I can remember being a little girl and performing in dance recitals from the time I was two years old. I would get all dressed up and put on make-up, completed with a bun so tight my eyes instantly changed shape, and I had a throbbing headache. The adrenaline and excitement typically took over and sometimes I would even actually remember the dance. Before each performance started I would peek out from the sides of the stage to try and spot my parents in the audience. I had hoped they had remembered to get me a bouquet of flowers to say congratulations, so I could feel like the star of the show. Once I spotted them, I could breathe. The music started and everyone would perform for the people they loved and nothing else mattered. When I watch the children at the orphanage getting prepared all day to perform for us with all the costumes, hair and make-up, and see them peeking from the back of the curtain, it hits me. They are performing on the same stage where they sleep, eat, play, and live every moment of their lives, except when they go to school for a few hours each day. They perform to contribute to their household expenses each month at the orphanage. There is a lot more at stake than a bouquet of flowers. By the way that they dance you would never know that. It seems to be an escape for them and for most of them, their only chance to express themselves. There are no parents waiting in the audience but we are there, and we love them! I don't have children of my own but during that hour long performance was one of the closest times that I have felt like I did. I took over 300 pictures, got teary eyed, and clapped even when you weren't supposed to. I couldn't find my tissues so I had put a few cotton balls in each pocket and was using them to absorb the tears of joy.....class act. I could barely stay in my seat and finally got my chance to tell them it was the best show I have ever seen.
This would be on the hardest and final day at the orphanage for our first group of volunteers. We had stopped at the market in the morning and secured items for their fried chicken feast followed up by banana splits! The students negotiated the whole, hanging chickens dangling around in the open air market, covered in flies, like old pro's. They had instructions to buy them without the feet, head or guts..and nobody threw up! The children at the orphanage had never had a meal like this before and the way they kept going back for more until they physically could not take another bite, confirmed we had made a good choice. After we all compared bellies, a game I really love, we presented them with our gift of a gigantic mural of pictures that were taken over the last two weeks. Then it began, the next few hours the student volunteers danced with the kids at the orphanage like it was their last night on earth. They gave it everything they had. The tears started early and I couldn't make eye contact with anyone for too long or the slippery slope would begin. The children at the orphanage are used to being left behind, but the situation they are leaving is typically a nightmare. In this case, they were being separated from the students who have brought hem so much joy, upgraded their living situation, and filled their bellies and their hearts for the first time in a very long time. This was also the first time they had been around kids their own age that aren't in their same situation, as our volunteers are 12, 13 and 14 years old. The students are examples to the children and a hope that something better is possible. That is what they were letting go of on this night and that is why it is so hard to leave them. As the night fell, the sounds and sadness of 50 children filled the air. You never get used to that sound and the darker it gets the louder it becomes. Remember, Cambodian children are taught never to cry, so when you look around and see five children on one student volunteer and every one of them is lost in tears, it rips you apart. The walk to our tuk-tuks began with children hanging on every limb. Once you sit down and begin to ride away the children hold on to your hands as long as they can while running down the road with you. The tension of their grasp begins to give and their hand slips away, as you lose them in the darkness.
