Jenny December 12, 2015

Around Mongla

Today I went around long, neverending it seems, roads made from mud and brick, making their way through a landscape of rivers and canals and small houses and paddy. I met so many people along the way: Dip, maybe three, who lost both his parents and now lives with his smiling grandparents in their little wooden shop by the side of the road; three sisters who walked with their clothes reflected in the surface of the water; a man with thin legs and an amazing face, who has a wooden bow for shooting bits of mud on the backs of his cows; four generations of women who have built new homes, just a few meters inland, each time the eroding river has eaten their previous ones (climate change); someone on the way to the mosque, someone else outside a church or an overgrown tempel; and then a man, Bachu, who talked about the life of him and his family – the days they go without food and the water that is now turning to salty for them to drink (also climate change; of course they have not contributed to it at all). He said something, standing on the riverbank which was slippery and soft under the soles of the feet. “The world is not divided, we are all connected by this water. If we want to divide ourselves we must move away from this planet.”