ماہ نور عمران
میرے بارے میں
جلے ہوئے لوگوں کی چیخیں
ہماری موجودگی کا خطرہ
برداشت کی تلخ گولی
Nazia choked on the thick air. It was always difficult to breathe outside with the stew of chemicals wafting in from the factory smokestacks and oil refineries. After several bouts of coughing, she took a few swigs of warm water from the single-use plastic bottle that she always carried. It only slightly alleviated her dry throat.
Though her body felt fatigued and weakened by her plasma donation, she reassured herself that the $20 that she earned would allow her to scrounge up another meal or two for her family.
Nazia maneuvered her way through the busy streets of Drudge Division #59234, passing by worn-out workers trudging home in tattered boots. The gritty pavement was littered with cigarette butts, broken glass from cheap wine bottles, and decomposing bodies of homeless people. Though she tried her hardest to avoid doing so, her gaze always lingered over their empty eyes and empty stomachs.
Soon, she arrived at her derelict home, carefully stepping over the rotting floorboards of their precarious porch. Her younger brother Ayan sat on the sofa flipping through television channels. He paused on a C-SPAN stream of politicians arguing over whether or not to increase the minimum wage from $7.25 to $7.75. His stomach grumbled loudly as she greeted him.
“How was your day?” Nazia asked.
“Fine,” Ayan said, “Juan died today though.”
“Another one?” She bit down on her nail.
He nodded. “His family couldn’t afford insulin anymore.”
“Didn’t another one of your classmates die recently?”
“Yeah, different reason though.”
“That was because of the cop shooting, right?”
“No, no, that was last month with Dwayne’s death. Last week was Amber’s.”
“Oh, right. She was the one who starved?”
“Along with her younger sister.”
Ayan yawned, and Nazia settled into the couch with a long sigh.
The front door opened and their father trudged through. Nazia turned in his direction. After a fifteen-hour shift at the Nile manufacturing plant, his black hair was matted from sweat and his eyelids were half-open. He began to roll his neck from side to side and rotate his tired shoulders.
“How was work?” Nazia asked him.
He paused his stretching.
“They decreased our five-minute breaks to two-minute breaks every five hours. There’s been a push right now to increase our efficiency rates,” he explained as he unpacked his work bag. He pulled out a bottle filled with a pale yellow liquid and discarded it in the trash bin.
“I donated plasma again today,” Nazia leaned into the torn upholstery of their couch.
“How much did you make?”
“$20. I figured that should be enough to...” Her voice trailed off as her father closed his eyes, inhaling and exhaling slowly.
“Is that not enough?” Nazia tilted her head.
Without responding, her father walked over to the couch and sat down between her and Ayan. He smelled intensely of perspiration and his fatigue was almost palpable. Though he was desperately in need of a shower, recent division-wide water shutoffs prevented him from doing so.
Nazia’s father pulled a minuscule green caplet out of his pocket and glided his thumb over the smooth surface.
“The ProdPill,” Ayan gasped.
“How do you know what that is?” Their father raised his eyebrow.
“I’ve seen a couple of commercials about it. I cannot get the jingle out of my head. Your boss will surely wallow if you give ProdPill a swallow. It’s too catchy,” Ayan chuckled.
“Hm, I didn’t realize how quickly it was going to flood the markets. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m sure every corporation is dying to get their hands on shipments of these things.”
“What exactly is the ProdPill?” Nazia eyed the caplet curiously.
“It’s a productivity enhancement pill. It allows for us to work uninterrupted twenty-hour shifts.”
“Twenty-hour shifts?” Her eyes widened incredulously.
“Indeed. Nile is promising bonuses for employees who decide to go on the ProdPill. Bigger than the $20 that you earn from your plasma donations.”
Nazia shifted in her seat, nausea settling in her stomach. She understood the importance of making sacrifices to scrape by, but the thought of artificial drug consumption as a means of increasing work efficiency unsettled her a bit.
“Are you planning on going on the ProdPill?” she asked.
He nodded. “If I take the ProdPill consistently, we might even be able to afford things like warmer winter jackets and dentist appointments.”
Ayan jumped out of his seat. “Really?”
Her father gave him a small smile. “Really.”
“But what about side effects?” Nazia pressed.
“We don’t have the luxury of being concerned about things like side effects, Nazia.”
“There are bad side effects, aren’t there?” She clenched her fists.
“It doesn’t matter. My priority is financial sustenance for this family.”
“Financial sustenance at the expense of your health,” Nazia seethed.
Her father began to rub his temples. “You know how things are. You need to grow up and realize tha-”
“This pill would sign your life away,” she cried out.
His expression grew somber. “What if it does? I don’t have any other choice. If this is what it takes for us to finally have our heads above water, why would I refuse to do it?”
Nazia felt her eyes grow watery with frustration. The tears threaten to spill over her cheeks as she inhaled shakily.
“What about the Red Market?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“The Red Market?” Ayan exclaimed. “Don’t you know what happened to Delilah?”
“I know what happened to all your dead classmates,” Nazia snapped at him.
“There is no way in hell that I would ever let you do such a thing.” Her father spoke with frightening austerity.
“But kidneys are going for thousands of dollars these days and-”
“Nazia, stop. You know the dangers of organ trafficking.”
“Giving my kidney to someone who needs it is better than you giving your body to Nile,” Nazia argued.
His head dropped in defeat as he stared at his cracked hands.
“If this is what it takes for us to finally have our heads above water, why would I refuse to do it?” Nazia spit his words back at him.
She knew that her family was on the precipice of socioeconomic demise, chained to corporate violence that commodified their bodies and stole their livelihoods. Most of the time, she felt desensitized to the indignity of being a part of the downtrodden underclass. But there were moments where a visceral longing for freedom clawed at her soul. It was as if she was confined to a cage in which all she could do is scream and throw her hands at the steel bars until her bones were broken.
When her father finally looked up at her, Nazia felt a flood of emotions overwhelm her. As she stared into the void of his dark eyes, she knew that she had lost her father to the machine.
“I will not let you,” he finally spoke.
He threw the pill into his mouth and swallowed.
The harms of capitalism are profound. In America, capitalism has created a society in which people labor for inordinate amounts of time in dehumanizing conditions only to have their wages stolen by their corporate bosses. It has created an environment in which poor people are among those who face higher exposure to pollutants and therefore, face higher risks to their health. It has created a for-profit healthcare system in which the basic necessities that people need to live are financially inaccessible. It has created individualistic desires for amassing wealth that come at the expense of marginalized communities.
Capitalism is a system that is purposely designed to be inequitable and therefore, cannot function otherwise. Today, there are millions of homeless people sleeping on the streets and millions of families living in poverty, facing housing security, and experiencing food insecurity. The solution is not a matter of people pulling themselves up by their bootstraps. If anything, focalizing on individual autonomy neglects the fact that there are institutional barriers that prevent people from amassing wealth. From the housing market to the criminal legal system to the government inaction, the odds are perpetually stacked against everyday working-class people.
The onus is on the government to foster socioeconomic conditions under which people can thrive. The current framework of our economy makes this obligation impossible. The nefarious cycles of exploitation will not cease until we build a mass revolution that liberates us from the shackles of capitalism. If we fail to do so, we will find ourselves confined to pernicious institutions that perpetuate white supremacy, racism, classism, ableism, sexism, colonialism, and imperialism. How much of our blood, sweat, and tears are we willing to relinquish to the beast of capitalism? For how much longer will we swallow the bitter pill of endurance?