After touring the two other agencies in the Industrial Home for Children complex last week, I formally began my practicum at my official site, the Shelter for Abused Children. The Shelter is the agency at which I will stay for the remainder of my time in Ghana. I have been there for a couple of weeks now, but because of the intensity of the work and the number of stories I’ve felt compelled to record, I fell into the bad habit of only writing notes at the end of each day- without taking the time to sort out the stories in a coherent and chronological way. I am now playing catching up!
We’ll start with my first day at the Shelter, which began with an introduction to the agency from the social worker, Bella. "You ah wel-caaahm!" she proclaimed, as did a swarm of children when we first entered the grounds.
Bella explained to us that the Shelter serves as a temporary residence for children in varied circumstances, including abused children who are awaiting court appointed placements, children who have been victims of trafficking, and children who have been victimized through child marriages. Missing children, many of who also fit into the previously mentioned categories, are also placed at the Shelter until their families are located. Ideally, no child is supposed to stay at the Shelter for more than three months. After that time, if a child’s case has not been resolved, the child is supposed to be moved to a residential home for children.
The children at the Shelter do not attend school. I was told, because of the temporary nature of the shelter, that the children aren’t missing much education and that additionally, it would be too arduous for the agency to find an appropriate school in which to enroll each child- most of the children are not on the grade level that corresponds to their age.
Instead of school, the children have two child-care providers (Aunty Diana and Aunty Coral) who hold an informal schoolhouse during the mornings. There doesn’t seem to be an official start and stop time to the lessons, which sometimes take place and sometimes do not. The unofficial lessons consist of ABCs, 123s, basic addition and subtraction, and memorizing and rehearsing worship songs about Jesus.
Faaahdah, leeed me
Dey by dey!
Ehhhhhva, een thine own sweet whey!
Teach me too
bee p-yowah and troo,
Shooooow me what
eye ought to dooo!
Many of the children, especially the ones who are totally illiterate, don’t participate in the academics. But singing and dancing proved to be the favored lesson on my first day for all the children, and every single day since. To put it simply, the kids come alive when they make music. Unlike children in the U.S., none of the kids were remotely embarrassed to sing and dance; in fact they do so constantly, energetically, and with complete abandon. They loved performing for us students, and they clearly love Auntie Diana, their caregiver, who is a veritable encyclopedia of children’s songs and games.
Auntie Diana is the type of childcare provider American mothers and fathers dream about for their kids. She is interactive with the kids, and literally seems to have eyes in the back of her head. She doesn’t “sit with no shit, no foh no chiljren and no foh no time”, she told me firmly. “Nuh-uh. Oooh! Dey ah naughty chiljren!”
But I can see, the kids know from her warmth and attention that she cares for them, and they love her. Aunty Diana is able to create different games for the children out of rocks, sticks, and the dirt in the courtyard (because, let's face it, they don’t have much else). Together with Auntie Diana, the children have drawing contests, throwing contests, running contests, acting contests. They sing, and sing, and sing.
And they pray.
The prayer here is also boisterous. The Christian children cover their eyes and flail their limbs, crying out to the Lord with fervency. The Muslim children drop to their knees multiple times throughout the day. They bow over and over the ground, speaking quickly, feverishly, continuously, under their breathes- their cheeks puffing quickly, to keep up with their soundless requests.
It was easy to momentarily forget why these children were here. Every opportunity to laugh was taken, joyously, by everyone. It was easy to get caught up in their wild frolicking, their silly dancing, and to catch yourself laughing along… and then, suddenly, to remember.
If they weren’t so thin, if they weren’t dressed in rags and covered in sores and scars, a stranger probably wouldn’t even begin to guess at how painful their short lives have been so far. The fact is that each one of them has very recently experienced extreme trauma or neglect at the hands of the people who were supposed to love and care for them. Each child has prayers that they need to be fulfilled. “Pleese Lord,” they pray, screaming to the sky, whispering to the earth. “Pleese.”
They are taught that if you pray hard enough, your prayers will be answered.
So when these children pray, they pray with everything they have- with energy. With love. With desperation. Yet somehow, still, with hope. With the perfect faith that, fittingly, only a child can possess.
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