New York Times - Photographs Andrea Frazzetta
At the site of a Bangladeshi town lost to devastating storms, locals make do by scavenging what remains.
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Hunting for bricks on the flooded coastline of Bangladesh.
Andrea Frazzetta/Institute, for The New York Times
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Standing sometimes waist-deep in seawater on the
shores of the Bay of Bengal in Bangladesh, they work to find bricks, dig
them out of the sludge and cart them to the side of the road to sell.
The job is new, a result of devastating storm surges a little more than a
decade ago. In 2007, and then again in 2009, cyclones battered the
coastline just south of Kuakata, destroying homes and structures and
drowning entire villages. The storms submerged forests of mangroves and
left 99 local residents dead.
The sisters Kulsum and Komola Begum survived.
Now they scavenge, looking for debris. They wait until low tide, when
the receding waves reveal the rubble. Once they’ve wheeled bricks to the
embankment, they break them into small, chestnut-size pieces. These
shards are used in the foundations for homes in the new village, a mile
up the shore.
Despite being responsible for only 0.3 percent
of the emissions that cause global warming, Bangladesh is near the top
of the Global Climate Risk Index, a ranking of 183 countries and
territories most vulnerable to climate change. When scientists and
researchers predict how global warming will affect populations, they
usually use 20- and 50-year trajectories. For Bangladesh, the effects of
climate change are happening now. Cyclones are growing stronger as
temperatures rise and are occurring with more frequency.
Researchers warn that within a few decades,
Bangladesh may lose more than 10 percent of its land to sea-level rise,
displacing as many as 18 million people. Decisions to leave coastal
communities aren’t really decisions at all. Families leave because there
are no other options. There is no work. There are no homes. Over the
past decade, an average of 700,000 Bangladeshis a year migrated because
of natural disasters, moving to Dhaka to live in sprawling slums as
climate refugees. Kulsum and Komola have managed to forge opportunity
from disaster; they will stay, for now. They will continue to collect
bricks to build the new village, even if the new village will most
likely meet the same fate as the old one. — Jaime Lowe
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A gathering at Komola Begum’s home,
from left: Her father, Abdul Latif Howlader; Komola; her son
Nur-un-Nabi; her sister Kulsum Begum; and a neighbor.
Andrea Frazzetta/Institute, for The New York Times
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Making a Living in the Ruins
The sisters Kulsum and Komola Begum make a
living scavenging bricks, which they sell to construction workers for
roughly $1.40 a sack.
During monsoon season, when currents are
stronger and tides wash away the sand, the family can bag 60 to 70
sacks. Over all, they earn enough to send the children to school and buy
uniforms and books.
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A neighbor.
Andrea Frazzetta/Institute, for The New York Times
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Kulsum Begum and her granddaughter Marium.
Andrea Frazzetta/Institute, for The New York Times
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Komola Begum’s sons sometimes help their mother collect the bricks.
“When I can earn, my children can eat. If I don’t, they will starve,”
Komola said. “I do this for my kids.”
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Nur-un-Nabi and Bellal Nabi.
Andrea Frazzetta/Institute, for The New York Times
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Her son Nur-un-Nabi plays outside his family’s home, which is surrounded
by fields of rice and grasses. When he is not at school, and not
helping his mother on the shore, Nur-un-Nabi can often be found running
on thin slippery dams, occasionally chasing a water snake slithering out
of the flooded rice fields.
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Andrea Frazzetta/Institute, for The New York Times
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The dozen miles of beach crowns the tourist town of Kuakata, roughly two
hundred miles south of Dhaka. The beach is surrounded by forests of
mangroves and palm plantations, which are falling victim to increasingly
aggressive cyclones, tidal surges and rising seas. ‘‘When we were
young, the old people used to say that the sea was very far from here,’’
Komola said. ‘‘They packed up their meals and walked their way to the
sea. But now you can reach it in no time.’’
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Andrea Frazzetta/Institute, for The New York Times
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Komola Begum loads bricks onto a cart that her son Bellal Nabi will
pedal a few hundred yards along a path of hard-beaten earth up to an
embankment where the bricks will be unloaded and broken into smaller
chunks.
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Andrea Frazzetta/Institute, for The New York Times
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Nur-un-Nabi breaks bricks, while his aunt Kulsum does the same a short
distance away. The piles of bricks rest on an embankment that was
recently raised to make it more resistant to cyclones. The Begum
families’ homes are about a hundred yards from the embankment — which
the more pessimistic local residents expect will withstand just a few
more cyclones before being washed away.
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Andrea Frazzetta/Institute, for The New York Times
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Komola and Kulsum Begum load a bag of brick for a client. A bag can be
as heavy as 40 kilos, and the two sisters often help each other with the
task. “It is a good business so far,” Komola said. “Sometimes we get
pre-orders, and this is good money.”
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Andrea Frazzetta/Institute, for The New York Times
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At each low tide, new scraps of bricks are revealed
in the mud. A few decades ago, Komola Begum recalled, there were
fishing villages here, and roads, rice fields and plantations.
“Some bricks come from the fishing nets,” where
they are used as weights, she said. “We don’t know where the others
come from.” She assumes that many come from homes that have been swept
away. “Now everything is under the sea,” she said from the beach,
pointing toward the ocean.
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Andrea Frazzetta/Institute, for The New York Times
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