This is a girl trying her hardest to appear like a boy to stay safer on the street…this article was originally posted in Al Shorouk Newspaper here

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أهدي هذا التدوينة إلى الدكتور هاني حمام، شاكرة له أن اراني الجانب الأفضل من الحياة، وتقديرًا لمعاملته لإحدى “فتياتي” من بنات الشوارع، بأمانة ورقة

خلال الساعات الثلاث التى تستغرقها المسافة حتى وصولنا، تخبرنى تغريد عن المرات التى كانت تنظر فيها إلى المرآة، وتتذكر كيفية حدوث هذه الندبة. وبدلا من أن تنفق وقتا طويلا فى الحديث عن هذه الكيفية، تحكى لى بحماس كيف تعامل معها الطبيب بلطف. وكان الدكتور هانى كتب على تويتر يبلغنى انه يريد مساعدة الفتيات اللاتى يعانين من ندبات الاغتصاب، وعرض إجراء هذه العمليات مجانا. ولم أكن فى مصر فى ذلك الوقت؛ وعدت لأجد تغريدا أجرت الجراحة وهى ذاهبة اليوم لفك الغرز. وحكت لى عن نظافة العيادة، وأن الدكتور كان يعاملها كما لو كانت «السيدة تغريد» وعندما سألها عن اسمها، أجابت «اسمى الحقيقى أم اسم الشهرة»؟ وعندما سألها عن اسمها الحقيقى مازحته قائلة «أبو لهب» وضحكت.

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وقد لا يبدو الأمر لافتا لك عزيزى القارئ أن يعامل الطبيب تغريدا باللطف والاحترام. فإذا كان كذلك، دعنى أوضح: أثناء الرحلة، كانت تروى تجربة ولادة طفلها على سبيل المقارنة؛ وتحكى أنها بمجرد دخولها إلى العيادة وهى تتألم، سألوها عن زوجها، وعن الندبة التى على وجهها، ومن الذى سيضمنها. ونظرا لأنه لم يكن معها رجل، استخدمها الأطباء من أجل تعليم صغار الأطباء من دون موافقتها؛ وبمجرد أن فحصها الطبيب، امتدت 20 يدا داخلها. وكانت تروى لى هذه القصة وهى تهز رأسها مع ابتسامة خفيفة، وتقول إنها واثقة من أنه إذا كان الدكتور هانى شاهد كيف تعاملوا معها، لكانوا جميعا فى مشكلة! وحكت لى تغريد أثناء رحلتنا قصصا أخرى، وقالت لى إنها لا ترغب فى تناول الطعام حتى تعود لينا. وتحدثت عن المرة التى أخذت أم لينا ابنتها لمدة أسبوعين، ثم أعادتها إلى الملجأ عارية تعانى من الجديرى المائى، وفى رأسها قمل أكثر من كل القمل الذى شاهدته طوال حياتها. ولاشك أنه من المؤثر أن تستمع إلى تغريد وهى تتحدث بتلك الطريقة. ودهشت لأننى كنت مخطئة عندما شاهدتها للمرة الأولى؛ فقد حكمت عليها بأنها قاسية. ومن المؤلم أن ترى حنوها وهى تحتضن طفلها، وتتحدث بهذا القلق والإحساس بالعجز، عن طفل لأم أخرى. وكانت تقفز من موضوع لآخر: من قصص تعرضها للضرب على أيدى أهلها، إلى تقييدها وضربها فى مؤسسات الأحداث، إلى الحرية فى الشوارع، والأصدقاء الذين نامت معهم بجوار السكك الحديدية، إلى الإخصائيين الاجتماعيين الذين أخذوها إلى مطعم كنتاكى. أما القصتان اللتان تعود إليهما دائما، فعن أصدقائها الذين لا تستطيع العثور عليهم، وعن قلقها من اليوم الذى لاتستطيع فيه الإنفاق على تعليم ابنها!

