Trash and Treasure
by Vivek Bhatt
Yemen. A nation shaded red, a place of unsealed roads and of crumbling walls, nestled between the Red Sea and the majestic Sultanate of Oman. There, the brilliant sapphire of the Arabian Sea gently laps against glistening beaches. Tourists retreat to the flamboyant waterside resorts of Muscat, gleaming white edifices against the golden sands and jagged desert mountains.
Sana’a, the capital of Yemen, only miles away, offers a different story. Here, only those who have little choice but to do so shelter within the once fortified city walls. It is a place of political and economic frailty, of few answers but of innumerable questions. It is a place of democracy, but neither the government nor the people are destined to determine their own lives. Rather, each day is a battle with fate, a battle to survive. It is a cultured place… cultured, and lively. Yet the congested roads and the buzzing street-side markets resonate with the dizzying truth of a helpless people: so many of them doomed to life among the piles of rubble and rubbish along the footpaths.
Eight thousand miles South-East, far removed across the expanse of the ocean, lays Sydney, home, where a nation’s opulence and wealth is reflected in the shimmering harbour, in the shining metal creatures gliding down the black ribbons that are the curving highways. Luxury is a lifestyle taken for granted. And as the wealth and consumerist demand of society expands, so too does the surplus waste from the industry.
It was when I noticed such a disparity that my eyes grew wider, watching the news reports of a foreign nation while being pampered on a company retreat at the Barr Al Jissah Resort in Muscat. The morning air was thick, the heat was building, the sound of the ocean a whisper through the silk veil hanging in the arched window. Minutes ago, both the United Nations Commission for Human Rights and the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development had declared Yemen the most economically underdeveloped nation in the Asian and Middle-Eastern region. And there I sat; petrified, as sorrowful music heralded a montage of devastating images: images of women and children huddling together in the streets, listlessly fighting the overbearing cold of the desert night; images of suffering and of pain unimaginable to the Western world.
Here I was, a corporate underdog, a marketing and public relations officer for the Geraldton Quilting and Bedding Corporation, rolling around in five star luxury, but forlorn regarding my failing stocks and the poor quality of the cotton of my polo shirt.
The irony of the situation sent my mind spinning, the babble of the television little but a buzz at the back of my mind. I slept that night with sheets of paper sprawled across the floor: graphs and figures on the company’s surplus: how many items we throw out the back door every year as “damaged goods.” Slight blemishes in the wool, discrepancies in the colour of a blanket: such travesties were apparently great enough to deem a simple piece of insulation worthless.
My sleep that night was broken, interspersed with images of Anwar, shivering, clinging to her mother, gazing blankly down the barrel of the news camera, tear tracks shining on her grimy face. I knew what had to be done. Perhaps it wouldn’t solve world poverty, or bring people off the streets. But it would be a beginning that had, for too long, been assumed to be preceded by the end.
* * * * *
The white vans pulled up, veering off the unsealed road, grinding to a halt on the rocky surface beside the road. Blinding clouds of dust rose up behind the vehicles. The men slowly filed out from the vans, jumping down and dusting off their hands on their corduroy trousers. Three dark-skinned men walked out of the building to receive the team. They shook hands and greeted one another warmly, before returning to the van. Lewis counted each parcel as it was unloaded, blanket, after blanket, after blanket. Goods which, if seen by those elite enough to flaunt pearls and diamond-studded watches, would be frowned upon and dismissed.
That night, many children would still live without a roof over their heads, but they would not be shivering. The cold would not crack their bones and dry their skin. They would not feel so alone in the world, for they would have something, something tangible to cling to when darkness fell and the world was asleep.
Out in a vacant plot of land, Anwar teetered on her feet before she sat down and gazed at the brick wall. Beside her, her mother and her brother sat a foreign woman; her smile distant, her words nonsensical, but her heart and the small fire she had lit warming nonetheless. As Anwar yawned and rubbed her eyes, the woman stood up. Walking past the kindling fire, she picked up a large package. That night, Anwar slept on a soft piece of material, with thick generous coverings over her bony body. Her long, black hair covered her face, her faint smile visible even in her sleep.
* * * * *
As I boarded the plane home, the sounds of early morning songs resonating from the towering mosques of Sana’a rung in my ears. Never had I realised that the basic notion of warmth was a concept so unknown to so many people. Little had I known, when the fiery red ground at Sana’a first rushed up to meet us, that such small comforts would bring smiles to the faces of so many helpless victims.
Little do I know now, the engine of the jet whining as it rushes across the restless sea, if what we have initiated will turn into a movement. If all the corporate giants will donate their trash to someone in the world to whom it is a treasure. For money and large cheques and diplomats embracing photo opportunities on Capitol Hill - day in, day out - will do nothing for those who need it most.
