The boys are at terrible risk when on the run. They try to strike a delicate balance between not being found and not being too alone and thus subject to the whims of sexual predators, or slavers. Their vulnerable lives become even more outrageously exposed to the chance of meeting evil or the goodness of strangers when they are living on the streets at night. During the days the worst the talibes need to deal with on the streets is usually injury, hunger, exhaustion, bullying. Predators do not need to hunt during the day, as there is always ample supply at night. Imagine how bad it must be to know what awaits, and to run anyway.
Each time we have joined Issa or another team for a Ronde de Nuit, we begin with a barely surpressed excitement co-mingled with anxiety. And, fear. Not our own, but the shadow of a sense of what the boys we are searching for must be feeling. Excitement that we will find them and help them. Anxiety that we might find them - we always hope there will be none on the streets tonight. But, sadly, there are always many.
The very first time my Dad, Rowan and I went out on a Ronde de Nuit what we saw branded us forever. We had been intending to go out the night before, but we were waiting on a news crew that wanted to follow Issa with cameras. So we put it off. The second night the news crew wanted us to postpone again but we decided to go. We found four boys, huddled together in the cold. Tucked into their t-shirts. Under a light, just-in-case. One little one was more difficult to approach, nore reluctant to trust us. Rowan eventually won a tiny smile as she gently zipped her Lu-Lu Lemon jacket around him. He had apparently been sexually assaulted the night before while on the street. THE NIGHT BEFORE! This knowledge is now part of me, will always be.
Last Tuesday night Dad was sick during the night and could not join us. Idy and Badji, leaders of the Maison de la Gare Ronde de Nuit team, met Rowan and I at midnight at the Centre. We took taxis out to the Gare Routiere at the edge of town. This is a large area full of hundreds of busses, trucks, cars, all ready to take off to different parts of Senegal, The Gambia, and beyond first thing in the morning. The runaways often hide out here with the idea that they could steal away on a ride home. How often do kids inadvertantly end up in another, unknown country? I cannot bear to imagine. And, sometimes, as the kids sleep under vehicles to stay out of reach of potential predators, they are run over as the wheels start to move earlier than expected, before the sun rises.
We found five boys. After meeting three more members of the team, splitting into two groups, Rowan in one with Idy, and I in the other with Badji, we prowled through the narrow alleys, shone our flashlights under cars, into parked busses, behind crevices. My light soon shone upon a grown man, huddled under a blanket, hidden behind a half-wall. As my light moved along, it soon shone upon a tiny bundle, opposite to the grown man. Ibrahima. Badji estimated his age at ten. How could this little waife have been older than six? Badji gently woke him and spoke with him in Wolof. The boy was convinced to follow. But I stayed a step behind, with a hand hovering and ready to leap just in case he chose to run. We soon found three more boys,
piled together under canvas rags. They were also sleeping opposite a grown homeless man. But, there can be safety in numbers. As they were gently woken from sleep, reality began to hit me hard, as it does every time I do this. Nothing to do but just DO. After all, what is what I feel compared to what they lived? We soon met up with Rowan's group and paused to note the names and daaras of the boys, and to learn something of their stories. The night
here is cold at this time of year. Little Ibrahima was shivering, perhaps from the cold, perhaps from fear. Rowan removed her Favourite Ten Tree sweater (deja-vu) and put it on Ibrahima. As he huddled into the new-found warmth, Rowan peeled a few oranges and handed them out. Then, we hopped into taxis to return to the dortoir d'urgence at Maison de la Gare. As we were leaving the Gare Routiere another little talibe came up to the car. He had been watching. We must have looked like help and not hurt. He hopped in. Then he fell right asleep.
When we arrived back at the centre the boys were registered with the social worker who is always on duty. Rowan and I helped find the bedding and set them up in the first beds they had likely ever known, the bunkbeds we first sketched out on paper for the carpenter three years ago when the dortoir was built.
Rowan and I returned in the morning and settled in with the little runaways. They seemed to trust us, and were soon out of their shells, playing chase and tickle games, reading and dancing to music. One by one, the social worker sat with them to try to figure out where they were from, which daara, which village, country? Had they been abused? Did they want to go home? Did they have a home to return to?
Only one boy, Amadou, would be returned to his distant home. This is planned for later next week, after his Marabout can be located and has been called to account. The others will be returned to their daaras later today. A difficult thing. But, the Palais de Justice has spoken, and the boys did not choose home - maybe none exists any longer for them? But, Maison de la Gare now knows them, and they now know Maison de la Gare. Maison de la Gare will watch their daaras. Their marabouts know they will be watching. This helps.
I saved writing about our Ronde de Nuit until we were safely on our way home, flying back toward my usual reality. Each one of us seems to know just what we can take. These talibe boys seem to be able to take more than most of us. But, for the love of God, why must they?
What a great account of what is happening with these children and their need for protection and love. Life can be so unfair.
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