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كانت تغريد تتوقف عن الحديث أثناء مرور السيارة عبر مدينة السادس من أكتوبر، لتشير إلى المبانى وتتساءل، كيف يتسنى أن يكون هناك العديد من المبانى الخالية، بينما ينام العديد من الناس فى الشوارع. وتقول إنها لم تكن تفكر فى أول رحلة لها إلى هنا، إلا فى العيش فى إحدى تلك الغرف مع ابنها. وكانت تفكر فى أنها تود لو تزرع التفاح، مثل التفاحات الست التى سرقتها ذات يوم من أجل أصدقائها، الذين لم يكونوا قد تناولوا الطعام لثلاثة أيام، وعندما حصلوا على بعض المال، عادوا ليدفعوا الثمن إلى بائع الفاكهة (الذى رفض تناول النقود، وأعطاهم ست تفاحات أخرى لقاء أمانتهم). وقبلت طفلها قائلة له إنه سوف يتعلم، ويكسب مائتى أو ثلاثمائة جنيه شهريا، ولن يجوع أبدا.

ونصل إلى مستشفى الجراحة، لتقودنا تغريد. ونصعد الطوابق الثلاث، وهى تحمل طفلها بيد وفى اليد الأخرى هدية للطبيب شمعة مما تنتجه الفتيات فى ورشتهن تم لفها بشكل خاص من أجل هذه المناسبة. وقوبلنا بحفاوة فى المستشفى كما لو كنا أصدقاء قدامى، وقدمت تغريد هديتها بفخر. وأحسست بدهشة فى حضور الرجل الذى التقيناه فى الداخل مع تواضعه الذى لا يمكن وصفه.

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ودخلت إلى حجرة العمليات، معتقدة أننى يمكن أن أقدم لها دعما. ولكن مرة أخرى، أدهشتنى بمرونتها وقوتها. فلم تجفل مرة واحدة، عندما كان يتم إزالة الغرز، على الرغم من الدم الذى كان ينز من الجرح، والدموع التى تجمعت فى ركنى عينيها. حاولت أن أمسك بيدها، لكنها سحبتها لأنها كانت تعد الغرز. كان التغيير مذهلا فى وجهها؛ فقطعة اللحم التى كانت تتدلى سابقا، تذكرها دائما بصدمتها، وضعفها، وقوتها، وتاريخها، لم تعد موجودة. وعلى الرغم من الصدمة النفسية التى تمثل ندوبا أعمق، لا ترى بالعين والمسئولية فى صورة ابنها، لم يعد التذكير اليومى بالنظر فى المرآه قائما. تركنا العيادة بعبء أخف، وتذكير أقل بحياة ملآى بالتحدى، والعنف والمعارك.

وبينما ندلف إلى السيارة، التفتت تغريد، وطلبت منى أن أحضر الكاميرا معى إلى الملجأ غدا، لأنها الآن لم تعد تخجل من التقاط صور لها مع ابنها.

Sometimes Being a Girl is All the Reason You Need to Migrate to the Street.

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This little angel was so many times offered to me to take… I couldn’t because I thought she’d always be better off with her mother. I heard later that her mother tried to sell her for (£500).

So many guesses and statistics and much research, both academic and by well meaning NGO’s have pointed to different reasons for children being on the streets. There have been arguments back and forth whether it is the dire poverty of the children’s families that push them to the street or, whether, as some better placed researchers have found, the violence and family break down that lead them to migrate to a more violent and broken life on the streets.

What many have not suggested or noticed is that for some, all the reason they need to be on the street, is being a girl.

“Break a girl’s rib and she will grow twenty-four”. This is a common saying between the working class of Egypt. It is also a phrase we, those who work and serve street children, hear often when we attempt to mediate between these children and the parents they have escaped. A girl who is sleeping rough, will often have been born into a family where she has seen her own mother be the victim of violence from the male head of the household only to enter this circle as soon attention is directed at them.

Being a girl is a challenge – everywhere. But, it is more so when you are an Egyptian, poor, working class girl who comes from a violent family and lives with a stepparent. This isn’t a sweeping generalisation; it’s the demographic of most of the children I deal with. The girls sleeping under bridges, on street corners, by the railway tracks, those wide-eyed girls you see and often feel unsettled by, or often scare you, are the eyes of terrified, hungry, lonely children. It has become so easy for us to forget that. But they are children; crushed as that experience of childhood may be, they are children.

