Forced To Beg
In such indescribably poor countries of the world as those existing in East Asia, India and Africa many are forced to beg. There are those who know no other way of life. The few scraps of food, the tiny bits of currency they earn through the pity and charity of those among them who are more fortunate prolongs their lives, though they live in squalor and deprivation and ill health.
This is no way for any human being to live, but it is the way that countless human beings are forced to live. For the alternative is to not live. Without sustenance of even the most inadequate kind that may accrue to these beggars, the flotsam and jetsam of humanity, they would die. It is an indignity to the human spirit to be forced by circumstances one cannot control, to be a beggar.
It is an offence to nature not to make attempts - any attempts, however futile they seem - to somehow persevere, to endure the unendurable, and to eke out a life by begging, by eliciting the pity of those whose own level of poverty is slightly above their own, to share whatever they can conceivably spare. For the greatest offence is the waste of a life.
The poor, it is often said, are more generous of nature than are those who have more than they require. They are less loathe, despite their own parlous condition, to proffer some form and some level of help to others. Even the good charity of kindliness, of a warm word, a gesture, an effort at recognition of their shared humanity.
So when Mary Yuranda was swept away by the ferocious force of the tsunami that hit the Indian Ocean on Boxing Day 2004, one of 168,000 in hardest-hit Aceh alone that the tidal wave picked up and pulled into the great wide, raging seas, it was nothing less than a miracle that she survived. And that a woman, herself indigent, took in the child whom her mother was unable to save.
She has now been reunited with her family, telling them the story of her survival and adoption. She was named Wati by the woman who took her in. And with whom she lived for seven years, but never forgetting her family. Although she said she had forgotten other relatives' names, though not that of her grandfather.
Whom an acquaintance of her grandfather had brought her to, after having found her sitting, mute, in a coffee bar. She had somehow made a long journey from where she had been found, to her home. It is entirely possible that 14-year-old Mary Yuranda left her adoptive mother because she was being used as a child prostitute, not a street beggar.
Her parents, good Muslims, would far prefer she be seen as a child beggar. But they love her, and are themselves grateful to have her with them once more. The honour is theirs, in welcoming her back with love and pride at her survival.
Irrespective of what use that little girl was put to by those who saw advantage in saving her from death, she is alive, she is well, she is grateful to be reunited with her family, and they with her. What more, in the face of that indescribable natural disaster, could anyone ask for?
This is no way for any human being to live, but it is the way that countless human beings are forced to live. For the alternative is to not live. Without sustenance of even the most inadequate kind that may accrue to these beggars, the flotsam and jetsam of humanity, they would die. It is an indignity to the human spirit to be forced by circumstances one cannot control, to be a beggar.
It is an offence to nature not to make attempts - any attempts, however futile they seem - to somehow persevere, to endure the unendurable, and to eke out a life by begging, by eliciting the pity of those whose own level of poverty is slightly above their own, to share whatever they can conceivably spare. For the greatest offence is the waste of a life.
The poor, it is often said, are more generous of nature than are those who have more than they require. They are less loathe, despite their own parlous condition, to proffer some form and some level of help to others. Even the good charity of kindliness, of a warm word, a gesture, an effort at recognition of their shared humanity.
So when Mary Yuranda was swept away by the ferocious force of the tsunami that hit the Indian Ocean on Boxing Day 2004, one of 168,000 in hardest-hit Aceh alone that the tidal wave picked up and pulled into the great wide, raging seas, it was nothing less than a miracle that she survived. And that a woman, herself indigent, took in the child whom her mother was unable to save.
She has now been reunited with her family, telling them the story of her survival and adoption. She was named Wati by the woman who took her in. And with whom she lived for seven years, but never forgetting her family. Although she said she had forgotten other relatives' names, though not that of her grandfather.
Whom an acquaintance of her grandfather had brought her to, after having found her sitting, mute, in a coffee bar. She had somehow made a long journey from where she had been found, to her home. It is entirely possible that 14-year-old Mary Yuranda left her adoptive mother because she was being used as a child prostitute, not a street beggar.
Her parents, good Muslims, would far prefer she be seen as a child beggar. But they love her, and are themselves grateful to have her with them once more. The honour is theirs, in welcoming her back with love and pride at her survival.
Irrespective of what use that little girl was put to by those who saw advantage in saving her from death, she is alive, she is well, she is grateful to be reunited with her family, and they with her. What more, in the face of that indescribable natural disaster, could anyone ask for?
Labels: Catastrophe, Environment, Indonesia, Nature
posted by Pieface @ 7:49 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home