Your children are not your children;
They are the sons and daughters of
Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you.
And though they are with you, yet they
belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not
your thoughts, for they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies, but not their souls.
Kahil Gibran
12 June is a red letter day on the UN agenda of events as the World Day Against Child Labour. It marks the 12 June arrival in 1998 of hundreds of children in Geneva, part of the Global March against Child Labour that had crossed a 100 countries to present their plight to the International Labour Organization (ILO).
“We are hurting, and you can help us” was their message to the assembled International Labour Conference which meets each year in Geneva in June. One year later, in June, the ILO had drafted ILO Convention N° 182 on child labour which 165 States have now ratified — the fastest ratification rate in the ILO’s history.
ILO Convention N°182 sets out in article 3 the worst forms of child labour to be banned:
a) all forms of slavery or practices similar to slavery, such as the sale and trafficking of children, debt bondage and serfdom and forced or compulsory labour, including forced or compulsory recruitment of children for use in armed conflict;
b) the use, procuring or offering of a child for prostitution, for the production of pornography or for pornographic performances;
c) the use, procuring or offering of a child for illicit activities, in particular for the production and trafficking of drugs as defined in the relevant international treaties;
d) work which, by its nature or the circumstances in which it is carried out, is likely to harm the health, safety or morals of children.
The Convention is supplemented by a Recommendation: the Worst Forms of Child Labour Recommendation N° 1999, which provisions should be applied in conjunction with the Convention: “Programme of Action (article 6): Among other issues, the situation of the girl child and the problem of hidden work situations in which girls are at special risk are explicitly mentioned; Hazardous work (article 3(d): In determining the types of hazardous work, consideration should be given, inter alia, to work which exposes children to physical, psychological or sexual abuse.
Today, millions of children, especially those living in extreme poverty, have no choice but to accept exploitive employment to ensure their own and their family’s survival. Child labour was often hidden behind the real and non-exploitive help that children bring to family farms. However, such help often keeps children out of school and thus outside the possibility of joining the modern sector of the economy. The ILO estimates that of the some 200 million child labourers in the world, some 70 percent are in agriculture, 10 percent in industry/mines and the others in trade and services — often as domestics or street vendors in urban areas. Globally, Asia accounts for the largest number of child workers — 122 million, Sub-Saharan Africa, 50 million, and Latin America and the Caribbean, 6 million. Young people under 18 make up almost half of humanity, a half which is virtually powerless in relation to the other half. To ensure the well-being of children and adolescents in light of this imbalance of power, we must identify attitudes and practices which cause invisibility.
One of the most exploitive type of child labour is what is called “debt bondage” — most pervasive in India, Pakistan and western Nepal. In these countries, the debt bondage pattern of exploitation is supported by long-standing traditions and cultural biases against low castes or minority ethnic groups. Dept bondage is a practice by which parents pledge their children’s work to pay off debts. The debts are very small at the start but with very high interest rates. Thus the children may work for their entire childhood to pay off the debt because of fraudulent accounting mechanisms employed by debt holders.
In western Nepal, where such bonded labourers are known as “Kamaiya”, the accounting schemes can keep families in debt for generations. Since Kamaiyas are often not paid enough to meet their basic needs, many have no choice but to take new loans from their masters. Many also carry inherited debts, sometimes going back for three or four generations in addition to their own. Children sold to bond masters work long hours over many years in an attempt to pay off these debts due to the astronomically high rates of interest charged and the low wages paid. The eradication of child labour depends on an ethical awakening on the part of employers, government officials, and non-governmental organizations.
In India, child debt servitude has been illegal since 1933. Since independence, India has adopted a host of additional protective legislation, most importantly the Bonded Labour System Abolition Act of 1976, which strictly outlaws all forms of debt bondage and forced labour. However, without political will to enforce them, these legal safeguards have little impact. Whether due to corruption or indifference, the political will is lacking. Labour laws are routinely flouted with virtually no risk of punishment to the offender. This is why an ethical awareness must grow and all children seen as having dignity and potential for a fuller life.