Street girls have often escaped households that have subjected them to incest or sexual abuse from their fathers, brothers and stepfathers. Of the ten girls currently at the shelter, one fourteen year old girl was sexually abused by her stepfather since she was nine years old, on discovering this, her mother took her to hospital for a virginity check after her husband denied the abuse. He paid the hospital staff to issue a fake report and in Cairo, subjected to another virginity test, a report was issued that she is no longer a virgin and with this report she has been submitted to the “young mothers” shelter. One-year-old Lamia is daughter to thirteen year old Samira who was raped by both her mother and father. Lamia has abandoned Samira at the shelter from fear of the responsibility and no one knows where she has turned to. Perhaps one of the most severe cases the NGO is currently dealing with is of Heidi, an incredibly beautiful fourteen-year old girl whose uncle had chained her for three months in the same position, raping her daily. He only let her go when she promised to join his prostitution ring; which he had his sister, her mother, working for. As soon as he undid the chains, she ran and threw herself out of the window. Passers by took the broken boned girl to the police station that then referred the girl to the shelter.

Sexual violence does not stop at home for the girls. Rape and violence towards girls is part of the street culture. Most of the girls at the shelter bare a curved scar on the side of their face or under their eye. There is a specific culture of rape on the streets of Cairo which none of those working with the children has been able to fully understand. Once a girl is raped for the first time, she is then deeply cut, usually by a pen knife or a piece of glass, in a curved manner, to mark that she is no longer a virgin, subsequent rapes are recorded on her face by smaller cuts across her face. This is the same if a boy has been raped. Administering first aid at the busy Sayeda Zainab day care reception center, the shelter manager records that this type of violence is the most common that they deal with, one that they record more than once a day. One girl seeking refuge at the shelter received sixteen stitches on her back as she tried to run away from her attackers, saving her face.

Perhaps there is nothing more telling of the violence the street girls have suffered than to watch them jump out of bed into the corner of their rooms crouching over their babies when the door is opened by one of the social workers. This and the flinching of the children at any quick or sudden movement is very difficult to deal with, even for the social workers who know the girl’s stories and who have seen this repeated every time. It is the NGO’s aim to help these children sleep with both eyes shut.

Street Children: Rape and Erasing the Scars of Memory.

Today my post is dedicated to Dr Hany Hamam; an amazing human being whose life path took him to the study of medicine and then to cosmetic surgery. I want to dedicate him this post as a thank you for showing me the better side of life and for his generosity, his integrity and the gentleness with which he treated one of “my” street girls as he changed her life.

I arrived at the shelter today at 6pm. This is the latest I have ever been. It was darker than usual. It hadn’t occurred to me before that the charity, with its sparse financial resources, would make do with the TV light in the evening to save the electricity counter ticking. I felt ashamed that this explanation only crossed my mind after I had automatically reached out to switch the lights on. I went up, the first floor was empty and dark, the second floor hosted everyone around the TV. I immediately noticed that Leena wasn’t there today, Mama Madeeha tells me her mother has come to take her. She moves her lips to one side, as only Egyptians know how, to express her sadness at the situation. She’s upset because this isn’t a family visit for Leena, her mother is taking her three days to spend on the street with her. Taghreed adds, three days if she actually does bring her back. Shams toddles hurriedly my way with her arms in the air saying “mama” demanding I carry her. She does not know that I have come up specially to see her and hug her and take my own dose of the love that these children have become a huge source of to me.

Me and Taghreed and her 4 month old son leave and go back down the stairs, in the dark this time. Taghreed tells me she’s learnt the way down by heart and not to be scared. A little ashamed of myself, I take out the torch in my bag to light the way down despite her reassurance (and yes, I have a torch in my bag, as well as a million other random things!) We wait for Mr Emad, the duty manager and 3am Ashraf who’s working unpaid extra hours this evening to drive us to 6th October City; a journey that takes us just under three hours in the Cairo traffic. I am in my element in this little micro bus. I am humbled by the amazing people sat in the front, giving their time and effort for a cause that is so dear to my heart.