I can remember two years ago when we were putting the first trip together for student volunteers and someone asked me in a not so supportive way, "When can students THAT young actually do?" I think about this question a lot when I see how capable these students are physically and emotionally, with just an outlet to do so and some support and encouragement. When I watch them teach the kids at the orphanage their ABC's, how to bathe with soap, clean their trash and to speak english and take pride in themselves. When I listen to them discuss the situations these kids are in with fire in every word, I know it has made a lasting impact. They care about it, and it has nothing to do with their cell phones, video games or who's dating who or what's on TV. I know that there is nothing in this world that they CAN'T do...except maybe drive and shave. : ) They transform right before your eyes when put in a situation bigger than themselves, with no safety net in sight. I can say that the next group who arrives on Wednesday will have some pretty big shoes to fill. Today we are heading to Siem Reap to visit the Angkor Wat temples, a very important part of Cambodian history. The students have more than earned this reward and they have no idea how much I will miss them when I drop them off at the airport on Tuesday. I learn from them every day and we have had some very difficult moments and also some hilarious moments, that won't soon be forgotten. They have made a lasting impact in my life as well. Jack (gangster), AJ, Haley, Keavy, Schariar, Creek (Boss), Nicole, Gena, Jen and Jamie THANK YOU for your hard work, through heat rash and happiness, and thank you for your love.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Cambodia is a heart breaker. It has always pretty much terrified me to ask about the stories of the children at the orphanage. One is more tear inducing than the next, and the only silver lining comes in knowing they are no longer prisoners in unimaginable situations. The stories are all different but the hurt behind those big beautiful eyes remains the same. We have been working at the CPO orphanage for the last two weeks. This orphanage is just outside the city of Phnom Penh about an hour from where our guest house is. Some of the children come from the trash dumps/slums which are only a two minute walk from the orphanage. We are able to see where their families live, amongst garbage, in a one room shack with old clothing and scrap metal used for walls. This is typically shared with their mother and an average of nine other siblings. A lot of the Mother's are HIV positive and simply cannot feed, clothe and take care of their children. It is hell on earth, and reminds you of a scene from a movie where the world is ending. Today when we walked the garbage out on a massive cart, I saw four boys about four and five years old standing barefoot in and around a huge dumpster. Yes, a dumpster in the middle of a trash dump, it smells exactly how you think it would. They immediately jumped down and were eating our garbage and picking through the plastic to sell and recycle. That is an image that stays with you.
I decided to further torture myself and ask about the stories of two girls at the orphanage that captured my attention from the first day. They are very different girls, but as hard as they try they both have those eyes that don't go along with their smiles. The orphanage does not have enough money to sustain itself every month by donations alone. They are able to make some of the money they need each month by putting on performances that involve traditional Khmer music and dance. They perform at Weddings and Birthdays and are able to pay for their electricity bill and food with the extra money. They are incredibly talented. I watched in awe as they showed us their performance on the first day and had tears in my eyes while my attention was glued to one little girl. She was so poised, graceful, and with so much emotion behind her subdued smile. Her name is Srey Neath and she is 9 year's old. I talked to her today with the help of our translator, because I had to know. We sat outside in the tuk-tuk as she told me about the last time she saw her mother, almost one year ago. Her mother lives 40 minutes away and works at a garment factory. I don't know what would be worse, losing your parents completely or knowing one is that close and never comes to see you. As the story unfolds the mystery surrounding her begins to unravel. Her mother was a violent alcoholic who drove her father away. Srey Neath would get beaten when her mother came home from work and the rice wasn't cooked correctly, at the time, she was six years old. Her Mother would also cut herself in front of Srey Neath when she was drunk and couldn't handle her own pain anymore. Srey Neath would have to walk to the pharmacy to get a nurse and always feared her mother would bleed to death. This was her daily life up until two years ago when she came to the orphanage. Her mother told Srey Neath that she doesn't want her back until she is old enough to work and contribute to the household expenses. When I see her sitting next to me and hear her say that she used to miss her mom but does not anymore, I want to drive to the garment factory and, well.....
As the student volunteers were inside the orphanage cleaning every crevice from the kid's butt's to the kitchen, I sat down with the another girl, Raksmey. She holds on a little tighter than the rest, with a smile that could stop traffic. Something didn't seem right with her and so I finally got my chance and we began to talk. Children are raised in Cambodia to not cry, emotion is rarely shown and parents never tell their children they love them. As I watched the tears roll down her face and felt my own fall just as hard, that was all out the window. She is 13 years old, is in the 3rd grade and has only been at the orphanage since January. My translator tells me that Raksmey will probably drop out of school soon because when they are so far behind in the class with much younger students, they get picked on to the point where they quit school. She has made it through worse, which gives me a little hope that she will stick with it. She shares her story of watching her mother being abused every day, in front of her, by her own father and how he would then often come after her. Her mother would do her best to protect her by throwing herself on top of her, but it didn't always work. She was always just trying to survive every day by trying to become invisible to her father. Her parents finally divorced when she was 9 and she sobs harder when she says she can't even remember her father's face. Her mother took a job in Malaysia in January and had to leave Raksmey behind because they had no money. She left no phone number or way to be contacted, this is what hurts her the most. She misses her mother and knows that the likelihood of her ever coming back for her is slim. We held on to each other until the moment I got into the tuk-tuk to leave, I didn't want to leave her. When I think about what I was dealing with at 13 year's old and the problems I thought I had way back then.....
