Today was one of those days which puts everything into perspective. One of Barefeet’s five ‘toes’ is a program called Outreach. The team will visit different groups of children living on the streets to touch base with them and to make sure they are keeping a close connection with each of the groups.
John, Pascal, Eva and I hopped in the car and drove through the centre of town towards the most popular spot, which is located underneath an overpass. The smell hit me before I even spotted the children; it was truly horrific. In the distance were around ten children sitting on the railway track (I’m told there are normally around 70 to 100 in this spot). They looked weary, beaten and exhausted. In addition to last night’s storm (which was big enough to flood many of the backstreets around town) these kids had been subject to a police raid. The police ‘solution’ to dealing with these kids is to lock them up in a cell overnight. Whilst to you and I this may sound like a better solution to sleeping on the street, there are no juvenile police cells in Zambia, so the kids are locked up with adult prisoners who often beat the children or subject them to other forms of unthinkable abuse. In addition to locking them in cells, the police dealt them a further blow by setting fire to all of their food, blankets and any other objects the kids had managed to gather, leaving them with just the clothes on their backs. Even though I couldn’t understand what they were telling us (they tend to flick between English and their local dialect), their anger and frustration was palpable. Over time I watched more and more of them appear from the bushes surrounding us, with one telling me they were too scared to show their faces in case the police returned. Some had black eyes, others had clearly managed to get their hands on some form of drugs or alcohol and just sat looking dazed and confused. They kept begging me as a mzungu (white person) to buy them some mealie meal so they could make Nshima. Lying to them and telling them I had no money felt so deceitful, however the Barefeet guys warned me against giving them anything. Instead we agreed we’d buy the mealie meal and return with it for them. I’m honestly not sure whether I can face it again… These kids only possessions are the clothes on their backs. It put a lot in perspective for me...
Next on the journey was a visit to the Fountain of Hope, a children’s orphanage where many of the kid’s who have emerged from their journey with Barefeet end up. At present there are around 100 children living there, housing slightly more boys than girls. They attend daily lessons in the classrooms onsite from teachers who volunteer their time to teach the class. In fact, all of the people working there are volunteers, some of whom have little to no money themselves. There is a communal lunchroom and in the kitchen they are cooking the Nshima in a pot which is about a metre tall (i.e. a shiz load of the stuff). One of the volunteers from the centre took me inside the girl’s dormitory where I was greeted by about 30 smiley little faces, some as young as five. They all rushed forward to shake my hand and to ask me my name. Some sang for me, some danced, just eager to perform for their visitor.
What I find extraordinary is that these children have been to hell and back and yet they still manage to find joy in even the darkest of times. They are alone in the world, no mother or father left to care for them, but they are each other’s family.
As we were about to leave, John said to me quietly “Claire, did you know I grew up here? This is where Barefeet was created, under that very tree.”
A day I will never forget.