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ELECTIONS '98
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The Rediff Special/ Shobha Warrier'We don't want to go to Dubai, we don't want money. All we want is go home'
"It is after seven months I am talking to someone other than from this group in our language," he says, struggling to control himself, "I feel happy... And sad." "I have fever, I am tired," says a little one, "But I don't want to go to sleep because I want to talk to you people." Twentyfour-year old Majid, the little child, and 68 other Bangladeshis have been confined to a single room at the Udavum Karangal, a voluntary organisation, for the last seven months. Of this 38 are children, the youngest just three years old. The Tamil Nadu police had taken the adults into custody, accusing them of kidnapping children to be sold to agents in Saudi Arabia. Children are used as camel jockeys there. As the little ones cry in fear and the camels run in horror, the oil-rich cheer in excitement. But once you talk to these unfortunates, it is difficult to believe evil of them. How could you not believe those women who talk with tears in their eyes that they had their own children with them? How could you not believe them when they say that all they wanted was to escape the horrifying poverty of their villages? It was a long and arduous journey for all of them, victims of circumstances, from their poverty-stricken villages in Bangladesh to an unknown and strange place like Tamil Nadu. People like Majid, Abdul Quasim, and Quadir either pledged or sold their houses and tiny pieces of land they had for a dream to make money. All of them gave Rs 70,000 to an agent who promised them a land of prosperity in no time, if they were willing to pose as parents to one or two children.
They did not start the cursed journey in a single group; they were grouped together only when they reached Tamil Nadu. Their passports and whatever money they had with them were seized by the agent the moment they reached Malda from Bangladesh. He brought them in batches from Malda to Bangalore by train, and from there to Madras. Once there, the Bangladeshis were kept in a mosque in Kelambakkom near Mahabalipuram. The crowd inside the mosque grew, as also the expectations as they were told that Dubai was just one step away. In the meantime, the agent was arrested by the police with some children in Bangalore. Thus vanished the dreams of the 32 adults. As days went by, the locals became suspicious about the group. Mistaking them for child-snatchers, they beat up the men before handing them over to the police. "We pleaded in Bangla not to beat us," Quasim says, showing the scars on his face, "They did not understand our language and we were abused very badly. But the police were very kind to us. So also the people of this place," The police requested Vidyakar of the Udavum Karangal to take care of them for 15 days till further arrangements could be made for their trip back to Bangladesh. That was in September, 1997. Despite Vidyakar writing to various government departments reminding them about the unfortunates, no one responded, not even the police. "I have to beg for money for my inmates. Here I am spending Rs 70,000 for these people and the government is not bothered about them," he says. Soon after they reached Udavum Karangal, the Bangladesh high commissioner visited them. "All of them fell at his feet begging him to take them back to their country," Vidyakar says, "He nodded his head and went back. I haven't heard from him after that." Despite the poverty back home, despite the 'tasty paratha and curry' the refugees get at Udavum Karangal, they all want to return to Bangladesh. "How will you feel if you are stranded like this in an alien country? Please do something and help us go back," they plead, "We don't want money, we don't want to go to Dubai, we don't want anything. All we want is to go back to our country. Please didi, please help us." Twelve-year-old Sagar has been moving around in India for quite some time now, and has picked up Hindi very well. He was not promised anything by his neighbour except good food if he accompanied him to India. He jumped to the offer, as he didn't know what a regular meal was till then. "Didi, we are very poor. Do you think we would have accompanied that cruel broker if we knew we were going to be camel jockeys? Nobody believes the poor, I understood now. We came to know about it only after coming here. We were cheated, didi, by that man, all of us were cheated. But you people think we are cheats. We are not, please believe us. "Now I long to be with my parents and friends. Though we don't have anything to eat there, we want to go back. Please help us." Majid, who left his old parents an year ago, has had no contacts with them since. "Who will take care of them when I am here?" he asks, "I am desperate to go back and see how they are. My mother must be crying for me." Adds Quasim: "I have not heard anything about my old parents, my wife and four children for the last seven months. I don't know how they are faring. I sold the land in which we used to farm. Now what will they do but starve?"
There are many women like Jahan Ara in the group. Desperate, poor, despondent -- now at the mercy of indifferent authorities. All they want is go home. Nothing more. Photographs: Sanjay Ghosh |
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It is a pathetic sight to see, a grown man breaking into tears and sobbing violently. Majid was collected when he started
talking to our photographer Sanjay Ghosh in Bengali, his native language.
But now, a little into the conversation, he is holding on to Ghosh's hands and weeping.
''We did not see any foul play in the demand," they say, "We had no intention to cheat anyone. We are the ones who were cheated. Please believe us. We are very poor. Still we sold whatever we had and gave all the money to the agent."
Another member of the group, Jahan Ara, comes near with her six-year-old son Robin. Her life turned upside down after her husband deserted her for another woman. With a small son to look after and without money, she was totally dependant on her parents and brothers.
Naturally, when a man offered her a well-paid job as a maid and
good education for her son in Dubai, she was willing to go. She
sold the small piece of land she had to
arrange for the needed Rs 20,000.