This is my entry for #monomad challenge by @monochromes.
Initially, I found myself entranced by the sight of cetaceans lounging on a pier at Sadar Ghat, Dhaka's bustling port. Yet, as the fog lifted, my gaze was drawn to the "rusted carcasses" strewn across the opposite bank of the Buriganga River, resembling a somber graveyard. Determined, one morning at sunrise, I resolved to traverse to that side.
For me, the allure of travel lies in seeking directions from local residents to unexplored locales. After indulging in numerous overly sweet cups of chai, which would later cost me six dental cavities, along with jovial conversation and obligatory handshakes, I eventually encountered someone who purportedly knew the route to my destination.
Thus, I found myself amidst the labyrinthine shanties of Char Kaliganj slum, home to one of Asia's largest shipyards. Here, I could delve deeper into the enigmatic world of the ship graveyard and the lives of those tirelessly engaged in its dismantlement.
The air hangs heavy with the scent of diesel fuel, as workers wade through mud, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames of cutting torches, and their hands stained with oil and rust. Against the backdrop of the sun, I glimpse the silhouettes of acrobatic workers navigating the towering ship decks with unmatched balance.
Amidst the cacophony of deafening noise, time marches on with the relentless pounding of hammers against the steel hulls of these colossal vessels, striving to rid them of rust. These supertanker ships come here to breathe their last when their seafaring days reach their twilight years.
With a lifespan of merely 25 to 30 years, these ships succumb to corrosion, metal fatigue, and a dearth of spare parts, rendering them economically unviable. Shipbreaking breathes new life into these mammoth relics, as their materials are recycled to craft fresh products, while their residual fluids—diesel, oil, and firefighting chemicals—are drained and sold, inadvertently polluting the Buriganga River, the lifeblood of the city.
Once stripped bare, laborers wielding hammers and acetylene torches dismantle the vessels, salvaging every conceivable component for resale. From colossal engines to intricate electronics, nothing is wasted.
However, this noble endeavor is not without peril, as the laborers face significant risks from hazardous conditions and exposure to toxins like asbestos and heavy metals. Many bear the scars of their labor, earning them the moniker "ship-tattoos."
In conversation with Shihab, a seasoned worker, he poignantly questions why affluent nations permit the disposal of their unwanted ships in impoverished regions, exposing vulnerable laborers to such dangers.
Char Kaliganj sustains around 15 thousand souls, spanning generations and ages, from young children to the elderly. Despite the hazardous conditions, it provides a means of livelihood for families who rely on the industry for sustenance.
Among them is Amir, who has toiled in the shipyard since the tender age of three, crafting ship propellers with unwavering dedication. For him and many others, this arduous labor is not merely a job but a means of survival and familial support, instilling in them a sense of pride amidst the toil and hardship.
