Dear God

Dear God,

I’m disturbing you—well, my mother says you listen to everyone, so you have to listen to me too. I often hear people say that you love the rich very much. If that’s true, then why did you send poor children like us to this world? And if you had to send us, why send us to a country as utterly poor as Bangladesh, God?

People here are so strange. In the last two or three months, so many children have died of measles. I cried secretly for them. But look at the grown-ups—no one seems to care! They are always busy staring at their phones, watching funny videos, laughing, or taking pictures of their food. Even the uncles who write big books and stories haven't written a single line for those gone children. How can everyone be so heartless?

I stayed silent back then, but after hearing about what happened to Ramisa, I am terrified. Tell me God, shouldn’t I be scared? No matter how much I talk, I’m only seven years old like Ramisa. Rahima Bua said a monster ate Ramisa. And she said the whole country is swarming with such monsters. Hearing that has made my fear even worse. What if a monster gets the chance to eat me or my friends?

Along with fear, I am also very angry at you. Why do you let these monsters live, God?

When I don’t finish my rice, my mother gets angry and says, “I’m giving you two options—pick one.” Just like her, I’m giving you two options today, and you must choose one, okay? Either you kill all the monsters, or take all the little children away to a different place. Somewhere where no monsters can ever enter. It’s okay if that place is poor, but make sure only real, kind humans live there.

I want to live, God. I want to grow up, go to school, and see the whole world. I don’t want a monster to take me away like Ramisa. Please save us. Do something quickly.

Sincerely,

Chompakoli

Phoolkoli Primary School