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Rwandan
Street Children
Orphans of the Genocide
Albert
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
 |
Gato
Asa, age 11 (Photo: Albert P'Rayan). |
"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.
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.
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Sibomana
Muhira , age 12 (Photo: Albert P'Rayan). |
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.
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."
 |
Left
to Right: Twizey Mana Alphonse, age 16, Sibomana Muhirwa,
age 12, and Gato Asa, age 11 (Photo: Albert P'Rayan). |
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.
"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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