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 Rwandan 
                    Street ChildrenOrphans of the GenocideAlbert 
                  P'Rayan
 Kigali, Rwanda
 Feb. 1, 2002
 
 Mr. 
                  P'Rayan teaches English at the Kigali Institute of Science, 
                  Technology, and Management. He is originally from Madras, India
 
 
 
                    "Children are the wealth and pride of the family," 
                  says Jeanette, a corn vendor in Rwanda's capital city, Kigali. 
                  She should know. She stands at her stall in the marketplace, 
                  surrounded by her four youngest children, nursing a 10-month-old 
                  baby. She has seven more children, she says, now teenagers. 
                      |  |   
                      | Gato 
                        Asa, age 11 (Photo: Albert P'Rayan). |  
 Jeannette doesn't know how old she is. She says that despite 
                  the difficulty of feeding so many children, she has never regretted 
                  having them. "They are God's gifts," she says, "He 
                  will look after them." She quotes a proverb in Kinyarwanda, 
                  Rwanda's national language: "Umwana mi Umwami, a 
                  child is king."
 
 In 1996, Rwanda's fertility index was one of the highest in 
                  the world, the product of a culture in which families of all 
                  social backgrounds typically have many children. Rwanda's 1994 
                  genocide, which claimed an estimated 800,000 lives over the 
                  course of 100 days, left permanent scars on Rwanda, its culture, 
                  and its children. In what Philip Gourevitchauthor of the 
                  critically-acclaimed book on the Rwandan genocide, We Wish 
                  to Inform You that Tomorrow We Will Be Killed with Our Familiescalled 
                  the fastest, most concentrated murder spree of the 20th century, 
                  Hutu militiamen, soldiers, and citizens hacked men, women, and 
                  children from Rwanda's Tutsi minority to death with machetes.
 
 Humanitarian organizations report that the effects of the poverty 
                  and exploitation that followed the genocide have been most pronounced 
                  on children. A 1999 UNICEF study found that 96 percent of Rwandan 
                  children had witnessed the 1994 massacres. 80 percent had lost 
                  at least one family member. Hundreds of thousands were orphaned. 
                  Since 1994, AIDS has left thousands more orphaned, in what humanitarian 
                  workers have called "Rwanda's silent genocide." Survivors 
                  and witnesses say that Hutu extremists routinely used mass rape 
                  as a weapon, hastening the spread of AIDS. Today one in nine 
                  Rwandans is HIV-positive. As parents continue to die, the "wealth 
                  and pride" of many Rwandan families are left to wander 
                  the streets of the towns. Today, these children, called mayibobos, 
                  have become a ubiquitous sight in Kigali, Rwanda's capital.
 
 
 
                    Judith is a tall, thin, 14-year-old girl. She is barefoot, and 
                  dressed in rags, but she holds herself with a breezy self-confidence. 
                  She owns nothing but a broad and lovely smile. She and a few 
                  other girls and boys of her age take shelter on the streets 
                  of Kigali. My interpretera young girl in one of my classes 
                  at the Kigali university where I teachand I approach her, 
                  offering food and money in exchange for her time. It takes some 
                  time to earn Judith's trust, but my student is not much older 
                  than she is, and soon she is telling her story freely. I ask 
                  her to tell me about her childhood.
                      |  |  
                      | Sibomana 
                        Muhira , age 12 (Photo: Albert P'Rayan). |  
 Judith says she was born in a rural village in southern Rwanda. 
                  After two years of school, her family kept her at home to help 
                  with household chores. Her mother died when Judith was nine 
                  years old. "My father is a drunkard," she says with 
                  evident bitterness. "Within four months after my mother's 
                  death he remarried another woman."
 
 The pace of her narrative speeds up as she talks about her stepmother. 
                  As Judith's voice rises with emotion, my interpreter stops translating 
                  and just listens. Finally, she turns to me and summarizes: "She 
                  says her stepmother abused her and her siblings verbally and 
                  physically. Worse, she says, her father took side with her stepmother. 
                  She says that after the stepmother came, she and the other children 
                  were completely neglected. Her father was drunk and her stepmother 
                  saw the children as a burden. She says that after the stepmother 
                  arrived, their house became 'a hell,' that they were in 'deep 
                  misery:' They didn't have enough to eat, they didn't have proper 
                  clothing, and they didn't go to school."
 
 I ask how she became a mayibobo.
 
