They don’t call it trafficking…
8 year old B was picked up on the side of the road the
week we opened the doors at Chayah. She
is a tall, slender girl whose first photo showed a tangle of fear and
anger.
We trusted the story we heard,
trusted the discernment of our house mom in determining her need.
Three years later we understand much more of what God was
doing and why.
B had been given away to a family member, an uncle, when
she was old enough to be productive in the rice paddies. She and other children spent their days in
the mud and muck, where the rice grows side by side with bacteria, viruses,
fungi and parasites. Malaria, tetanus, hookworm, etc… thrive in the
water-logged crop.
She recalls being most afraid of the birds though. In defense, the young crew sang loudly; a
tiny human scare -chorus, hands too busy to wave or swat away the feathered enemy.
Day in and day out…no schooling, poor
nutrition, little nurturing…she was free labor…they don’t call it trafficking.
In 2012, she became one of ours and we have watched her
grow physically, begin to trust, find friends and learn about Jesus, but like
most of the children we care for, there has been a missing piece. Our Uganda staff has been searching for B’s
mother, not even sure she could be found, to ask questions, offer visitation,
examine possibilities and offer a chance for mother and daughter to forge some
sort of relationship.
This particular mother was located 6 hours away and calls
were made to a connection in her mother’s village letting her know that her
daughter was coming to see her. On the
chosen day, B and a Chayah sister travelled with Chayah’s house mom for the
visit. The long drive delivered a
cautious girl to the home her mother occupied, but would not bring the
anticipated reunion. Neighbors reported
that her mother was afraid the child was being returned and refused to take
that chance.
Returning home, several more phone calls were made to
arrange another meeting. Adding reassurances that the child would not be left, and
clarifying one sole purpose of allowing mother and daughter to see each other
and allow for some familiarity & understanding of B’s original family. She was present when B arrived.
It was absent of the dramatic-romantic all-is-made-right
kind of meeting. It was awkward and quiet
and stiff. After wandering the area,
meeting siblings born after she left the family and reconnecting with a sister
just 2 years younger, B occupied herself with the other children and Janet sat
with her mother asking the hard questions. The “why” questions about giving
away her child and the “if” questions regarding whether she had any interest in
bringing her daughter home for good.
I don’t remember hearing whether there were tears
accompanying the explanation or not.
I don’t remember if there was a reason given for why she gave the child away to be used as a muddy gardener.
I do know that her tone changed to desperate determination
to keep B from ever coming home. Four
girls were fathered by the same man. B
is number 3 and at 11 years old, she is 2 years shy of an accepted tradition
and practice that would marry her off at 13.
Their father is nowhere to be found and makes no attempt to care for the
girls, but he is keenly aware of their ages and on or very near their 13th
birthday he makes his way back to the family’s dung shack accompanied by
several men.
The men are taken inside and seated to wait, men who
qualify not because of a commonality or promising devotion. The adolescent child is told to put on a
dress called a “Gomesi”, the traditional garment signifying womanhood. Her father beckons her inside the home where
she stands for examination by the attendants.
She leaves, negotiations ensue, and she is awarded to the one of her
father’s choosing.
This has been the case for two older sisters and will likely
be the case for the youngest when four short years count off what is left of
her childhood. With pain and
hopelessness, her mother states that there would be no preventing the
matchmaking if B were to return home.
Threats to kill the auctioneer/father are empty and painfully inadequate
to stop the sale of young girls, even in this family. Uncles can step in and profit the same way if
a father is unavailable to do so.
My mind’s eye can picture B’s youngest sister, sitting
close to the excitement a visitor would bring and overhearing the
conversation. My heart prays she is
still too young to understand that her future is in the hands of a man who
should protect her with his life, and his community, his culture, nods to his
choice and his rights.
A trade…money for innocence…a man is as wealthy as his
daughters can make him. There is so much
press, attention being given to human trafficking, sex trafficking and the
immensity of its destruction and depravity.
But deep inside a continent rich in custom is this practice, this
ritual. A terrified child adorned in an
oversized garment…a father lost to his greed…no press, no protest, no task
force…
They don’t call it trafficking…they call it tradition.
Our girl seems good, not unaffected by the choices made
for her past, but secure and hopeful about her future. We pray for her processing of the visit and
the invisible scars and messages that have been written on her heart. We ask God to heal her and make a way for her
younger sister.
He’s trustworthy with that request, a father
to the fatherless and to those whose father has lost his way.
