Kailash Satyarthi’s ‘Karuna’: How carpets became free from child labour

In December 1989, we rescued a group of children from a carpet factory in Bhadohi, Uttar Pradesh. A boy named Idrees, who had a head injury, stood out among the dozen children we brought back. While the other children and their parents were joyous, Idrees sat quietly, showing no emotion. His friends revealed that he rarely spoke or laughed because the factory owners would strike him with a knife whenever he said he missed his parents. I approached him and gently asked, ‘Everyone is getting ready to leave. Don’t you want to go home, too?’ He didn’t respond at first but then asked why his father hadn’t come. I later came to know that his father had passed away after Idrees was trafficked. Idrees had been taken away when he was only five years old, and had been trapped in Bhadohi for seven years.

I understood the situation and assured Idrees that I would take him to his mother. We travelled overnight to his village, driving through difficult terrains with thick forests and a turbulent river. We arrived in the morning. But Idrees didn’t recognise the village. We asked around for his mother, Taslima. Coincidentally, it was Eid and the villagers were in a festive mood.

Someone led us to Taslima’s hut. I loudly called out, ‘Look who’s here.’ However, she did not respond, or recognise Idrees. A villager told us, ‘Sir, she cannot see. Her son was kidnapped many years ago and she has lost her sight after years of crying from grief and despair.’

My voice was shaking as I said to her again, ‘Taslima aapa, your son Idrees is here!’ As soon as she heard his name, she stood up with a jolt. Even though she could not see him, she reached out to him with trembling arms. Her body seemed to remember what her eyes could not see. We all watched in awe as she hugged her son. At first, Idrees didn’t recognise her either but the moment they embraced, a surge of emotion passed between them. Years of pain and longing gave way to this moment. The entire village gathered to celebrate Idrees’ homecoming.

Overwhelmed by what I had seen, I returned to Mirzapur around 11 p.m. As I waited for my midnight train to Delhi, I saw two men forcefully dragging out children from a train compartment. Immediately realizing that this was a trafficking attempt, I confronted the men. They taunted me and even involved a police officer, who was complicit in their actions. The officer detained me in a filthy, cold lock-up at the railway station. I was furious. I had managed to rescue a dozen children the day before, but the very next night around fifty or sixty more were being forced into slavery. For every Idrees we saved, countless other children were condemned to slavery. The cycle seemed endless.

In the morning, another officer released me and I boarded the train to Delhi with a plan. I knew I had to challenge the root cause behind this problem to truly solve it. If we were to find a sustainable solution to the issue of child exploitation, then legal action, while necessary, was inadequate in itself, as it is merely a deterrence. Since 90 per cent of India’s carpets were exported to Europe and North America, I believed these consumers held the key to change. If they made a strong demand for ethical products, they could transform the entire industry and millions of children could be saved.

Initially, even my colleagues dismissed my idea as overly idealistic. This scepticism forced me to confront a critical question: Would consumers who enjoy a quality product at a low price care if a child slave made it? But consumers are also parents and were once children themselves. Why not appeal to the compassion within them? This belief became my slogan: ‘They are your children. They are our children.’