These are just two of the 40 kids that live at this orphanage, but all I could handle for one day. No matter how hard these stories are to hear and then write about, I feel they are important to tell. The circumstances we were born into are never our choice but how these children are still able to trust, love and even simply just smile, inspires me every moment that I am here.
I decided to further torture myself and ask about the stories of two girls at the orphanage that captured my attention from the first day. They are very different girls, but as hard as they try they both have those eyes that don't go along with their smiles. The orphanage does not have enough money to sustain itself every month by donations alone. They are able to make some of the money they need each month by putting on performances that involve traditional Khmer music and dance. They perform at Weddings and Birthdays and are able to pay for their electricity bill and food with the extra money. They are incredibly talented. I watched in awe as they showed us their performance on the first day and had tears in my eyes while my attention was glued to one little girl. She was so poised, graceful, and with so much emotion behind her subdued smile. Her name is Srey Neath and she is 9 year's old. I talked to her today with the help of our translator, because I had to know. We sat outside in the tuk-tuk as she told me about the last time she saw her mother, almost one year ago. Her mother lives 40 minutes away and works at a garment factory. I don't know what would be worse, losing your parents completely or knowing one is that close and never comes to see you. As the story unfolds the mystery surrounding her begins to unravel. Her mother was a violent alcoholic who drove her father away. Srey Neath would get beaten when her mother came home from work and the rice wasn't cooked correctly, at the time, she was six years old. Her Mother would also cut herself in front of Srey Neath when she was drunk and couldn't handle her own pain anymore. Srey Neath would have to walk to the pharmacy to get a nurse and always feared her mother would bleed to death. This was her daily life up until two years ago when she came to the orphanage. Her mother told Srey Neath that she doesn't want her back until she is old enough to work and contribute to the household expenses. When I see her sitting next to me and hear her say that she used to miss her mom but does not anymore, I want to drive to the garment factory and, well.....
As the student volunteers were inside the orphanage cleaning every crevice from the kid's butt's to the kitchen, I sat down with the another girl, Raksmey. She holds on a little tighter than the rest, with a smile that could stop traffic. Something didn't seem right with her and so I finally got my chance and we began to talk. Children are raised in Cambodia to not cry, emotion is rarely shown and parents never tell their children they love them. As I watched the tears roll down her face and felt my own fall just as hard, that was all out the window. She is 13 years old, is in the 3rd grade and has only been at the orphanage since January. My translator tells me that Raksmey will probably drop out of school soon because when they are so far behind in the class with much younger students, they get picked on to the point where they quit school. She has made it through worse, which gives me a little hope that she will stick with it. She shares her story of watching her mother being abused every day, in front of her, by her own father and how he would then often come after her. Her mother would do her best to protect her by throwing herself on top of her, but it didn't always work. She was always just trying to survive every day by trying to become invisible to her father. Her parents finally divorced when she was 9 and she sobs harder when she says she can't even remember her father's face. Her mother took a job in Malaysia in January and had to leave Raksmey behind because they had no money. She left no phone number or way to be contacted, this is what hurts her the most. She misses her mother and knows that the likelihood of her ever coming back for her is slim. We held on to each other until the moment I got into the tuk-tuk to leave, I didn't want to leave her. When I think about what I was dealing with at 13 year's old and the problems I thought I had way back then.....
These are just two of the 40 kids that live at this orphanage, but all I could handle for one day. No matter how hard these stories are to hear and then write about, I feel they are important to tell. The circumstances we were born into are never our choice but how these children are still able to trust, love and even simply just smile, inspires me every moment that I am here.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Three years ago I had this crazy idea to bring teenagers halfway across the world to work hands-on to help children in need in Cambodia. With the help of a small army of volunteers and the confidence in this program from a phenomenal educator, Jen Gutmann, we are currently knee deep in our second year of service trips. Through all the challenges, logistics, meetings, fundraising and sleepless nights, I must say it has been just as sweet the second time around. There are a million moments worth writing about, the problem for all of us when blogging is narrowing it down to just a few. For me, there is one moment that I keep coming back to. After we left the orphanage at the end of the first day, and we were piled in in the tuk- tuk, six people deep, the energy level was incredibly intense. It is genuine, unfiltered, and like listening to the sound of pure happiness. The students struggle to express in words the day they just had with kids that they are already, madly in love with. It is in that moment that all the time and effort it takes to get us here, doesn't matter. I would work ten times harder, just to be able to experience that moment over and over again.
