MY ACCOUNT
I met Farhan at a Pakistani brick kiln. He’s 11—the same age as my oldest son. They have similar hairstyles, energetic younger brothers, and a love for Jesus. But there’s a stark difference.
My son goes to school and plays soccer. Farhan wakes before sunrise to make bricks with his father—the only life he’s known. He’s never attended school.
That day at the kiln, Farhan appointed himself my assistant, carrying my camera bag everywhere. I couldn’t stop seeing my own son in his eyes, wondering about all the potential trapped inside this bright kid. Potential that poverty and hard labor often crush.
We were there to pay his family’s debt—$875 that had bound them for 15 years and would have passed to Farhan without intervention. His father Khalid hadn’t slept the night before, overwhelmed by the prospect of freedom.
When we asked about his dreams, Farhan answered with a smirk: “I want to be the boss.” His younger brother hopes to help the poor. Their father simply asked for prayer for other families still waiting for rescue. I was humbled by their response.
$875 seems small to many Americans, especially when we come together. For this family, it means hope, a future, a chance to write a new story away from the kilns.
I hope someday to return and find Farhan living his dream. Maybe I could be his assistant for a day. Until then, I carry his story with me.
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