There are gloomy rainy days. There are depressing windy days. And then there are perfectly nice days when you have a bit of time to sit and read news like this, which pierce at your heart with a sharp needle, determinedly, persistently, hauntingly:
~ Poverty trap: underage laborers work into the night (Thanks for the link, Michael.)
Then you have a bit more time to search for the Vietnamese version:
Which took you a good 5 minutes. And why did you have to waste your time on that? Because well, they can’t be bothered with such things as connecting links between the Vietnamese & English versions of the same story. Because if you can read it in one language, why do you have to know about the other one, anyway? Right? Unless you’re a language fanatic/ lunatic/ whatever who is a bit obsessed with translation, especially dodgy translation! Or unless you want to email the story to a friend who can’t read Vietnamese, or another who’d read it faster in Vietnamese. Those cases are rare, ok? So just you stick to one language, you fussy little nitpicker!
And also because you thought maybe reading it in Vietnamese wouldn’t hurt so much. Because hearing it in English is like listening to an outsider telling you a story about your own home. In which case you’re allowed to get annoyed, to be doubtful “What do you know about my home anyway, huh?” But you were wrong. It pains you even more in your own language. Because it’s true. You can’t run away from it.
And your heart bleeds the same way. To imagine the kids, weary 13 year-olds who fall asleep at their sewing machines after 14 hours of work each day, earning 375 bucks FOR TWO YEARS. And your blood boils the same way. To think of their bosses, and the bosses of their bosses, who fatten their pockets to fund for their next purchase of a black Mercedes, one that comes with a hefty 300% government tax and has virtually no room to move in those congested roads. And you hate yourself the same way. What good have you ever done besides sending a teeny little donation that can’t even scratch the surface, besides sitting here mourning like a cowardly little shit, besides shedding onion tears?
At least you know — you tell yourself in a pathetic bid for self-reassurance — at least you care, right? But no, that’s not even enough! And you know that, too.