As the feelings start to grow, the students start to grow, and this is a beautiful thing. We have ridiculously high expectations for them and they have risen to the challenge. I am proud to say that the first team in Cambodia this year has accomplished so much in our first week at the orphanage and all over the city. It began with cleaning a yard full of trash at the orphanage accumulated over years and years and covered in maggots. This was closely followed up by scrubbing two toilets (holes in the ground) that are shared daily by 60 people (including us). The highlight came when delousing the heads of children who have grown up living in garbage and had never had the lice removed from their heads. We had a shampoo station, washing station and combing out station...it wasn't enough. With each swipe of the comb there would be at least 6 lice bugs and approximately 20 eggs. Needless to say, the students have worked hard, and done a lot of nose plugging and gagging in the process. We were able to get the roof to the orphanage extended to cover the stage-like area where all 33 of them sleep every night. They had grown accustomed to getting soaked every time their was a heavy rain, or having to sleep on top of each other, huddled in the corner. We have also started the tedious process of getting running water at the orphanage for the very first time. The first step was meeting with the Village Chief (No, I am not joking and yes I was disappointed he wasn't wearing some sort of feathered head wear.) The next step was getting the paperwork gathered and notarized which happened today, and tomorrow we will submit the paperwork to the office in Phnom Penh. They have always used a plastic milk jug type device, tied to a rope, and thrown in a deep well to gather the water. In the bottom of the well you can see all the other jugs that have come loose and fallen to their demise. They pull up one jug at a time, for every dish and piece of clothing to be washed, every tooth that is brushed and every "shower" for 43 people at the orphanage, every day. I don't know if you can even fathom what this would be like. For drinking water they boil the rain water. If it doesn't rain, there is no water. If they don't get volunteers they sometimes don't have enough rice. They are constantly offering their water to us and we are running out of excuses not to drink it, as we are drenched in sweat and politely saying no with dirt in our teeth. You get so thirsty sometimes that you start to weigh the pros and cons of actually drinking that water...something one of the students found out the hard way!
We began organizing their tiny little dressers, where they each get about one drawer to store all of their possessions. This typically consists of some dirty clothes, trash, and their metal food tray that has been washed sporadically from meal to meal. We did also find a random bag of rice and a live goldfish. We later found out that the bag of rice is used by the school to get the kids to attend every day. If they make it Monday through Friday then they get a small bag of rice to take home. Yes, this actually works. We are still investigating the goldfish.
After accessing their clothing situation we distributed all of the donated clothing and shoes that we brought from the states to the children. Another thrilling moment, to watch a child put on their first pair of shoes that aren't flip-flops and to be old enough to be absolutely unable to hold in their gratitude, excitement or.... gas. One boy actually farted he was so happy! A moment I will not soon forget or stop immaturely giggling about.
Throughout the week we have been able to visit four additional orphanages and two different communities in the "slums." We distributed clothing and medical supplies, played seemingly endless soccer games, created origamy tadpoles and works of art with crayons, and of course, we smothered all the children with our love. We also spent time bringing Cambodian history to life by visiting the S-21 genocide museum and the Killing Fields, in an effort to bring it all together and help create the "big picture" for the students. For a country with such a violent history it's still hard to believe the happiness you find in everyone we meet here. Behind those smiles are families that were ripped apart and have spent the last 30 years trying to rebuild, even with all of the odds stacked against them. I still learn something valuable every day I spend in this country about survival and the power of the human spirit. Tomorrow is another day and another opportunity to give everything we have to make life better for someone who needs it. Thank you for your continued support!