 "One by one all my elder sisters left home for the town 
                  [Kigali] in order to survive," she tells me. "They 
                  worked in different parts of Kigali as housemaids. One day my 
                  father and stepmother forced me and my brother to go to Kigali 
                  to find work like my sisters. That was two years ago. I was 
                  just 12 years old. We came to the main market in Kigali and 
                  spent three or fours days in the surrounding neighbourhoods. 
                  Sleeping on the street was really a horrible experience for 
                  me. I was just like an orphan though most of the members of 
                  my family were alive."
 
 She pauses for a moment, remembering. "By God's grace," 
                  she says, "I came across a rich woman in the market who 
                  was ready to take me to her house and give me a job. Since my 
                  brother couldn't come with me, he decided to be a mayibobo. 
                  The woman's house was at Nyamirambo in Kigali. I was asked to 
                  look after her toddlers and to do other work such as cleaning 
                  the bathroom and washing clothes. She told me she would pay 
                  me 3,000 Rwandan francs (US$7.50) every month. Initially, I 
                  was so happy just to have a house to live in."
 
 "As days went by," she continues, "I got accustomed 
                  to the new environment, but my happiness didn't last long." 
                  She shifts her weight uncomfortably and looks off to one side. 
                  My interpreter and I must cajole her to tell the rest of her 
                  story. Finally, she agrees, her face clouded with anger at her 
                  memories. My interpreter quickly becomes embarrassed listening 
                  to her, and cuts her off, telling her there's no need to continue. 
                  "She says that when her boss was gone, her boss' husband 
                  sexually abused her," I'm told. "She says she 'became 
                  prey to his lust.' This went on for two months. When her boss 
                  found out about the husband's behavior, Judith was sent away. 
                  She says she was never paid for the three months she worked 
                  at the rich woman's house."
 
 I ask what happened to her after she left the rich woman's house. 
                  "I tried without luck to get some sort of similar work," 
                  she says. "I didn't know where to go, so I came to the 
                  market again. I met my brother and his friends and became a 
                  mayibobo. At least I am with them. Since that day, I've 
                  been on the street."
 
 How is her life on the street? Is she happy there? Is there 
                  anyone to help her?
 
 "I'm quite used to my street life. During the daytime I 
                  spend my time in the market. I help people carry their vegetable 
                  bags and get some money and at nights I sleep in front of any 
                  shop on the street. It is hard. The street is not a secure place 
                  for girls like me. We're hungry, we have no shelter, anybody 
                  can abuse us however they like. Nobody says anything."
 
 I ask her if she's considered going to a shelter for street 
                  children. She says she's heard of the shelters, but that someone 
                  told her that children there "were treated like dirt," 
                  and that "they have no freedom at all."
 
 I ask her if she knows what happened to her sisters. "I 
                  don't meet my sisters often," she tells me. "I don't 
                  know where they are working. Others have told me that they have 
                  become prostitutes. I'll never become a prostitute." I 
                  give her more money with thanks for her time. Before she goes 
                  she flashes another of her broad smiles.
 
 Stories like Judith's are all too common. When Judith has finished 
                  telling her story, crowds of her friends flock around to tell 
                  theirs. Jean-Pierre, a friend of Judith's, lost his father in 
                  the genocide. His mother died of AIDS soon after. He and his 
                  brothers lived with relatives in the country for a few years, 
                  but two years ago, they were sent to Kigali to fend for themselves. 
                  They have lived on the streets around Kigali's main marketplace 
                  since. Twizey Mana Alphonse, age 16, pushes to the front of 
                  the crowd, his two adopted brothersGato Asa, age 11, and 
                  Siboma Muhirwa, age 12in tow. Twizey's face is so covered 
                  in wounds that he can barely open his eyes. Flies buzz around 
                  the scabs on his face. The week before, he says, a vendor caught 
                  him stealing potatoes from his shop and beat him severely. He 
                  couldn't go to a hospitalno hospital would take him. "Such 
                  things are quite common for us," he says.
 
 I ask whether they would be interested in going to school to 
                  learn some technical skills. I tell them they could stay with 
                  friends of mine. They show interest in going to school, but 
                  would rather stay on the streets while they study: "No, 
                  I don't want to come to your house," Twizey says, "You 
                  people will abuse me and I can't be happy there. Here I'm happy 
                  and free."
 
