Rana Plaza
- Rana Plaza
A building housing five factories in Savar, Bangladesh, collapsed onApril 24, 2012, killing nearly one-third of the 3,600 textile workers.
My father was in the hospitalthat day, his pulse as low as
the Bangshi during dry season.I wanted to stay with him,
but we were warned No time offfor illness, not even your own.
Had he died, which, Alhamdulillah,he did not, the bosses would
have said, Nothing to be done—if he’s dead, he’s dead.
And so I left my father’s side.It was 8:10 a.m. when I arrived.
Workers gathered by the gate,afraid. Reshma squeezed
my arm. In my mind there isa photograph of her wearing that [End Page 297]
purple and red salwar kameez.Inspectors were here, she breathed
into my ear. They say it is unsafe.We had all seen the cracks. Up close,
the building sounded like someonechewing uncooked rice. And who
was surprised? Each day crewsadded more floors, it seemed,
like a tower of toy blocks waitingto topple. I am not the type
to complain. I am gratefulfor work. One who cannot
read or write cannot expectthe privileges of the rich. I sew
until midnight most shifts. I sewto feed my boys and send them
to school where I hope they learnwhat they need to make
a better life. Reshma and Ihesitated. The bosses said
Don’t worry, mahilaa, it’s fineand herded us through the door
like goats. Come, come, they said,We have orders to fill. I turned
on my machine, a workhorse:100 stitches per second, [End Page 298]
so smooth it’s like sewingthrough ghee. If I could
afford one of my own, I wouldtake in jobs in our home.
It would be cramped, with allof us in one room, but I could
roll the boys’ beds during the day.That morning, as I sat down
on my stool, I felt a shudderand then, in a flash, the walls
were gone and the floor fellaway from my feet. I was buried
to my hips in a pile of concrete.It took nine hours for help to come
and many more to pull me free.But no Reshma, no Reshma,
whose name means like silk.They found her two and a half
weeks later. She had survivedon rainwater and biscuits
scavenged from the rucksacksof the dead. Even now she carries
their dust in her mouth.Others were not as lucky.
Grandmothers, women with youngchildren, girls not old enough [End Page 299]
to marry. Sweet Mita whoalways bit her bottom lip
as she fed rivers of fabricacross the plate. So many lost
their lives that day. But if wehad refused to go upstairs,
we would have lost our jobs.So we obeyed. [End Page 300]
Erin Murphy is the author of six books of poetry, most recently Ancilla, a collection of poems voiced by historical figures who played ancillary roles in the lives of well-known writers, artists, musicians, scientists, and philosophers. She is coeditor of Making Poems: Forty Poems with Commentary by the Poets. Her works have been published in numerous journals and anthologies, and featured on Garrison Keillor’s The Writer’s Almanac. She is professor of English and creative writing at Penn State Altoona.
