Monday
The Economist describes the "glaring conflict" between rich and poor over intellectual property rights. Inventors in poor countries are forced to use patent systems of the rich world. "Merely securing a patent from America's patent office costs at least $4,000. Defending it in court can cost millions." I know this is old news but I still can't get over the fact that they tried to patent a strain of basmati rice !
And remember 2001? Shame-faced drug companies withdrew a lawsuit to prevent the sale of cheaper AIDS drugs in South Africa. They were trying to use IPR law, but it was just bad PR to have web sites that said "we care," "you can count on us," while they were trying hold on to their profits from South Africa's ailing population.
Monday, September 16, 2002
Sunday
I'm at work on Sunday and falling asleep. Dreadfully exhausted, bone-tired but happy. We have moved in to our new apartment and its lovelier than I imagined. I got Friday and Saturday off and its just been hard work all day and the sleep of the dead at night. Despite the crazy heat, dust and aching bones, lion and i find ourselves grinning from ear to ear, dancing about the place. We have spent the last two days cramming our worldly posessions into our little white maruti, assisted by our able driver muthu. Its been a hectic day today and i've come in to do night shift. Just before I stepped into work, I spotted a very young girl standing at the bus-stop. She had a sweet delicate face and wore a green churidhar. but her hair was pinned up like a grown up woman's. She was wearing garish pink lipstick. She sat alone, toying with the end of her dupatta, swinging her legs, staring vacantly into the distance. She wore painful high heels. It took me a while to figure out she was a prostitute--at first my tired mind thought she was a child returning from a fancy dress competition. Because earlier today, i saw a four-year-old boy with a fake drawn-on mustache. She looked so thin, so vulnerable and so young. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second, i want to stop and ask her name and how she got here. But I don't...because i dont know how to save her. Reams have beeen written on the girl who was raped on a train. But what about the little girls who are being prostituted in front of our eyes? Who will save them?
Sunday, September 15, 2002
