Ba Sing Se is a convoluted mess of well-groomed, blooming ignorance; the usual kind of systemic injustice, only more pronounced (accentuated with little flourishes because what is justice, really?); rampant, close to unregulated markets where you will starve if you don't haggle well; and pockets of crime that have spread themselves into tartan threads in order to survive. You would be lucky if someone wealthy enough needed a servant and made you into what basically amounts to a slave, since jobs are scarce or worse and money is everything. Money is time, is freedom; is nourishment; is meeting someone you can truly love; is the roof above your head; is little, pleasant things; is the people you can meet; is every fucking aspect of your life because humans are awful, greedy creatures who only love each other when they have the time. The money.
Ba Sing Se is an accurate picture of a fraction of the cruelty humans are capable of inflicting upon one another.
Ba Sing Se is also a little boy crying because he's lost and having to judge whether verifying the honesty of that is worth the potential suspicion of the parent. The child seems relatively clean and his clothing was mended well with sturdy patches that seem almost better quality than the original garments. I suppose he's not a thief – or just a very good one, but then won't he have earned it?
I've not done my shopping yet, so I crouch down, knowing my money is secured to my chest. "Hello," I say and look more closely at the big, round eyes watering a rounder face. Well-fed, for lower ring.
Mute.
"Have you lost your parent? If I lift you up high, shout and wave?" – a sad nod.
This is how, in the midst of a city bursting with horrors lurking behind every corner, I meet an honest woman whose lot in life saw fit to leave her and her son the only survivors of her fishing village. She makes a living off sex work, earning just enough for herself and her son from one of the slightly less exploitative brothels in the middle ring that they can afford him clothes and something of an education.
It's an unofficial school that some of the refugees started that survives off of small monthly payments from all who go there – and some anonymous donations. They make me wonder a bit at the do-gooder, but not all people are automatically horrible just because they have more money than they need. I doubt it's blood-money, but the anonymity is making me suspicious.
Anyway, I won't be telling Mai or Peter about the school because I doubt he'd want to go, but I do decide to check it out. It's a good idea, and perhaps something similar could be done in the lower ring, where the only education any child is likely to get is of the pickpocketing variety.
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The school is a largely unused warehouse whose only redeeming quality is that the rainwater only drips down in some places, instead of everywhere. No one is repairing it because then the owner would use it for its intended purpose rather than tolerating the current goings-on because of ignorance of said goings-on.
It works because the children are entertained by four elderly refugees whose lessons vary depending on the children's interests. They're fed and housed for their efforts and it has the feeling of an improvised modern day-care, so the parents can go to work or secure other necessities for their existences.
My presence is accepted with a bit of wariness, but as soon as I manage to explain the sewage system to an eight-year-old in simple terms, I'm accepted, more or less. I decide to stop by every once in a while.
Doesn't hurt to impart knowledge to people to whom it will make a difference beyond curiosity. Not, that the latter is deplorable. It's just that knowledge can be an advantage that all of these brats could use.
I'll have to talk to Dionu about helping to set up something similar. Without the women finding out because Peter would never forgive me if it resulted in him ending up in day-care. That won't stop me from bringing Haruto here, though. He wants to learn to read. So he will. And it will keep him busy for a bit.
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Iroh knows that you always meet twice in life.
But he never expected to meet that young waterbender who in his grief for the princess traded clothes with Zuko and let them go. He'd let them go and the only price to pay was that of staying out of trouble. That was a rare kind of goodwill, force of fate, whatever it deserved to be called – perhaps even spiritual intervention – but Iroh made certain to make use of it.
To find this waterbender here, in Ba Sing Se, in an attempt at helping to support the creation of a school, is more than surprising.
Iroh counts himself lucky that he won't have to travel to the Northern Watertribe to repay their debt. It's a convoluted string of events that allowed for Iroh and Zuko to escape that icy fortress alive and mostly uninjured.
And Kaito, of the Northern Watertribe, was at the centre of them. That he now helps to educate children with no means of gaining other knowledge beyond an apprenticeship somewhere – which are rare – is even more telling of his character than that he let Iroh and his nephew go. It reveals a benevolence towards other people that Iroh wishes Zuko would display on more occasions.
And the way he manages to keep the children still by offering enough interesting commentary, or stories, about a young lion turtle whose adventures requires the knowledge of how to calculate this exact problem is more than charming. Iroh is curious. He so likes to meet intriguing people. There are plenty here in Ba Sing Se. But he has especially good reasons for approaching this person.
He does so once the children have been sent packing.
"Don't go causing trouble you can't get out of on your own, brats!"
This seems less than constructive to proper child-rearing, but Iroh knows the value of causing mischief as a young child. It balances all other harsh repressions of growing up and it can only do them good to test their boundaries, of which there are many. And it is good advice.
"Hello," Iroh says to Kaito, uncertain of the name he uses in this place. The man is surprised, if not as surprised as Iroh expects him to be. "It's wonderful what you're doing for them here."
"Hello," Kaito stretches out a hand, a laugh in his eyes, "We do what we can. The name's Kai."
"Mushi. A pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise," he returns, and Iroh can tell that, for all it's worth, it's genuine. Iroh considers honesty in interactions to be a prize beyond mere riches. "Are you interested in helping out around here? We can always use it, if you have the time. There's no pay, I'm afraid."
"A shame. But all the more honourable of you to be here. I'm sure a young man has other things to be doing in a city like this."
"Oh, I do," he laughs, and Iroh doesn't doubt it. This is a man too shrewd, even in his kindness to lead a life of tranquillity as Iroh has come to enjoy so thoroughly. "I'm only here once a week."
"All the same, I'd be delighted to help."
And that is how Iroh ends up helping to teach delightful young children how to read.
...
The pipe smoke burns in the back of Ranra's throat as she watches the other people inside the restaurant talk and laugh and smile.
It's disgusting how fake it is. She can see it in the small shifts, the expressions when the other's gaze is averted and thinks to herself that she should've stayed inside her refugee hovel. Should've settled down with a book and a bit of rice wine and Boris purring in her lap.
The wine she's been served is quite savoury, so she supposes she can wait until she's finished it, but if the dolt doesn't show up soon, she's going to leave and ignore it the next time he sends a messenger Ranra's way, 'I need your help.'
It's almost pathetic how powerful it made her feel for a moment, being the one asked to help. It's the only thing that could get her to agree to meet the man anywhere and she has the suspicion that Guo knows it. If not consciously, then unconsciously.
She watches the lying continue all around, hates how the noise washes over her and does not stay noise, but she is forced to hear the words. "… you're so funny…" "…I don't know how you do it…" "I really admire the way you chase after your dreams…"
Yeah, right. His jokes are as flat as a ten-year-old's chest; whatever it is she's doing is clearly not important enough to be doing it herself and she really doesn't want to let her know just how high she is held in her esteem; and what does that girl care about dreams with her soft hands, fainted face and unfortunate lack of an education that could have made her think for herself, (not-)paid for by daddy dearest, the big-shot textile merchant?
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