 By this time a light rain had begun to fall. My interpreter 
                  and I take shelter in front of a market stall. We're soon surrounded 
                  by more mayibobos, "Give me money, give me some 
                  money, I'm hungry," they repeat, pulling at our sleeves. 
                  I give them 200 Rwandan francs and tell them to buy some food. 
                  They run off and, within minutes, return with small water bottles 
                  filled with gasoline. They take turns inhaling the gasoline 
                  fumes. Seeing my revulsion, a man who had watched the entire 
                  scene unfold by my side, tells me "These mayibobos 
                  are addicted to petrol and it is not good to give them money. 
                  You must be very careful when you talk to them. They are clever 
                  at stealing your mobile phones and other things from you."
 
 
 
                    A few days later, while buying fruits and vegetables in the 
                  market, I discover he was right. Seeing me at the fruit stand, 
                  mayibobos surround me, asking if they can carry my shopping 
                  bag. "No," I say, "The bag is not heavy." 
                  As I take out my purse to pay for the groceries, one of the 
                  boys attracts my attention, while another nimbly snatches a 
                  few bills. When I look into the purse, I notice the bills are 
                  missing. The boy starts running. I shout after him, and the 
                  crowds in the market catch him. I plead with his captors not 
                  to beat the boy or to turn him over to the police.
                      |  |  
                      | Left 
                        to Right: Twizey Mana Alphonse, age 16, Sibomana Muhirwa, 
                        age 12, and Gato Asa, age 11 (Photo: Albert P'Rayan). |  
 "It's not good to feel pity for them," one of the 
                  captors says darkly.
 
 "Merci Beaucoup," the boy says with a small 
                  bow before disappearing into the crowd.
 
 A few weeks later, I visit the Centre Abeda Cogora, a 
                  Dominican mission in Kigali run by Fr. Giles Marius Dion, a 
                  French-Canadian Dominican friar. For 25 years, Dion has worked 
                  with Rwanda's street children, learning to speak Kinyarwanda 
                  fluently and establishing three missions to cater to the children's 
                  needs. Every day, some 300 children come to the centers from 
                  around the city, are fed a meal, and are sent to school. Social 
                  workers seek out the children's families. If possible, they 
                  work to reunite the children with their families. Other times, 
                  they try to place the mayibobos in foster care. But Dion 
                  says that perhaps 50 percent of the children he sees do not 
                  want to be placed in a foster home or returned to their families.
 
 Dr. Leila Gupta, a project officer with UNICEF's psycho-social 
                  trauma team, has found the same thing. She says that in most 
                  cases, it is simply not possible to reunite the children of 
                  Rwanda's genocide with their relatives. This means that social 
                  workers, teachers, and humanitarian organizations often become 
                  their surrogate parents. She says that while most of the girls 
                  she sees are more likely to cry over the trauma they've experienced, 
                  many of the boys are at risk of becoming violent themselves, 
                  raising important concerns for Rwanda's future.
 
 That many of the girls who come through shelters and missions 
                  in Kigali work as prostitutes and risk contracting HIV is of 
                  equal concern to aid workers. "It's difficult… they are 
                  unstable," says one of Dion's aides, who identified herself 
                  only as Madame Eugenie. "The girls I see spend most of 
                  their days in the mission. In the evening, many go to the nightclubs 
                  and work as prostitutes for the money they need to survive. 
                  We try to educate them about AIDS, but when they leave every 
                  night, we're helpless." This also raises important concerns 
                  for Rwanda's future: UNICEF estimates that every year, 40,000 
                  babies are born to HIV-infected mothers in Rwanda.
 
 The Rwandan government has taken what it calls "emergency 
                  measures" to deal with the mushrooming problem of the mayibobos. 
                  But the mayibobos are just one of the problems Rwanda's 
                  government must face, and, with a gross domestic product of 
                  just US$6.4 billion, resources are scarce. So far, the government's 
                  response has, in effect, been limited to detaining mayibobos 
                  briefly, then returning them to the street. Many non-governmental 
                  organizations have established programmes in Kigali and other 
                  towns to assist street children, but without funding, aid workers 
                  say their hands are tied.
 
 Tragically, Claire Muhinyuza's case could well be called typical. 
                  In 1994, she watched as Hutu extremists murdered her two children. 
                  She was gang-raped and left for dead after her left arm was 
                  hacked off by a machete. After the genocide, she adopted an 
                  orphaned boy, Emmanuel. Then she discovered she was HIV positive. 
                  Claire doesn't know what will happen to Emmanuel should anything 
                  happen to her.
 
 "Thinking of the future weakens us so much," she says.
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