There is still a long way to go to eliminate exploitive child labour. Much child labour is in what is commonly called the non-formal sector of the economy where there are no trade unions. Child labour is often related to conditions of extreme poverty and to sectors of the society where both adults and children are marginalized such as many tribal societies in Asia, or the Roma in Europe or migrant workers in general.
In addition to the worst forms of exploitive child labour, there is the broad issue of youth training and employment. The challenges ahead are very much a youth challenge. The world will need to create millions of new jobs over the next decade in order to provide employment for the millions of new entrants into the labour market in addition to creating jobs for the millions of currently unemployed or underemployed youth.
There needs to be world-wide labour market policies that provide social protection measures, better training for an ever-changing work scene. World Citizens support the demands of decent work for all. We need to cooperate to build economies and societies where young persons participate fully in the present and the future.
********************************
Rene Wadlow, President, Association of World Citizens
Zimbabwe has always lived with its history but there are moments when history seems less like a memory than a tenant who never moved out. The government's latest step toward a constitutional amendment that would extend the president's term by two years and replace direct presidential elections with selection by lawmakers is one of those moments. It feels less like a legal reform than a familiar knock on the door from a past many Zimbabweans have spent decades trying to escape.
The proposal arrives wrapped in the language of procedure and governance. Its supporters will undoubtedly argue that constitutional systems evolve, that parliamentary selection is practiced elsewhere, and that stability is a virtue in a turbulent region. Yet political changes cannot be judged solely by their technical details. They must also be measured by the political culture in which they occur and the incentives they create.
In Zimbabwe, the symbolism is impossible to ignore. For nearly four decades, Robert Mugabe perfected a political model in which institutions increasingly existed to serve power rather than restrain it. Elections remained, constitutions remained and parliament remained but the spirit of democratic accountability steadily weakened. The forms survived while the substance eroded. The result was a nation where political continuity became an end in itself, often detached from public consent.
That is why the current proposal has generated such concern. Extending a presidential term is rarely a neutral act. Eliminating a direct presidential election is even less so. Together, the changes suggest a governing philosophy that places convenience for the political elite above the fundamental democratic principle that leaders should periodically return to the electorate for judgment.
One of the ironies of modern Zimbabwean politics is that Mugabe himself is gone, yet many of the instincts that defined his rule seem remarkably resilient. The personalities have changed. The habits have not.
Across the continent, citizens have become increasingly familiar with the script. A constitutional amendment appears. Technical arguments are offered. Assurances are given. The public is told that democracy remains secure. Yet somehow the practical effect almost always benefits those already in power. The political horizon stretches a little further for incumbents while becoming slightly narrower for everyone else.
Democracy is not merely a mechanism for choosing leaders. It is a discipline imposed upon leaders. It forces governments to confront uncertainty, criticism, and the possibility of rejection. Elections are inconvenient by design. They remind rulers that authority is borrowed, not owned.
When governments begin searching for ways to reduce those inconveniences, citizens are right to become suspicious. The legal challenges now before Zimbabwe's constitutional court may ultimately determine the amendment's fate. But the larger issue extends beyond courtrooms and legal briefs. It concerns the direction of a country that has repeatedly promised democratic renewal while remaining haunted by authoritarian reflexes.
Nations do not become democratic simply because they hold elections. Nor do they become authoritarian overnight. The transformation is usually gradual, marked by small adjustments that seem manageable in isolation but alarming in accumulation.
Zimbabwe stands at one of those moments. The question facing the country is not whether Robert Mugabe still occupies an office. He does not. The question is whether the governing culture he cultivated still occupies the political imagination. The latest amendment suggests that, for some in power, the old ghost remains very much at home.
