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H abibar

Aged 14 ±

Habibar (pronounced Hob-ib-ar) does not know who his father is, or even if he is still alive. He used to have amother, but she died a few years ago and he has been on his own ever since. He does remember moving tothe city of Dhaka several years ago as it was after a tremendous storm that destroyed their little house and the

flood water washed away all that they had. Even then, they were poor and had to live from day to day. Habibarcan’t remember the name of the village where they used to live or even the name of the nearest town, all heknows that it was many hours south from Dhaka.Habibar and his mother moved to Dhaka because as his mother used to tell him, “we can get work in Dhakaand you can go to school”. He remembers other conversations like that and all the promises his mother madeof hope and success that Dhaka city would provide. When they moved to Dhaka, they knew no one andeverywhere they went there was squalor and many thousands of people just like them. They had nothing otherthan a couple of cooking pots and a few ripped and badly worn old clothes. His mother had tried to get work atcleaning, sweeping streets, road mending or carrying baskets of sand or bricks. She had tried for other workalso, but every time she tried, she would get beaten by other poor and starving people who claimed that as shewas new and they had been here first, she would have to wait.In desperation, his mother turned to prostitution, but here again she was very badly beaten by the pimps whocontrolled the girls. Habibar’s mother ended up with very bad wounds to her face and hands and after that,very few had any physical interest in her and those that did were in as bad a condition as her. With little workand unable to sell herself in prostitution, his mother turned even more to begging, but with a healthy son shedid little trade.Even to go begging, Habibar’s mother had to have a manager and she was given a selected spot where shecould beg from passing people or vehicles. Half of what she ‘earned’ in begging had to be given to themanager and woe betide her if she was found to be keeping anything back from him.In the busy streets of Dhaka the traffic moves in all directions, usually in three or four lanes, although there isno order at all to the movement of traffic. Even in lanes specified to go in one direction, many of the cars,trucks, busses, baby taxis and rickshaws all seem to go in different directions and to be on foot is verydangerous indeed. Habibar’s mother and Habibar himself were knocked over when the fender of a speedingtruck caught his mother’s sari and they were knocked into the path of a small van.Habibar had many serious cuts and one arm had multiple fractures and his mother’s legs were badlydamaged. In most societies, accident victims are rushed to hospital and tended, but in the seething city ofDhaka being rushed to hospital for the people like Habibar and his mother, is a long and painful trip on theback of a rickshaw or van gari (a three wheeler bicycle with a flat topped carrier behind the rider). On arrival atthe hospital, the porters demanded to know how much money they had, to make sure that they could pay thedoctor for treatment. Of course, they had none and were thrown out back onto the street. Their crying andpleading went unheard amongst the other hopeful patients who also wanted treatment.As always happens, eventually the police came on duty and the two men on patrol soon started to clear thearea as the hospital porters were demanding. Habibar and his mother were told to go away and not bothercoming back, as without money for treatment, she had no hope.They returned to their hovel beside the main sewers that run through the area near the large car workshopsand Habibar’s mother begged her neighbours for some help. It’s a strange thing about being very poor, intimes of great need, it’s the people who can least afford to help, who do. They managed to get a little moneytogether and she ignored her own wounds and took Habibar to the ‘local’ doctor, who may or may not havehad any medical training, but was the nearest thing to a doctor that these people could afford. After inspection,the ‘doctor’ told her that Habibar’s arm was so badly damaged that he could do nothing for him and that theonly solution was for the arm to be cut off. For this advice and the writing of a prescription, the ‘doctor’ chargedher all the money that she had and she had to return to their hovel.Hearing of her plight, her neighbours became very angry and the men and women marched off and confrontedthe ‘doctor’ and demanded the money to be returned. In the face of this great mob of people, which wasgrowing by the minute, the doctor had no choice and the money was returned. The mob leaders then carriedHabibar to the local butcher (and cattle castrator) and told him to cut off the arm and sew it up. This is not as

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unusual as at first seems, as the poor people have developed their own systems for getting things done andfor surgery, either the best butchers or barbers do the work. They do after all have the necessary tools and it isthe best butchers who perform the religious slaughters and the best barbers who carry out the religiouscircumcision of young boys.The ‘amputation’ was carried out and after many months of infection and pain, Habibar was eventually able togo back to work at the begging job. His mother had overcome her leg wounds, but she walked with a bad limpand between them they were a sorry sight. Their begging manager looked upon them with great delight and hemoved them to a more profitable spot where their obvious deformities would guarantee him higher profits fromtheir begging. For two years, Habibar and his mother were forced into begging until one severe winter’s day,his mother got pneumonia and died within a week.Death in the squalid hovels is an everyday occurrence and the death of Habibar’s mother went as unnoticed asmany others, except for Habibar himself. Now he had no mother, one arm, no education and little hope ofbeing anything but a beggar. His only source of income had to be shared with his manager and now that hismother was dead, he was partnered with a young girl who was crippled and who was also alone in the world.During the week after his mother had died and whilst he was out at on the streets begging, his small hovel wasstripped of anything useful by other vagrants and Habibar was reduced to owning nothing other than what hewore. By this time, Habibar was street wise and he knew that he could survive, a little food here and there anda few coins to buy a third hand shirt. This is his life today and for him and thousands of others like him it is thenorm, as neither he nor the others around him know of any other way of life. Every street, every road junctionhas people like Habibar who came to the capital city to find work and to make a new life after life threatening

natural disasters. There are so many, that the authorities are powerless to be able to do anything about it,where can you move hundreds of thousands of human beings, who live in squalid conditions. There are nofacilities whereby they can be rehabilitated into society, this is the society. To the rich, these people areanimals who like diseased dogs must be avoided or destroyed. To Habibar, this is the only life that he will everknow for he knows no other.

This account was written in March 1998 after co-ordinating with a non-government organisation (NGO) workingwith the poorest in the back streets of Dhaka, Bangladesh. The story of Habibar is roughly as described by

staff of the NGO.

t wofer – September 2009