Desperate tears lost to deaf ears..

My childhood memories, like so many people I know, are filled with laughter, squeals of excitement, ice-cream, games, sweeties, friends and lavishing of unmistakable love. Even most of my worst memories I can now see were based in love, and I just didn’t like discipline or being told no, like every other child acting bratty. My thoughts were full of innocence and the world around me filled my eyes with beauty so powerful and encompassing it sunk deep into my heart, filling my childhood years with a sense of constant warmth and safety. I always knew that if I cried loud enough, no matter what was happening, my Mummy or Daddy would find me and wipe my tears away.
I spent today with a group of children that couldn’t even begin to imagine these memories, let alone think they might someday have the chance to experience some of these things. Instead they live their lives day to day in constant fear, confusion, need, loss and loneliness. No matter how loud their cries, they wont be answered. They may be heard, but the wont be answered. No-one will wipe their tear and dirt stained faces clean, and laughter comes rarely and is normally interrupted by fear returning all too quickly again. Safety and warmth for these children is nothing more than a myth, sometimes heard about in passing whispers but never lingering long enough to be understood. Love is not constant for many of these children, and their worst memories are too devastating to be given a voice.
I spent today in a government-run “rehabilitation” home for street children, and children that had behaved badly and been given up on. An hour drive from Kampala ensures the grounds are far enough away that escape is at least a bit more difficult for the kids.. And if they do survive the long, difficult walk back to the streets they will be quickly rounded up again. The layout of the buildings, and the land all seem to have been birth from a brilliant, beautiful dream but since building them the dream has clearly quickly turned into a terrible nightmare. The dirty, mould-infested buildings are really just shells of what could have been. They provide shelter for the kids so long as the definition of shelter is “a roof and four walls” and no more.
From the dorm rooms to the worm infected children all you can see is filth and disease. Everything is dirty, cold and disgusting looking. And then it happens...a child sees you have come to visit and all of a sudden their whole being lights up, theirs eyes sparkle, the grin forms, their arms reach out to you for love, and your heart breaks in half. The rest of your time is spent holding back tears, choking on the lump in your throat and trying to muster energy for the many needy children, until you go home. And then boom...your heart is hit again as you realise that for the beautiful children surrounding you, they are already home. They have no end to this nightmare, at least not one that they can see or understand how to reach.
The home was started by the government in 2003. The idea was that street children would come here to be rehabilitated, care for and resettled with their families. The building would also serve as a punishment centre for children committing petty crimes, or even just annoying their parents to the point they want to throw them out. The children would then have their lives turned around and be sent back to society model citizens. This is obviously a failed plan, long lost somewhere within the prison I visited today. Nothing about this place seems to follow any rehabilitation programme or even offer basic care or dignity. All of the children were filthy, and most of them had some sort of skin disease (which was just the disease we could see on the outside, I’m sure it covered worse on the inside). The clothes the younger ones wore, hung off of their small bodies, barely covering them, and they had no underwear on to keep them decent as their rags moved or floated up in the draughty rooms. One boy spent the day trying to cover himself up by always using one hand to hold up his broken dungarees. The nurses at the government health building on site sit about all day bored, as they say they’ve not had even one pill to give out for the past month. So no matter how ill the child is that comes to them, unless they find the funding to send the child somewhere else, there is nothing that can be done.
To make sure the children don’t run away when they are first brought in from the streets (where they are collected by guards who force them into patrol cars) they are kept together (regardless of the number) in one empty concrete hall with no mattresses or mosquito nets. When it is thought that the risk of escape is high the clothes may be taken from the child in the hope that this will discourage them from leaving. This will be for the first few weeks until the staff think the children have lost their initial motivation to attempt escape. After this time they will be moved into one of the dorm rooms with the rest of the children, until they are naughty at least. When they are naughty (including being caught on the street again after a successful escape) they will be badly beaten and thrown in a cell which will be locked. The child will be brought meals by staff only and not allowed out of this cell until their punishment time is complete.
On a more positive note however, I was grateful to be there with Dwelling Places and another local NGO working with street children, RETRACK as they offered a free mobile medical clinic. They do this once every two weeks as part of their involvement with a network of several similar NGOs that are committed to visiting the children at different times and running games, discipleship, sports, medical services and other things to improve their welfare. However all this hard work barely seems to scratch the surface in such a desperate place. But at least we can take hope in the fact that there are people dedicated to scratching as deep as they can, and continuing to do so until they make as much of a difference as possible. Your prayers really are needed for this work and positive government involvement.
Having no medical training, I spent the day playing with the smaller kids, dancing, swinging them in the air, singing and generally being silly as much as possible without using any language. They just LOVED the attention and laughed as though they’d never laughed before for every tiny thing I did with them. Before leaving, one of the small boys caught his hand in a van door and started screaming from the fright. I quickly opened the door and scooped him up to take him through to Mariam (the Dwelling Places nurse). I almost burst into tears as I felt his grip around me. His little feet linked, his legs tight to grip on and his arms clinging desperately to me. He stayed like this long after the pain and tears had faded and my heart was ripped apart all over again as I put him down on the filthy ground so I could board the van to leave and go back to our comfortable office.
I’ll never forget the noise of weeping as we came toward the home, or the stench that hit us as we walked through the doors. But I have made a conscious promise to not allow myself to ever forget the fear in the eyes of some of those children. Fear I can’t begin to understand, and hope to never have to. I will etch that sight deep into my memories and heart and use it as motivation for everything I do. Every time I pray, remember others, become too self-obsessed, or forget the importance of every small act of reaching out in kindness, I will force my heart to remember those eyes with such fear and I will allow my heart to break all over again. I have tears beginning to roll down my cheeks even as I write this, but I thank God I had the opportunity to visit such beautiful souls trapped in such a horrible cage, even just so I know how many beautiful souls are crying out for help. And I can only hope I can somehow begin to be the one that not only hears the tears, but at least tries to wipe them away.