A Week In The Life Of Kailash Satyarthi: Man with a mission to free children from slavery

IN A BASEMENT room in central Delhi under a large photograph of Gandhi with his eyes closed, Kailash Satyarthi, founder and chairman of the South Asian Coalition on Child Servitude, introduces his latest fans to the press - 18 children aged about 6 to 13, liberated from bonded labour in the Indian carpet industry.

They sit on benches facing the reporters and television crews, looking tired, baffled and very faintly curious. Five days beforehand, all 18 of them (and another seven who were spirited away by their employers before they could be reached) were effectively slaves, knotting carpets by hand in a village outside Mirzapur in the northern state of Uttar Pradesh.

India makes hundreds of millions of pounds in export earnings from the carpet trade every year. The coalition believes at least 300,000 Indian children are forcibly engaged in the trade, with another 700,000 working in Nepal and Pakistan.

The boys had been brought 600 miles from their homes in Bihar two or three years ago. Many of their parents were lulled with promises that their children would be paid, well-looked after, go to school and be allowed regular reunions with their families. Some were simply abducted from the outskirts of a village by promises of sweets or movies.

Once in the grasp of the carpet-makers, all of the children were treated like slaves, forced to work 20 hours a day and viciously beaten if they cried or complained.

The father of one boy who succeeded in locating his son was beaten up and chased away when he asked to be allowed to see him.

The conference was the culmination of an ordinary week in the life of Kailash Satyarthi and the coalition: a week of danger, drama, menace, skulduggery, brinkmanship, relief and gratitude.

Seven days eaarlier, plans for the raid were already well advanced. Eight parents have been brought from Bihar to take part, and are waiting in Mirzapur for instructions. They are under strict instructions to say nothing about the raid. If the carpet-makers are tipped off, the children may simply disappear.

In the evening, Mr Satyarthi has a long conversation with the father who was beaten up by the carpet-maker's goons. The father reveals he was threatened with death if he dared to return. Such threats are not empty: many carpet-makers carry guns.

The parents have been in the town for a week already, waiting for the local magistrate to give the planned raid his approval. Magistrates are legally obliged to carry out such raids, as the use of bonded child labour is a non-bailable criminal offence - but the political will is often missing.

Mr Satyarthi and his colleagues have become expert at cajoling the authorities into doing their duty. Without the involvement of the local magistrate and police, the children might be liberated, but would not be entitled to compensation (worth about pounds 70) for their suffering.

The following day, although the coalition stubbornly refuses to tell the magistrate the location of the planned raid in advance - "secrecy is the most important thing," Mr Satyarthi says - the sub- divisional magistrate finally agrees to the plan.

Early next morning, two Jeeps carrying parents, activists, armed police and an official from the magistrate's office set out and drive 35 miles to a village called Handya. At 11am the signal is given and the raid begins. As police and activists approach, a village woman screams a warning; thugs employed by the carpet-maker appear and threaten to kill the raiders if they go into the huts where the children live and work. The police say nothing but stand their ground.

As often during raids, both a struggle and a violent debate ensues. Slowly and grudgingly the children are led out of the huts and handed over. It takes 90 minutes before the last child is released. The employer is nowhere to be found. According to one of the children, police helped him to get away - thus avoiding a trial and lengthy prison term - after he paid a large bribe.

Later that night, children, parents and activists are driven back to Mirzapur. They are given a police escort in case the owner of the sweatshop should decide to try to grab them back.

In the morning, village officials in Handya finally issue the vital "release certificates" without which the children cannot receive compensation. Later, four coalition activists, five parents and eighteen children board a third-class stopping train to Delhi. Nearly a full day later, they finally arrive.

At Mukti Ashram, the coalition's hostel and rehabilitation centre in Delhi, Mr Satyarthi briefs six children who have already been in the hostel for some months on how to help the new arrivals relax and adjust to their new surroundings. "It's impossible for the children to digest that someone is really helping them," he says. "The parents, too, are convinced that anyone who approaches them is only interested in exploiting them."

The freed children meet the press. At the start, Mr Satyarthi has to explain to them what it all means. "None of them knew what a newspaper was," he says afterwards. "Only three of them had ever seen a photograph of themselves, and that was only because they had seen one the previous day."