Bokelskere.no

The Prison
In 1984, sent by a human rights organization, Luis Nino visited the prison yards of Lurigancho Penitentiary in Lima.
Luis plunged into a lonely sea of half-naked, ragged prisoners and barely managed to elbow his way through.
Afterward, he asked to speak with the warden. The warden wasn't in. The chief of medical services received him.
Luis said some of the prisoners were dying, spitting up blood, and many more were burning with fever and covered in sores. And he hadn't seen a single doctor.
The chief explained, "We doctors only come in when the nurses call us."
"So why don't they call you?"
"We don't have the budget for nurses."

Mother's Day
In the mail I receive a brochure promoting a special offer for that special day. The finest gifts for the self-sacrificing woman who gave you life. "Sleep well at night," the brochure promises, and for a reasonable price it suggests remote control alarms, handheld sirens, electronic high-tech keys, impenetrable window guards, security cameras, triple-lens infrared sensors, and magnetic trips for doors and gates.

The Book
Reina Reyes wanted Felisberto Hernandez to be free to devote himself to writing his wonderful stories and playing the piano. Writing earned him few readers and not a cent, and music was no money-maker either. Felisberto traveled deep into Uruguay and along the Argentina coast giving concerts, and he always had to leave his hotel by the window.
Reina was a teacher, she worked hard to make a living. In all the years he lived with her, Felisberto never heard her speak of money.
The first of every month, Reina gave him a book by one of the novelists or poets he liked. The book contained the freedom that delivered him from the hell of office work or the torment of other employment that steals hours and squanders life.
Every few pages, he would find a bill, ironed flat.

Manpower.
Mohammed Ashraf doesn't go to school.
From sun-up till moonrise, he measures, cuts, shapes, punctures, and sews soccer balls, which then go rolling out from Pakistani village of Umar Kot toward the stadiums of the world.
Mohammed is eleven. He has been at this since he was five.
If he knew how to read, and could read English, he would understand the label he sticks on each of his products: "This ball was not made by children."

Sun.
Somewhere in Pennsylvania, Anne Merak works as an assistant to the sun. She's been in that line of work for as long she can recall. At the end of every night, Anne raises her arms and pushes the sun up into the sky. Lowering her arms at day's end she puts the sun down to bed on the horizon.
She was very small when she started this job, and she's never missed a shift.
Half a century ago, she was declared insane. Since then Anne has gone through several institutions, been treated by numerous psychiatrits, and swallowed innumerable pills.
They never managed to cure her.
Thank heavens.