One of the more peculiar spectacles in modern politics is watching leaders fight yesterday’s battles while the rest of the world quietly moves on. Energy policy offers perhaps the clearest example. Across Europe, parts of Asia and even regions once heavily dependent on fossil fuels, governments and businesses have increasingly concluded that renewable energy is not merely an environmental aspiration. It is an economic strategy.
The debate, in many places, has evolved. The question is no longer whether wind, solar, and other renewable technologies can play a significant role in national energy systems. The question is how quickly they can be expanded, how effectively they can be integrated into electric grids, and how much money they can save consumers and industries. What was once framed as a moral argument about climate responsibility has become, in many respects, a practical argument about competitiveness.
Against this backdrop, Donald Trump and many figures within his political movement continue to treat green energy as though it were an ideological hobby rather than an industrial reality. The rhetoric often suggests that renewable power represents weakness, dependency, or economic sacrifice. Yet the irony is difficult to ignore. Nations investing heavily in renewable infrastructure are frequently doing so because they believe it strengthens their economies, attracts investment, lowers long-term costs, and reduces vulnerability to volatile fuel markets.
There is something distinctly twentieth century about the insistence that prosperity must remain tethered to older energy systems. It resembles the executives who once dismissed personal computers as toys or the publishers who underestimated the internet. History is filled with examples of established industries confusing familiarity with permanence.
The United States, of course, remains a technological giant. It possesses world-class universities, engineering talent, capital markets, and innovative companies capable of leading almost any industrial transformation. That is precisely what makes the resistance to renewable energy so puzzling. The country is not lacking the resources to compete. Instead, it often appears trapped in a political argument that much of the world has already settled.
Supporters of Trump's approach frequently frame renewable energy as a threat to jobs and economic growth. Yet industries centered on solar panels, battery technology, grid modernization, and clean-energy manufacturing have become major sources of employment and investment across numerous regions. The global economy is not waiting for Washington to resolve its ideological disputes. Companies are making decisions today about where factories will be built, where research will be conducted, and where future supply chains will emerge.
What makes the situation particularly frustrating is that renewable energy should not be a partisan issue at all. Affordable electricity, energy independence, technological leadership, and industrial competitiveness are goals that transcend political labels. A wind turbine does not care whether its electricity powers a conservative household or a liberal one. A solar panel has no party registration.
The real danger is not that America will suddenly stop producing energy or cease being an economic powerhouse. The danger is more gradual. It is the risk of surrendering leadership in industries that will shape the coming decades because political symbolism became more important than economic reality.
The rest of the world is not embracing renewable energy out of charity, sentimentality, or environmental idealism alone. Increasingly, it is doing so because the numbers make sense. Markets tend to reward efficiency, innovation and lower costs. They are remarkably indifferent to political nostalgia.
And that may be the central lesson here. Economies can adapt to new technologies. Nations can modernize. What proves far more difficult is convincing politicians to stop fighting the future once it has already arrived.
So when she saw the man standing at the edge of the cassava field, she did not run. She tilted her head, the way her grandmother taught her, like a bird deciding whether a snake is friend or food.
He was tall. Too tall. His legs were long as herons' legs, his neck thin as a reed. He wore grey linen that drank the twilight instead of reflecting it. His skin was the colour of old parchment, the kind her grandfather used to wrap tobacco leaves.
And his eyes, his eyes were shallow graves. No grief, no joy. Just two holes where something had been and was no longer.
“Child,” he said.
Nneka Solomon, part-time educator full-time chronicler of small-town life, spends her days navigating the unpredictable waters of academia and her evenings crafting fantastical tales where the local gossip mill becomes a cauldron of magical intrigue and the town square transforms into a bustling marketplace for enchanted wares.
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"I sell the bones of the dead to the dead."
Everything you've ever wished to achieve, you can attain,
if you leave the past behind you!
Don't forget it, but don't cling to it.
