Sweet Nothings

Hey Hey Hey

 

Its been a while and we are less than a week away from our humble little daisy pop launch J

 

A lot has happened, the weather is menopausal, Ken and Borris are in the heat of lovers tiffs and scientists must still be spending another billion on a ‘new’ brand spanking way to immortality. I on the other hand have returned from a stress loaded time zone of preparing for the launching, attending a gazzilion events to network for restlessbeings (as any self proclaimed eager, overwhelmingly overwhelming tree hugging humanitarian would), trying to be a dutiful daughter to my mum who is fed of rarely seeing me and also squeezing in the odd bit of gardening (a trajectory of therapy for me). It’s been a busy few months and London is still the same so unfortunately the public transport, weather and immense volumes of people in one train carriage haven’t made it any easier.

I’ve realised, I moan a lot. Moan, moan moan, moan, moan…. It's a cycle of psychological implosions. The young people we are trying to raise awareness for: children of the streets in Bangladesh, also have their fair share of moaning. Usually about not being able to sit closest to the voluntary teacher who works for the NGO that may help them, or get the most attention from the odd tourist and so on so forth. The difference is, my moaning is usually based on the material dissatisfactions of the tangible details of the city and life I live and lead. For children like Shati, Fatema and Ibrahim (check gallery), their moans are always internal desires for love. Its funny, how in world of abundance, technological advancements, the bigger, better, sexier, more appealing product to make you happy, the most stress free holiday package etc etc, we have not been able to find a way to shed love and attention to those who have never had it before and probably never will.

For the children who are being heard or taken under the wings of an NGO, there is a long journey ahead of physical and emotional repair. Through education, food, nursing and a somewhere safe to stay, orphanages have also provided a haven of hope. Unfortunately, this is a rarity and with over 350,000 street children still lost in the concrete jungle of Dhaka and in the many thousands of cities and towns world wide, there is a burdening sense of weariness and depression. These children are no longer waiting for help; they have given up and inevitably forced themselves to face their brutal truth. For these children, a difference would take a lot longer to digest. Their months go by without moaning. There is no tangible detail to choke them or prevent them from leading a tranquil day. There isn’t an NGO to take them away for a few hours and feed them and educate them. These children, wake up to a real nightmare on a daily basis, were being raped by a local mastan (gangs), abused and spat on by a corrupt police officer and trampled on by passer by’s is their normal, quiet, unheard rolling of life. These children, when not searching for food in heaps of rubbish, spend hours walking through patches of greenery or sit in corners of an empty spot of the city where they can reflect and just stare at what moves forward in front of them.

 

For them, time stands still…always did… and in their stagnant pond of no hope, they allow themselves to crumble.

 

 

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Mushroom

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