Lots of love,
LM
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Marbely
I initially started this blog six days ago but couldn't find the words, through my sheer anguish, to finish it. In my years of working with children in developing countries I always knew that losing a child was a possibility, and I thought I would be prepared for it. I can wholeheartedly confirm that this is something that I could have never been prepared for. I have experienced pain and frustration on so many levels when overcoming the obstacles that exist within this type of work. I didn't know I could possibly hurt like this. When working with kids, it is said that the reward far outweighs the risk.... right now, my heart disagrees, upon losing a child I love. When I received the news, time actually stood still, I froze...it felt like my soul had completely fled my body, hallowed, and I could feel nothing until I had reached her front doorstep, 20 minutes later, and was walking into her funeral. This is what I wrote on a day I will never, ever forget:
"Have I done everything I can today?" This is the question that speaks loudest in my head, above all of the others, at the end of the day. It is also the question that steals my sleep at night and keeps me motivated in conditions that can sometimes be less than motivating. You see, for these kids, today really is all they have. They live every day, just to survive until the next one.
I am haunted by this question, at this moment, more than ever before. I have just returned home from the funeral of Marbely, a 9-year-old girl and student at Escuela Especial. Someone I loved very much. Today, I stood in her home and stared at her face one last time, through a tiny window in her casket. Had I done all I could? As I stood over her I just kept repeating the words, "I'm sorry" to her in my head, over and over. I watched as her best friend Maura put her arms around her casket and said to me, "Marbely is sleeping and I will wait right here until she gets up." She didn't understand and had to be pulled away by one of the teachers, my pain grew to its breaking point. Asking myself if I had done all I could do...In that moment, I knew I had failed.
I struggle with what to write, how to have this make sense. If I would have come a day earlier would she still be here? She was sick last week but I never asked for how long or if anyone had checked on her...something I would normally had done. When the pieces started to come together, it only got worse. I had a doctor come to the school to treat Marbely last October. He prescribed medication for her failing heart and a week later I arranged for her to be given a sonogram on her heart with a portable machine used for pregnant women. This precious piece of equipment was the only thing in within hundreds of miles that would have worked and was hard to gain access to, but I pushed. I was told she would be alright with medication, so I supplied her with it. Fast forward to last week, she had missed 20 days of school and her medication had run out. With everything else going on at the school, I wasn't told until it was too late, but I also didn't remember to ask. The day before the funeral, the principal had stopped by Marbely's home to check on her. She was very weak and the principal urged Marbely's guardian, her 85 year old grandfather, to take her to a doctor. Neither the grandfather nor the principal could afford to take her there....she died four hours later from a heart attack. The visit would have cost $5.
I can choose to dwell over all the raw sadness and pure frustration I feel over this or I can choose to think forward to how to prevent this from ever happening again. The only thing that makes me feel better right now is focusing on being able to make progress towards a solution. My solution is to set up a small fund for the principal, Juana, to use toward doctor visits and medication when I am not in the country. I am also setting up a message board in her office to keep track each day of who is sick, for how many days and if they have received medical attention. Juana will be held accountable for receipts, weekly updates and communication with parents and teachers. She is more than up to the challenge, this is the 10th funeral she has attended for one of her students, the school needs help. She is more of a parent to these children than their actual parents are and having to plan funerals for her students has taken its toll.
This fund will be called the Marbely Memorial Fund. I will also use a small portion to help with funeral expenses after learning that Marbely's grandfather buried her in the coffin he had saved for his whole life, that he was supposed to be buried in. If you would like to help you can do so through the donate button on this blog, please specify that your donation is for Marbely. I am so grateful for your support and so is this school.
I am leaving to meet our fist group of student volunteers in Cambodia, in less than a week. Getting this fund going before I leave is my top priority. I will return to Nicaragua on July 12th but I don't want to have the fear that this could happen again while I am gone. I appreciate any and all help that will put this plan into action. I also appreciate you caring enough about these children and my mission to help improve their health and happiness. I will never forget Marbely, or the way she made me work to get her to smile. I had to earn her trust and love because of a long line of adults who had failed her. I hope, in this instance, that she didn't see me as one of them. She experienced more devastation in her short life than is even fathomable to most people. Her face has taken a permanent place in my thoughts and will always serve as motivation to stay strong on my path to help children. Someone once wisely said, "You have three choices in life... give in, give up or give it everything you've got." Rest in peace, sweet girl.