Don't let it tempt you to return to its embrace,
for it is a prostitute who has left service, seeking someone to restore her to her former glory…
And if you entrust the future to the uncertain possibility and leave it in its hands,
and ground the present in understanding your place and time,
and pledge allegiance to nature in its eternal rule.
But you, what do you truly want?
— I want peace with myself,
for she is the first finger I put in my mouth,
the first sound I heard,
the first being I saw that smiled at me in the mirror,
the first dream, and the first nightmare of my life. It is my homeland, for which I fought eighty years of wars,
Wounded by the stabs of the future,
That invades without justification,
And I aspire to be worthy of my name,
Which is the name of life.
I want a night where I sleep awake and a day without dreams,
I want a completely white sky;
To draw in it and tuck it under my arm,
And planets colored like billiard balls,
To play with them alone without losing.
I want a woman who doesn't misunderstand my silence,
And an ordinary, predictable day that doesn't boast of retribution,
And a hope that's been preserved with the taste of "pastrami".
I want to paint in death,
And hold exhibitions in underground halls overflowing with springs,
I want to sell…
The bones of the dead to the dead in need,
And sing.
Art Installation by Amir Khatib
South Africa likes to present itself as the rainbow nation, a country that emerged from the darkness of apartheid with a promise of tolerance, dignity and shared humanity. Yet every time foreigners are hunted, attacked or driven from their homes, that promise looks increasingly fragile.
The killing of at least two Mozambicans this week and the torching of dozens of shacks in Mossel Bay should not be dismissed as isolated incidents. They are part of a recurring pattern that has stained South Africa’s democratic story for years. Hundreds of Mozambicans reportedly fled in fear, while others waited to be repatriated. The images are disturbingly familiar: frightened families carrying what little they own, homes reduced to ashes and communities shattered by mobs convinced that outsiders are to blame for their struggles.
The uncomfortable truth is that xenophobia in South Africa is no longer merely a social problem. When people are targeted because of where they come from, when violence is directed at a group based on nationality, and when communities are terrorized simply for being foreign, the line into hate crime territory has already been crossed.
What makes these attacks especially troubling is that they are often fueled by grievances that are real but misdirected. South Africa faces staggering unemployment, deep inequality and persistent poverty. Many citizens feel abandoned by political leaders who have promised economic progress but failed to deliver it. Frustration is understandable. Violence against immigrants is not.
Foreign workers did not create South Africa’s economic challenges. Mozambican labourers did not design policies that left millions unemployed. Migrants did not build the corruption networks that siphoned away public resources. Yet they become convenient targets because they are visible, vulnerable and often unable to defend themselves politically.
This is the oldest trick in politics and society, when solutions are difficult, find a scapegoat. The danger extends beyond the immediate victims. Xenophobic violence poisons the entire region. Southern African nations are linked by history, trade, labour migration and family ties. Many South Africans once found refuge and solidarity in neighbouring countries during the anti-apartheid struggle. To now see citizens of those same countries chased from their homes represents a tragic reversal of that spirit.
There is also a practical cost. Countries cannot build prosperity while tolerating lawlessness. Investors notice instability. Tourists notice hostility. Regional partners notice when their citizens are attacked. Every act of mob violence weakens South Africa’s standing and undermines confidence in its future.
Political leaders must resist the temptation to flirt with anti-immigrant rhetoric for short-term popularity. Words matter. When migrants are routinely portrayed as invaders, criminals or economic parasites, violence becomes easier to justify in the minds of angry citizens. Responsible leadership requires confronting myths rather than exploiting them.
The deeper challenge is moral. A society reveals itself not by how it treats the powerful but by how it treats the vulnerable. Foreign workers living in informal settlements are among the least protected people in South Africa. If they can be burned out of their homes and driven across borders by fear, then the principles of equality and human dignity become little more than slogans.
The tragedy in Mossel Bay should be a wake-up call. Economic hardship may explain public anger, but it can never excuse persecution. When fear becomes a weapon and nationality becomes a target, everyone loses. South Africa deserves better than that, and so do its neighbours.
