Zahid Mondal

In Dhaka, Bangladesh, where I call home, every day feels like a battle in the aluminum factory. For two long months now, at the age of nine, I've been toiling away for twelve hours a day, my small hands working tirelessly amidst the deafening roar of machinery. It's hard, exhausting, and dangerous – one wrong move, and the unforgiving machines could crush my hands without a second thought.

Aluminum splinters fill the air, a constant reminder of the risks we face. My eyes remain unprotected, vulnerable to the sharp shards that threaten to pierce them at any moment. But in this harsh reality, there's no room for fear or hesitation – I push on, driven by the desperate need to earn a meager wage for my family.

We live in a cramped, windowless room in Dhaka, sharing a shower and toilet with other families in the hallway. There's no escaping the suffocating poverty that surrounds us, no chance for a childhood filled with laughter and play. School is nothing but a distant dream, a luxury we can ill afford.

There are no grand hopes or dreams in my world, just the relentless struggle to survive another day. Each morning, I steel myself for the challenges that lie ahead, knowing that this is my life – a never-ending cycle of hardship and sacrifice. But amidst the darkness, there's a flicker of resilience, a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, things will get better someday.