We parked our car against the communal garbage dump in a poor neighbourhood outside Basra. A group of boys were noisily enjoying a game of soccer behind us – their gleeful cheers oblivious to the scruffy ball, the dusty pitch, the ragged team.  They paused to watch as we walked to one of the houses in the alley and knocked on the door.

Abdur-Rahman opened the door and invited us into their home, a bashful smile on his face.  At thirteen he should have been playing soccer with the other kids.  But, since his father’s death, he had suddenly crossed a threshold – an adolescent thrust into the responsibilities of adulthood.  He was now co-guardian to his three younger brothers, one of whom, Mustafa, we had met at the Child Aid office earlier that morning.

He led us into a small room which probably converted into a bed-room at night.  There were some rugs thrown on the floor but the room was sparse.  Except for one article of furniture.  In the corner was a hand-driven sewing machine, the kind one sees in antique stores or dusty attics.   It had a wooden pedestal and a home-made patch-work quilt covering it.  A pair of pants lay neatly folded by its side.

When Abdur-Rahman’s father passed away, his mother was forced to take on the role of breadwinner to four children aged between thirteen and seven as well as her husband’s ageing parents.  She found that she could rent a sewing machine from a neighbour and if she put in a good solid day’s worth of work could generate a meagre profit after paying the rental charge. 

She was their sole source of income: a seamstress with a rented sewing machine supporting a family of seven.

As we were leaving, we noticed the large date palm in their courtyard.  It was a beautiful tree, its trunk solid, its fronds a healthy green.  Abdur-Rahman looked up into the branches, wistful and contemplative.  His grand-father told us of the fruit this tree had borne -- kernels that waited for the searing heat of the summer to ripen, to mature, to bear fruit and provide nourishment to the family, year after year. 

For us this may have seemed like a passing anecdote.  But for Abdur-Rahman, I am sure, it resonated a lot deeper than that.