"Have I done everything I can today?" This is the question that speaks loudest in my head, above all of the others, at the end of the day. It is also the question that steals my sleep at night and keeps me motivated in conditions that can sometimes be less than motivating. You see, for these kids, today really is all they have. They live every day, just to survive until the next one.
I am haunted by this question, at this moment, more than ever before. I have just returned home from the funeral of Marbely, a 9-year-old girl and student at Escuela Especial. Someone I loved very much. Today, I stood in her home and stared at her face one last time, through a tiny window in her casket. Had I done all I could? As I stood over her I just kept repeating the words, "I'm sorry" to her in my head, over and over. I watched as her best friend Maura put her arms around her casket and said to me, "Marbely is sleeping and I will wait right here until she gets up." She didn't understand and had to be pulled away by one of the teachers, my pain grew to its breaking point. Asking myself if I had done all I could do...In that moment, I knew I had failed.
I struggle with what to write, how to have this make sense. If I would have come a day earlier would she still be here? She was sick last week but I never asked for how long or if anyone had checked on her...something I would normally had done. When the pieces started to come together, it only got worse. I had a doctor come to the school to treat Marbely last October. He prescribed medication for her failing heart and a week later I arranged for her to be given a sonogram on her heart with a portable machine used for pregnant women. This precious piece of equipment was the only thing in within hundreds of miles that would have worked and was hard to gain access to, but I pushed. I was told she would be alright with medication, so I supplied her with it. Fast forward to last week, she had missed 20 days of school and her medication had run out. With everything else going on at the school, I wasn't told until it was too late, but I also didn't remember to ask. The day before the funeral, the principal had stopped by Marbely's home to check on her. She was very weak and the principal urged Marbely's guardian, her 85 year old grandfather, to take her to a doctor. Neither the grandfather nor the principal could afford to take her there....she died four hours later from a heart attack. The visit would have cost $5.
I can choose to dwell over all the raw sadness and pure frustration I feel over this or I can choose to think forward to how to prevent this from ever happening again. The only thing that makes me feel better right now is focusing on being able to make progress towards a solution. My solution is to set up a small fund for the principal, Juana, to use toward doctor visits and medication when I am not in the country. I am also setting up a message board in her office to keep track each day of who is sick, for how many days and if they have received medical attention. Juana will be held accountable for receipts, weekly updates and communication with parents and teachers. She is more than up to the challenge, this is the 10th funeral she has attended for one of her students, the school needs help. She is more of a parent to these children than their actual parents are and having to plan funerals for her students has taken its toll.
This fund will be called the Marbely Memorial Fund. I will also use a small portion to help with funeral expenses after learning that Marbely's grandfather buried her in the coffin he had saved for his whole life, that he was supposed to be buried in. If you would like to help you can do so through the donate button on this blog, please specify that your donation is for Marbely. I am so grateful for your support and so is this school.
