going to the Gach in Kolkata. And then there are so many economic implications behind giving to people who beg or giving extra to people who pull rickshaws. It’s a sticky issue always. I wish I had an answer. I know that when I stop wrestling with this issue, that’s the moment my heart becomes hard. I vacillate between feeling completely heartless and feeling angry with compassion.

I watched as the little boy climbed into the back of the bike-garbage-truck and helped his dad sort. My lunch came. I ate. I walked out of American Burger and got on with my life.

What kind of a person am I? What kind of a world are we living in? It’s cruel and not what we were meant for.

Some things just don't translate

There have been some beautifully funny moments in language class where we as students seemed absolutely ludicrous to our teachers:

- Melissa and I go over to our friend Sue's house every Saturday to do laundry, bake, and generally spend time with Sue. As per norm, our teacher, Evans, asked us on Sunday what we did over the weekend, so Melissa proceeded to tell our teacher and the class about us doing laundry and baking at Sue's. He appeared confused for a bit, and then asked, "Sue, what were you doing?" Sue answered honestly, "I watched them," as we talked and enjoyed each other's company. Our teacher was even more baffled. Finally he said, "Well, did you pay them?" We burst into laughter! He thought Melissa and I were doing Sue's laundry and cooking like househelp would. And even when he realized that it was our own laundry and cooking that we did, he couldn't understand why we would do that there or that Sue would allow us to. The whole thing was a foreign concept.

- There is a word in Bangla that means "to visit." As Americans, we use this word very loosely: we visit a park, we visit a friend, we visit the doctor, etc. In Bangla, though, it means to visit a friend or distant family member either for a short time or for a few days. During class, we are asked to use new vocabulary in a sentence, so one of us (Melissa or I) said we were going to visit our parents' house. Our teacher, Pulak, said, "No, that is impossible. That sentence does not work here." Why? Because in this culture, my parents' home is my home, my family home, and I cannot visit my own home. I can go home, but I cannot use this verb to visit my parents' home. We tried explaining that in the States, our parents' home is not our home. Our teacher told us he understood, but that no one else in this culture would. And just to see if our teacher was lying (he happens to be the one who understands Western culture the best), we tried this out on another teacher. That teacher was more confused and said "Impossible. You cannot use it like that." Ha!

- "ki keyechen?" What have you eaten? This is a very common question to get us talking at the beginning of class. So one day our friend Sue said she had made and eaten deviled eggs (where did the name come from anyway?). In order to practice Bangla and to understand what the heck we were talking about, our teacher, Evans, made Sue describe how to make deviled eggs. After we muddled through it in Bangla with lots of help from the teacher, Sue ended by saying we put the yolk and spice concoction back into the eggs. Our teacher paused and then asked us, "Then what do you do?" He thought there had to be more to it . . . do we fry it? No, then we eat it. He looked a little confused and disgusted. "Do you eat it with rice?" No, just by itself. "You don't eat it with rice?" Nope. We then tried to tell him it's a picnic food or a side dish, but still, this deviled egg made no sense to him. Unless rice Bangladeshis eat rice at a meal, they have not eaten a meal.

As I find amusement within this culture, I realize the same goes for them. We Americans/Westerners are very strange people. Some things just don't translate.