As I write this, I sit comfortably with my feet curled up inside a weighted blanket, back rested against a soft pillow, laptop on my stomach. My intention of starting up this doc was to speak on my own personal “climate story”.
Perhaps, the introduction could’ve been, “Oh, how I hate it when the city turns into a pressure cooker during June. How I had to sleepover at my friend’s place one night, almost stranded because of the unforgiving rain.” -- Or, how I had to wear three pairs of socks just a couple of days ago, and still my toes were numb.
I remember telling my sister yesterday, "Apa, I'm really scared about this year’s winter already coming to an end.” My main concern is how much more unpredictable this year’s climate will be. How will I travel to my classes in a rickshaw during a rainstorm or the chilly winter? How will I withstand the glaring sun on a hot summer’s noon? I will probably have to crank up the air-conditioner. Sure, the electricity bill would go berzerk, but hey, what other choice do I have?
But, that’s the thing, choice. No matter how scary it feels living in a third-world country with almost no tangible plan to tackle climate issues, I couldn’t not admit the slight privilege that I had. The choice of staying in on a merciless winter morning. The choice of taking an Uber during the rainy season instead of a rickshaw.
Whereas, the rickshaw puller whose services I would be passing on would still have to go through everything I fear, only ten times over. Waiting in never ending traffic under Dhaka’s infamous sun, sweat turning the vermillion cloth tied around his temple into a deep crimson. All that while I could have been sheltered under the hood, with at least my upper body shaded from the heat.
Oftentimes, I’ve seen them pull through icy raindrops stabbing their bodies at an unmatchable pace. While I had a flimsy plastic porda to shelter me, they only had a tiny polythene bag around their heads serving as a passable cap. Sometimes my toes would get wet, but their whole bodies were soaked head to toe. Their shirts clung to their bony torsos as they worked day and night, shaking and shivering.
During winter, whenever I went to school, I made it a habit to walk in the morning -- a little exercise to warm me up. As I jogged on with three layers of thick wool, I passed multiple helpless people, curled up under one thin cloth -- a poor excuse for a blanket. Sometimes they would huddle up to warm each other up. Sometimes I saw people sharing parts of their blankets with street dogs, holding them close and making sure not a single paw was left uninsulated. A safe space that they had built for themselves, a home even without a roof over their head, even without concrete walls to stop winter’s roars.
But what other choice did they have?
I think that is what we overlook most of the time. The fact that even though I may come from a middle-class family, I still have the choice to ignore the calamities around me. I could just wear a thicker sweater and pretend that climate change is a hoax. I could mindlessly make fun of the climate activists and their war on art museums. While my bubble would provide momentary consolation, on the other side, the sufferings only grow. These are the sufferings of real people for whom this fight against climate change is a daily ritual. The city’s constant declining air quality, monsoon’s yearly inundations, routine hot and cold waves -- all elaborate corners of an escape room -- an escape room from which they cannot escape.
Leeana Farid is a freelance contributor.