I am leaving to meet our fist group of student volunteers in Cambodia, in less than a week. Getting this fund going before I leave is my top priority. I will return to Nicaragua on July 12th but I don't want to have the fear that this could happen again while I am gone. I appreciate any and all help that will put this plan into action. I also appreciate you caring enough about these children and my mission to help improve their health and happiness. I will never forget Marbely, or the way she made me work to get her to smile. I had to earn her trust and love because of a long line of adults who had failed her. I hope, in this instance, that she didn't see me as one of them. She experienced more devastation in her short life than is even fathomable to most people. Her face has taken a permanent place in my thoughts and will always serve as motivation to stay strong on my path to help children. Someone once wisely said, "You have three choices in life... give in, give up or give it everything you've got." Rest in peace, sweet girl.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Saving Sulema
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| Sulema's 2 year old nephew in their home |
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| Sulema and I at Escuela Especial |
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| Sulema's bed |
As we parked across the street, a 2 year old boy peeked out from the doorway of a broken down home. He watched carefully as we crossed the street and headed in his direction. As we approached the home he disappeared and another face emerged. This was the face of 14 year old Diana, Sulema's older sister. What I learned about this family within the next hour seemed like it could have been a combination of a hundred different hardship stories from a hundred different families, but in this case there was only one family involved. Asking the children "Where is your mother?" turned into a loaded question. She wasn't there, and apparently, she is never there. She returns home twice a month from selling bananas in Managua, about two hours away. Sulema's situation suddenly became clear, she was being raised by her 14 year old sister who cooks for her, dresses her and shares a cot with her. Also sharing the home is their Mother's boyfriend who once broke her nose and ribs after she interrupted his card game and asked him to bring home a bag of rice. When we asked if the other children were being abused we were told that when they try and tell their mother, she doesn't believe them. Another girl comes into the house, it is Rosa, Sulema's 19 year old sister who is the mother to the 2 year old boy we first spotted outside. She lives a few doors down and doesn't seem to know too much about how bad things have gotten with Sulema. The woman who accompanied me from the Ministry of Families (the equivalent of social services in the U.S) questioned her about the filth they were all living in. I then begged to see where Sulema sleeps and reluctantly was granted access to the inside of the house. It reeked of urine and rancid garbage. Diana tells me that Sulema will wake up and just pee on the floor next to the cot they share. The walls consist of garbage bags hanging from the ceiling to divide the room from the rest of the house. The sheet is completely soiled and I can only imagine the infestation of lice on the small pillow the two girls share at night . The girls can't explain the bruises on Sulema and are too terrified to call out their Mother's boyfriend in fear of their own lives. There is not one toy, book or any other indication that any children live in this home. The woman from the Ministry of families cannot remove Sulema from the home because there is no place to take her...because she has special needs. Her sister tells us that Sulema's mother had given her medication that was the Nicaraguan equivalent of xanex. The woman from the Ministry of Families tells me this is very common because mother's don't know how to deal with a child who is disabled so they just want them to sleep. I cringe at the fact that no matter how bad the situation gets, she is a prisoner in that house. All the Ministry of Families can do is try and educate the kids, taking care of kids, on how to care for Sulema and themselves. She also threatens to take away Rosa's son, the filthy 2 year old running around, only because it's all she can do to scare them into taking care of Sulema.
After a stop at the Health department to report the home and bring more attention to Sulema's situation we get some good news. A team of traveling doctors from Cuba is coming next week and we are able to get Sulema on their list for free healthcare. They will be able to properly diagnose her and then treat her. It is suspected she was shaken as a baby resulting in brain damage. In the mean time we purchased some new sheets and lice shampoo and sent them home with Sulema from school. With her situation and the limitations for children with special needs in this country it kills me to think that we did all we could do and she still has to go home to that place tonight.
I hit a few more roadblocks as I learn about how many children in this school could have been helped if only their families had money to go to the doctor when they were young. I met with two different boys who both had high fevers when they were babies which resulted in seizures that caused permanent brain damage. If the family had money to take the sick baby to the doctor, the fever would have been broken with medication then the seizures would have never gone that far. I have a really hard time with it being "too late." Even sitting here typing this I can't imagine how those parents feel every day of their lives knowing that $5 worth of medication could have spared their child from a lifetime of being disabled.
It was difficult to return to the school and look Sulema in the eyes without losing it. After standing in her home, knowing she has been abandoned by her mother and hearing that she goes to bed scared every night, it's all almost too much... and then I see her little face. She came over to me, intertwined both her hands and all her fingers with mine, stared straight into my soul....and started to dance and smile. She doesn't speak but at that moment, she didn't have to.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Quick update!
Sorry to leave you with a cliffhanger, but we lost power last night so no time to update you on Sulema and the state of her home life. Today is our last day at the school and I will update you on it all as soon as we get home. Thank you for your amazing support, it is very much appreciated!!
