Born to Fight: Street Children for Rice

 

Raju tightened his grip on the small plastic bag he carried. Inside were a few crumpled rupees he had managed to collect by begging all morning. His stomach growled, but he ignored it. Hunger was an old enemy—one he had been fighting since he could remember.

The streets of Dhaka were merciless. Every day was a battle for food, shelter, and survival. Raju was one of many—children with no homes, no parents, and no one to care if they lived or died. They called themselves the "Rice Fighters" because, in their world, every grain of rice was worth a battle.

At noon, he reached a small roadside stall where a man was frying rice and eggs in a giant pan. The smell made Raju’s stomach twist in desperation. He stepped forward, placing his few coins on the counter.

“Half plate, please,” he whispered.

The stall owner scoffed. “This won’t even get you a handful. Get lost.”

Before Raju could argue, a bigger boy shoved him aside. It was Karim, the leader of a gang of street kids known for stealing food. He smirked at Raju.

“Give me that money,” Karim demanded.

“No! I earned it!” Raju protested.

But before he could react, a fist landed on his face. He fell, his vision blurring, but he refused to let go of the money. A fight erupted—punches, kicks, desperate grapples for survival. Other children watched, some cheering, some waiting for a chance to snatch whatever fell.

Raju refused to lose. He had fought for food before, but this time, he felt something stronger—anger, determination. He punched back, catching Karim off guard. The older boy stumbled, and in that moment of hesitation, Raju grabbed his own money and ran.

Breathless, he dashed into an alleyway, clutching his aching ribs. He had won—for today. Tomorrow, the fight would begin again. But for now, he would eat.

Because in the streets, survival belonged to those born to fight.