Rich Pickings?

 Based on real events earlier this month

[Cover photo of hut:- © Daniel Marenco / Canarinho Press; Conference Poster:- Unplash/ Naja Bertolt Jensen;]

“Mummy, how d’you like my tractor?” asked 6-year-old Billy, as he prodded Désiré into a reluctant consciousness. Her fitful sleep had been interrupted by the drumbeat of the night’s rainstorm battering against the roof of their hut. It was her children’s innocent zest for life that kept her going, facing another day of struggle, of hunger, battling her marginal existence.   

What a grim place to raise a family, she thought, as she gazed out of the opening that served as a door, her eyes surveying the endless mountain of brightly coloured rubbish. The city dump contained a cocktail of poisons, and many of its inhabitants had mysteriously become fatally ill, including Désiré’s boyfriend Dan, the father of her children.  The family’s feet were covered with hard skin, yet still they ran the daily gauntlet to avoid shards of metal or glass. Both kids had sustained nasty cuts recently which she had somehow kept free of infection with her friend Hawa’s First Aid kit.

You would hardly believe that the city dump would sport a church Cell Group, at Hawa’s home. A bus would arrive on Sunday mornings to take them to worship in the city centre, where they were welcomed into the mixed race congregation. This served as the group members’ connection with the outside world and – almost invariably – the chance of a decent meal. But nobody suggested rescuing them from the dump. No, their part was to trust God to improve their lives. The group was both a devotional and a self help collective. The way they dressed for church, looking well turned out in stitched-together clothing, was testimony to their making purses out of sows’ ears. They worked together to collect hut-making materials and clothing, and, with the help of a volunteer from church, they’d even organised a school for both adults and children.

-o-O-o-

As ever, it was a challenge to involve the men. Every day a truck would arrive to collect metal, another truck ‘clean’ plastic, and this provided the waste-pickers’ source of income. But they had to collect so, so much material to earn the smallest pittance. The men’s mood swung between bitterness and hopelessness, which didn’t help them become good husbands and fathers.

But Hawa’s husband, Joshua, was different. He’d lived his entire 33 years on the city dump, yet had somehow learnt to read as a child. He was part of the group, but this motivated him to organise a sort of workers’ cooperative, standing up to the collection companies to negotiate fair treatment for waste pickers. Why couldn’t their scavenging be seen as a part of the global metal and plastics industry, with fair prices paid for their collections? Surely people on the dump should have access to state education and healthcare, and wear proper protective clothing?  Eventually, he’d come to the attention of a Christian NGO, and had been invited to a ‘Paris Summit’, whatever that was…

After all the excitement of being provided with money to buy clothes, of the plane journey, of seeing the Eiffel Tower, Joshua was filled with anticipation. He’d walked with his new friends up the steps to the grand building which sported banners declaring that this was the ‘United Nations Conference on Ending Plastic Pollution.’ Now he could put his case – he was sure that, once the delegates could hear first hand about the plight of waste pickers, they would swiftly act to address the injustices that made his life so hard to bear.

He could hardly believe it when he was told there was no room for him in the auditorium. No-one had thought to tell the NGO’s that space was limited, with first choice being given to plastic manufacturers! This allowed persuasive arguments to be presented, to the effect that plastic production shouldn’t be reduced, rather it needed to be ramped up. ‘No worries’, they grandly asserted, ‘it can be easily disposed of by burning it in cement kilns, or even better, we can recycle it using our (still-to-be-developed) new technologies!’

Despite this setback, Joshua returned home with good news – of sorts. After concerted protests by a group of NGO’s, the waste pickers were able to attend a plenary session where they put their case to a ‘working group’. This included members of the team whose job it was to draft a treaty. Joshua assumed this will take a couple of weeks, and was astounded to hear that it will only come into effect this time next year! And that’s if all the parties agree to it…

His NGO friends assured him that it had been a reasonably good outcome. Real change takes time and persistence, they assured him. He was moved to hear that many, many people in the NGO’s founding country had been praying for them throughout the summit.

-o-O-o-

Désiré listened as Joshua told the group all about his adventure. As she showed her friends the tractor, they were deeply moved by her son’s creation out of various strands of wire, bits of can, and the plastic from bottles that he’d somehow twined into a loop to make tyres.

Billy deserves so much more than the life they’ve had. His future – their future – is worth fighting for.

[Footnote: The community of scientists attending the Paris summit also felt the agenda was being hijacked by the plastics industry and its powerful lobbying. The organisers listened to their misgivings about the blasé optimism being expressed. Probably this helped the NGOs’ cause.]

Acknowledgements: Tearfund UK; The Guardian.