By June 1916, the Ottoman Empire had ruled much of the Arab world for centuries. Yet beneath the surface of imperial authority, dissatisfaction was growing. When Sharif Hussein bin Ali launched the Great Arab Revolt from the holy city of Mecca on 10 June 1916, he ignited a movement that would alter the course of the First World War and help shape the modern Middle East.
More than a century later, the revolt remains a subject of fierce debate. Was it a noble struggle for Arab self-determination? Was it a wartime alliance of convenience manipulated by foreign powers? Or was it both simultaneously? The answer lies somewhere in the complex realities of war, empire, nationalism and diplomacy.
By the early twentieth century, the Ottoman Empire was often described as the "Sick Man of Europe". Although still vast, stretching across Anatolia, the Levant, Mesopotamia and parts of Arabia, the empire faced mounting internal and external pressures.
Many Arabs remained loyal subjects of the Ottoman Sultan, who was also regarded by many Muslims as the Caliph. However, tensions had increased significantly after the rise of the Committee of Union and Progress, commonly known as the Young Turks, following the revolution of 1908.
The Young Turk leadership sought to strengthen and centralise the empire. While understandable from the perspective of imperial survival, these policies often alienated non-Turkish populations. Arab intellectuals and political activists increasingly complained that their language, culture and regional interests were being neglected.
The outbreak of the First World War in 1914 intensified these concerns. The Ottoman Empire entered the conflict on the side of Germany and Austria-Hungary, placing it in direct opposition to Britain, France and Russia. Wartime requisitions, censorship and military conscription created additional hardships across Arab provinces. For some Arab leaders, the war presented an opportunity.
At the centre of events stood Hussein bin Ali, Sharif of Mecca and hereditary guardian of Islam's holiest cities. Hussein possessed both religious prestige and political ambition. He feared that Ottoman centralisation threatened his authority in the Hejaz and saw an opportunity to pursue greater Arab autonomy—or perhaps even independence.
Between 1915 and 1916, Hussein engaged in secret correspondence with Sir Henry McMahon, the British High Commissioner in Egypt. The exchange became one of the most significant diplomatic episodes of the war.
Britain sought to weaken the Ottoman Empire by encouraging rebellion within its territories. Hussein, meanwhile, sought assurances that Britain would support the creation of an independent Arab state after the war.
The precise meaning of the promises exchanged remains controversial even today. What is beyond dispute is that both sides believed they had reached an understanding beneficial to their interests. On 10 June 1916, Hussein made his move.
The opening shots of the Great Arab Revolt were fired in Mecca. Hussein's forces attacked Ottoman positions and proclaimed their rebellion against imperial rule.
Initially, the uprising faced significant challenges. The Ottomans retained experienced troops, modern weaponry and established defensive positions. Yet the rebels possessed advantages of their own. They understood the local terrain, enjoyed support among many tribal groups and benefited from British financial assistance and military supplies.
Within months, the rebels captured several important towns along the Red Sea coast, including Jeddah. Control of these ports enabled Britain to deliver weapons, ammunition and advisers, ensuring that the revolt could continue.
The uprising soon expanded beyond the Hejaz, becoming a wider campaign against Ottoman authority.
No discussion of the Great Arab Revolt can avoid the figure of Thomas Edward Lawrence, better known as Lawrence of Arabia.
Lawrence served as a British intelligence officer and liaison to Arab forces. Possessing an unusual understanding of Arab culture and politics for a British officer of his era, he helped coordinate operations between British commanders and Arab leaders.
Popular culture has often transformed Lawrence into the central hero of the revolt. Films, novels and biographies have elevated him into a near-mythical figure striding across the desert in flowing robes.
