The Hope for Freedom

A small girl, hardly a sliver of a person, walks slowly around a drift of pigs, her bare feet tickled by the damp grass. Deep chocolate hair ends at her waist, and her soft brown eyes roll at the job she has to do - herd the pigs. At only 13 years old, one would expect her to be in school, but that ended last year when she was deemed too old. Now, she spends her days doing the same things - washing clothes, tending her younger siblings, and tending the pigs. Her father is a strong man, she took after him, and her mother was a short, driven little woman. Her two younger sisters were still in school, being 9 and 7, and her little brother still toddled around holding onto their mother's brightly dyed skirt. She had freedoms, to work - sewing, working a market stall, picking her husband - but she envied her little brother, set to go to school and be something greater than a measly hog farmer. She wanted more. But it was unattainable, it was uncouth, and it was not cultural custom. So she would settle for being a pig farmer.

A small child, younger than the first, fair skinned, blonde haired, and blue eyed, clung to her mothers hand. Why are you running so fast, Mommy? I can't keep up. Why are we leaving home? Where will we go? Her little legs dragged the pavement as the tried to keep up, moving her head back to avoid the plethora of other strangers running past them from hitting her in the face. Suddenly, people started to scream, and she tore her eyes away from the back of her mother to see a black streak flash across the sky. Moments later, a loud boom could be heard, and the ground shook. Her mother jerked her up into her arms as she began to cry. What will we do?

Four young women, all between 20 and 23. They wore beautiful, flowing saris dyed various colors. They all lounged around a moderately decorated living room, each adorned with a bindi - the mark of being married. Three of them held a child, one infant and two small toddlers. This is where they were to stay, homemaking, child rearing.

A teenager this time, around 15, slightly tanned and sitting at a desk. She sighed and rolled her eyes in boredom, This class is so stupid, she thought. The teacher suddenly paused from his lesson, and called upon her, "What did we just discuss?" He asked. She responded with a small shrug, having not been paying attention ever since class started. He tutted in disappointment before turning to the TV in the classroom, tapping the edge of the screen to get her to focus on it. He flickered between three channels, displaying the young pig farmer, war victim, and married young women. She scrunched her eyebrows in annoyance, before it morphed into confusion, and then concern.

"What is this?" She questioned.

"Today's lesson," he deadpanned, "on freedom. How many of these people can you say have freedom?" He questioned her. Some of her classmates snickered. She cringed in understanding.

"One," she replied meekly.

Her teacher cocked an eyebrow at her, "One?!" He questioned, exasperated.

"Yes, one," She affirmed.

"Me."

A few days later, the same teenager as before was dutifully packing a small box, a handful of other, pre-packed boxes on the table next to her. Her mother walked in and paused, looking at her in confusion.

"What are you doing?" She questioned.

"Packing gifts for people who don't have freedom," She replied quietly, carefully writing out an international address on the box, "I can't give them freedom, but I can give them hope," She whispered.