Thursday, October 23, 2014

They don't call it trafficking...they call it tradition...

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.