The reality was more complex. The revolt was fundamentally an Arab movement led by Arab commanders and sustained by Arab fighters. Lawrence himself repeatedly acknowledged this fact. While his strategic advice, diplomatic efforts and organisational abilities were valuable, he was neither the creator nor the sole architect of the uprising.
Indeed, the greatest military achievements of the revolt were made possible by the efforts of thousands of Arab combatants under leaders such as Hussein's sons, Faisal and Abdullah.
The enduring fascination with Lawrence often reflects a broader Western tendency to focus on familiar personalities while overlooking local actors who played the principal roles.
The Arab Revolt succeeded not by defeating Ottoman armies in conventional battles but through innovative guerrilla warfare.
Rather than attempting to seize and hold heavily defended positions, Arab forces targeted communications and supply lines. Their favourite target became the strategically vital Hejaz Railway, which connected Damascus with Medina.
Repeated attacks on railway tracks, bridges and trains forced the Ottomans to divert significant resources to defence and repairs. This constant harassment weakened Ottoman mobility and complicated military planning.
The campaign demonstrated how irregular forces could exploit mobility, local knowledge and strategic flexibility against a larger conventional army.
As the war progressed, Arab forces advanced northwards through the desert. Their capture of Aqaba in July 1917 represented a major strategic victory, opening new opportunities for cooperation with British forces advancing through Palestine.
By 1918, Arab and Allied armies were participating in a coordinated offensive that contributed significantly to the collapse of Ottoman control in the region.
The end of the war brought military success but political disappointment. Arab forces entered Damascus in October 1918 amid scenes of celebration. Many participants believed that the dream of an independent Arab state was finally within reach.
However, wartime diplomacy had already complicated the situation. Unknown to many Arab leaders, Britain and France had secretly negotiated the Sykes–Picot Agreement in 1916, outlining spheres of influence across much of the Middle East. Furthermore, Britain's 1917 Balfour Declaration introduced additional commitments regarding Palestine.
As post-war settlements emerged, Arab expectations collided with European strategic interests. Rather than granting full independence across the territories envisioned by Arab nationalists, Britain and France established a system of mandates under the auspices of the League of Nations. France took control of Syria and Lebanon, while Britain assumed authority over Iraq, Transjordan and Palestine.
To many Arabs, this outcome felt like a betrayal. The sense that wartime promises had not been honoured became a defining element of modern Middle Eastern political consciousness. Whether one interprets British actions as deliberate deception or diplomatic ambiguity, the resulting resentment proved enduring.
The Great Arab Revolt occupies a unique place in modern history because its consequences continue to influence international politics more than a century later.
It contributed to the emergence of Arab nationalism as a powerful political force. It accelerated the dismantling of Ottoman authority in the Arab world. It helped establish the foundations of several modern states, including Jordan and Iraq. It also left unresolved questions concerning borders, sovereignty and identity that remain politically sensitive today.
Perhaps most importantly, the revolt illustrates a recurring lesson of history: military victories do not always produce the political outcomes participants expect.
The men who launched the uprising in June 1916 sought freedom from imperial control and hoped to build an independent Arab future. They achieved a remarkable wartime success and played a significant role in the defeat of the Ottoman Empire. Yet the peace that followed delivered a political settlement shaped largely by European powers rather than by Arab aspirations.
The Great Arab Revolt deserves to be remembered as more than a colourful desert campaign or the backdrop to the legend of Lawrence of Arabia. It was a pivotal episode in the collapse of one empire and the emergence of a new political order across the Middle East.
Its leaders believed they were fighting for independence, dignity and self-government. Their struggle contributed significantly to Allied victory during the First World War. Yet the aftermath revealed the harsh realities of international politics, where promises made in wartime often collide with strategic interests once the fighting ends.
More than one hundred years later, the events of 10 June 1916 continue to cast a long shadow. The revolt's achievements, controversies and disappointments remain woven into the history of the modern Middle East, reminding us that the end of one empire does not necessarily guarantee the fulfilment of national dreams.
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