Child Labour is a violation of human rights. At this juncture, a poignant story about Abraham Lincoln, one of the world’s greatest humanitarians, comes to mind. At the time this episode took place, Lincoln was a candidate for a congressional seat. And on that day, he had an important election speech to deliver. But he also had a far greater task to perform—a noble cause to fight for.
He cancelled his election speech and entered the jam-packed court, which was already in session. Unnoticed, he sat down in the last row. After the case concluded, the District Attorney stood up and requested the trial of John Wilson for murder to begin. There was a stir in the courtroom. In the doorway appeared the Sheriff, leading a childish figure—a boy of ten, dressed in poor, homemade clothes. He was pale and desperately frightened. The judge faced the criminal, paused pityingly, and steadied himself. “Have you a lawyer?” He asked. The lad shook his unkempt yellow head. “No, I don’t know anybody. I haven’t got money to pay.”
The boy was in tears, and his widowed mother was sobbing near him. “Do you wish the court to assign you a counsel?” In the stillness, a boot scraped the floor. The man in the back seat rose. “May it please your honour,” he said. “I am a lawyer. I should be glad to act as counsel for the defence.” The judge looked for a moment at the loose-hung, towering figure. “What is your name?” He asked. The man answered quietly, “Abraham Lincoln.” Lincoln, who gave his life to abolish slavery, had come that day to repay a debt.
Years back, when he was a struggling non-entity, the family of the then well-to-do little boy, then a baby, had given Lincoln solace and succour. Subsequently, the boy’s father died, and the family was in a miserable state of abject poverty. The boy, John, had to work due to the force of circumstances on a farm owned by one heartless man, who was Shaughnessy by name. He was a cruel tormentor. One day, he started beating the boy so mercilessly that the desperate, defenceless boy struck his tormentor’s head with a pitchfork. The man died after some time. The boy was charged with murder. This was the story. It was commonly said that the boy was doomed; no lawyer—not even a smart one—could get him off, even with seemingly convincing evidence. But in the courtroom that day was
no ordinary man. It was the great Lincoln, the unique humanist, who had come, jeopardising his future career by cancelling his election speech for a great cause, even greater than his own magnificence.
“Gentlemen of the jury,” began Abraham Lincoln. I am going to try this case in a manner not customary in courts. I will not call any witnesses; the young prisoner sitting over there is the only witness I need. I shall not argue. You know that at an age when this boy’s hands should have held schoolbooks or a fishing rod, they held the man’s tool that was his undoing; you know how a grown man goaded the child until in desperation he used the tool at hand. All I ask is that you treat this young boy the same way you would want other men to treat similar boys in your own home. Before the verdict, for a second, perhaps, no one breathed in that packed mass. ‘Not guilty’ was the verdict.
It was a momentous victory for a noble cause. The cause was that of the tormented and exploited “Johns” of America.
My story draws inspiration from the former. It is about the ‘Asims’ of Pakistan. The ‘Asims’ are a well-known presence in Pakistani homes. The less fortunate individuals reside in these houses. I make this distinction because cold, callous concrete houses are characterised by ruthlessness.
For one such house, Asim worked. His mother was a widow, and she washed dishes and clothes for her ‘Begum Sahiba’, who had suggested this couple for Asim’s employment. Asim had previously tried his hand as a motor mechanic, but, as circumstances would have it, his boss had closed his workshop for lack of funds.
After getting the job, Asim worked for Amina and Aslam, where he was required to do all the dirty, hard work. To clean the bathrooms, sweep outdoors in the harsh summer sun of Karachi. On the face of it, everything seemed fine. His masters bullied him occasionally. They would
Feed him with leftovers, and do not give him new clothes to wear, although he tore his own clothes doing the dirty work. Maybe it was because poor Asim had not experienced the luxury of life. He could not tell that he was being dealt with severely.
Amina was a frustrated woman. Aslam had two wives, and she hated sharing him with the other. Maybe this was the reason she was so cruel.
One ill-fated day, Amina entered the house and heard a noise in the kitchen. A glass had slipped from Asim’s hands and was in splinters.
In a rage, she ignited a matchstick and placed it on Asim’s hands. Singed, he ran out, followed by Amina, who seemed in a frenzy. Luckily for him, she was heavy and could not move as fast as he.
In his mother’s embrace, he told his story to his mother’s mistress, who listened patiently. She could not even think that Amina could do this to Asim. She was determined to make amends for the wrong she had done him.
She went to Amina’s house, but Amina completely denied that she had been cruel. She knew Amina was scared of being blamed publicly. So Asim’s mother’s mistress threatened Amina to compensate Asim for her ill-doings, or she would go to the police.
Amina was asked to pay a substantial sum to Asim for the rest of his life as compensation for her attempt to burn his hand, which had avoided serious injury because he remained composed and tightly wrapped it to prevent air from fuelling the flames.
Asim’s mother won the money, and with that money, Asim joined school with zeal to become something and look after his mother.
Author: ZEENAT IQBAL HAKIMJEE
