Snakes & Ladders

Yesterday was an adventure in three parts. First I spent several hours at the Ministry of Health helping department heads finalize their proposal for family tracing & reunification of non-orphans in orphanages.
They called the night before: “Computer trouble. It’s spoiled.”
Then, at the request of one of the social workers, I went along to assess an orphanage that, though it’s still accredited and eligible, had lost all its food support over a year ago. The place looked great, but a few of the kids were terrible – among the worst I’d seen. What I imagine kids would look like if they’d eaten little but indigestible buckwheat porridge for a year. One in particular is still haunting me, but more on that later…
Back to the Ministry for a meeting with a rep from UNICEF to gather advice on some of the orphanages we’re considering starting relationships with. Everyone from the minister on down to the secretary is disillusioned, running on empty. They appreciate my energy (and see the frustrations it produces), but I can tell they’re waiting for me to become discouraged too. I make a mental note to step aside if that happens: too many in these offices have forgotten that they work for children.
Just as the meeting is breaking up, someone receives a call. I’m asked for a ride over to the police hq next door. Apparently ten kids have been trafficked and, just now, “intercepted”. It’s late on a Friday for serious business that I know nothing about, but I agree to play chauffeur at least.
In behind the make-shift tent/trailer that is the headquarters of the Women And Children Protection Service is a fenced-in area between generators. As I round the corner, a deep breath: what it will look like I can’t imagine. Then there they are: ten of the most normal – if exhausted – looking kids you’ve ever seen. They look neither guilty nor abused. Just confused and tired. I try a wink and a high-five, and the boys burst into laughter – Okay, I think, thank God they’re not scarred.
Their story emerges in surprisingly good English, and I grow more and more impressed with every word. Their “uncle” approached their parents – there are three or so groups of siblings – and lured them away with the same old promises of better school, better food, better life in the city. They never quite made it, though – not to the city, not to a better life. I flirt with the younger, silent ones while my colleague takes notes from the older kids.

“How long since you left yo’ people?”
“Since semester two start.” – That is, around five months.
“And what he make you do?”
“Some days I carry thirty-fi’ gallons water. Some days we go into the bush and cut tree’.”
The oldest girl pipes in: “Me, I cook in the mornin’.”
“Good, good. And wha’ you cook?”
“Buckawhea’ porridge.”
“Alright. And fo’ the evenin’?”
“Sometimes we ha’ the buckawhea’, sometimes we fast.”
“Fast? How long you fast-o?”
“Mm, sometimes a week.”
“And who run to the police there?”

The two oldest blush, one boy of 10 and a 12-year old girl. I can’t imagine the courage it must’ve taken to run – to escape your captor, to leave your younger siblings behind, to run to the Liberian National Police for asylum… It’s simply beyond me.
I look again at the little girl on my lap, maybe six. She can hardly keep her eyes open, too exhausted to even be terrified. My colleague finishes commending the older kids for rescuing their little ones, for saving their lives. She warns them that, although they will undoubtedly be beaten when they return home for all the trouble they’ve caused, they were very brave and did the right thing.
“I probably won’ see you, but Uncle Andrew will co’ visit you if he has time…”

Yeah I will. I miss them already. Coolest kids I’ve ever met.