Lots of love,
LM
Lots of love,
LM
Thursday, October 20, 2011
The name of the school is Escuela Especial or "Special School." It is overflowing with children who are in fact SO special that they can put your entire existence in perspective with a smile. When helping Ramon today, a 14 year old boy with down syndrome, I learned what it truly means to give something your all. I watched him use every ounce of his energy to move one bead on an abacus. The concentration he used to determine which bead was blue and which one was red was nothing short of an inspirational triumph. If I faced my challenges with half as much determination as Ramon, I would have actually been able to become an astronaut. I looked across the room as Sarah was working one on one, practicing vowels with another student named Erickson. He was working with the same intention as Ramon. Both students worked diligently and concentrated with smiles on their faces, benefiting greatly from the individual attention they so desperately need. They were somehow able to tune out the screams and distractions from their classmates that they constantly have to compete with for attention and get the job done. Their teacher, Yahoska, doesn't use any pre-printed materials, she draws them all by hand when she goes home at night. The government does not provide her with any books or direction on how to teach children with such specific needs and at all different levels. So, just like with life, there is no instruction manual....she does the best she can.
The classrooms never have their lights on except to get the attention of the children who are deaf. They conserve every unit of energy, scrap of paper, and use cardboard boxes for trash cans. The toilets don't work, they don't have books and share one pencil eraser for the entire class....but the the school has as much heart as the students who attend it. These kids have a safe place where they are free to be themselves among people who care deeply for them and no lack of traditional supplies or classrooms will ever change that.
This morning I will be visiting the home of Sulema, the girl I wrote about on our first day who is one of 15 children. Her mother will be investigated by the ministry of families for child abuse. When I held her in my lap yesterday I could not believe how small and frail she was. She is seriously malnourished and completely filthy. She was wearing a school uniform shirt with only one button in tact and the shirt looked like it had been run over. When I parted her hair to look for signs of lice I saw the worst infestation I have ever seen.....with my lice experience, that is a big statement. Bugs were crawling all over her head, it was shocking. The teachers don't know what else to do and definitely struggle over how to repair her home life. To a majority of the students the school is more like a home than the actual one they are living in. I hope to get some answers today and make some progress in improving this little girl's life. Although it seems a little crazy to make this my business in a country that I don't live in, I am willing to be in an uncomfortable situation if it helps to spare this girl. Because Sulema can't talk, I kind of feel like I was brought here to be her voice. Her situation has consumed my heart.
The reality of the situation we are working in can be tough if you allow it to be. If you dwell on what you perceive the children are missing it can rapidly ruin your day. These children make you laugh until it hurts but can also bring you to tears with how very capable yet entirely misunderstood they are. What has overshadowed the depressing thoughts about their situations is simply the spirit of these children. I am inspired by their abilities, their hearts and their willingness to always, as long as it takes, keep trying.
Wish me luck!
LM
The classrooms never have their lights on except to get the attention of the children who are deaf. They conserve every unit of energy, scrap of paper, and use cardboard boxes for trash cans. The toilets don't work, they don't have books and share one pencil eraser for the entire class....but the the school has as much heart as the students who attend it. These kids have a safe place where they are free to be themselves among people who care deeply for them and no lack of traditional supplies or classrooms will ever change that.
This morning I will be visiting the home of Sulema, the girl I wrote about on our first day who is one of 15 children. Her mother will be investigated by the ministry of families for child abuse. When I held her in my lap yesterday I could not believe how small and frail she was. She is seriously malnourished and completely filthy. She was wearing a school uniform shirt with only one button in tact and the shirt looked like it had been run over. When I parted her hair to look for signs of lice I saw the worst infestation I have ever seen.....with my lice experience, that is a big statement. Bugs were crawling all over her head, it was shocking. The teachers don't know what else to do and definitely struggle over how to repair her home life. To a majority of the students the school is more like a home than the actual one they are living in. I hope to get some answers today and make some progress in improving this little girl's life. Although it seems a little crazy to make this my business in a country that I don't live in, I am willing to be in an uncomfortable situation if it helps to spare this girl. Because Sulema can't talk, I kind of feel like I was brought here to be her voice. Her situation has consumed my heart.
The reality of the situation we are working in can be tough if you allow it to be. If you dwell on what you perceive the children are missing it can rapidly ruin your day. These children make you laugh until it hurts but can also bring you to tears with how very capable yet entirely misunderstood they are. What has overshadowed the depressing thoughts about their situations is simply the spirit of these children. I am inspired by their abilities, their hearts and their willingness to always, as long as it takes, keep trying.
Wish me luck!
LM
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