During the three hours that it takes us to get to Dr Hany Hamam’s clinic, Taghreed tells me of the times she looks in the mirror and remembers how she got this scar. She does not spend long telling me how, but instead, excitedly tells me how well this doctor has been treating her in the times she has previously been to him. Dr Hany had written to me on twitter telling me he wanted to help the girls who had the rape scars, that he was a cosmetic surgeon and offered to perform these procedures free of charge. I was not in Egypt at the time and to be honest, ashamedly I could not keep up with all the offers of help that were flying in at me after the few posts I had written about the girls. But, I did pass his number on and I returned to find out that Taghreed has been to have the surgery and she was going today to take out the stitches. She tells me how clean the clinic is and that he treated her like “The Lady Taghreed” and joked with her and had asked her for her name. She had answered “My real name or my fame name”? She had joked with him and said “Abo Lahab” in answer to her real name. She told me this had made him laugh and she’d liked him ever since.

It may seem unremarkable to you, reader, that the doctor treated Taghreed with kindness and respect. If it does, then please let me explain. During the journey, she tells me of her child birth experience in comparison. She had been to the university hospital “Dimirdaash” in down town Cairo. She tells me that as soon as she walked in, in pain, she was asked where her husband was, what the scar on her face was, who was going to vouch for her. She said because she didn’t have a man with her, the doctors were able to use her to teach the younger doctors without her consent, so that after one doctor checks her dilation, 20 other hands were in her. They had also told her not all patients get anaesthetic when they were cutting/stitching and that they would only spray a little on. She tells me this story shaking her head with a slight smile and tells me that if Dr Hany had seen how they had treated her, she was sure they would all be in some trouble.

There were other stories Taghreed tells me on our journey, she tells me she doesn’t want to eat till Leena comes back – these two have a very special bond. She recalls the time Leena’s mother had taken her for two weeks and bought her back to the shelter naked with chicken pox and with more lice in her hair than all the lice she had ever seen in her life. It’s more moving than I can find words to write to hear Taghreed speak like this. I am amazed at how wrong I was when I first saw her. I had judged her as harsh and quite cold and dangerous. Her tenderness as she hugs her 4 month old, speaking about someone else’s child with such concern and helplessness is painful. She jumps from one conversation to the other, from stories of her fathers beatings, to being tied up in the institutions and beaten, to the freedom and fun on the street, to the friends she used to sleep with on the rail tracks, to the social workers that took her once to KFC. The two stories she always comes back to are of her friends whom she can’t find anymore and to her worry about one day not being able to afford her son’s education. But just as quickly as the concern appears, it leaves her eyes as she remembers stories of kindness or risk that she choses to tell me.

Taghreed’s stories are interrupted as we drive through 6 October. She points out at all the empty flats (as I had done before her) and asks me how comes there are so many empty buildings and so many people sleeping on the street. On her first journey here, she says all she could think about was how to come her on her own and just live in one of those rooms with her son, have a door shut behind them for safety. She had thought that she could grow some apples like the 6 she had stolen one day for her and her friends when they hadn’t eaten for three days and then when they had money, they had gone back and paid the fruit seller who in return for their honesty refused the money had given them 6 more. She tells me people who steal because they are hungry shouldn’t be punished and that all of Egypt were hungry. She laughs and kisses her baby telling him he would have an education and make 200-300 pounds a month and never go hungry.

We arrive at the surgery. Taghreed guided us. She said with pride, “I can tell you where this building is between a million buildings”. We go up the three floors and she holds in one hand her son and in the other a present for the doctor – a candle that the girls produce in their workshop. It has been specially wrapped for this occasion. We are greeted like old friends in the surgery and Taghreed proudly offers her gift.

I am in owe of the man we meet inside. He tells me that a person either always loved his country and never knew it, or that the 25th Jan revolution shone a light on this love. Either way, I understood what this man was saying. I felt his need to not function on a personal level but make society function with him. He is a man who has performed over 130 surgeries for Libyans who have come to Cairo and 15 Syrians. He told me he follows my tweets about street children avidly and to consider him one of my team. His humbleness was indescribable.

I went in to the operating room with them thinking I would support Taghreed while she took out the stitches. But again, she amazed me with her resilience and strength. She did not once flinch as the stitches were being removed, despite the blood that was oozing out of the wound, and despite the tears gathering in the corner of her eye involuntarily. I tried to hold her hand, but she pulled it away because she was counting stitches. It was an amazing change to her face, the flesh that hung out of place previously, a constant reminder of her trauma, her weakness, her history, the scar that haunted her with it’s memories was no longer there. Despite the psychological trauma, who’s scars were deeper and not visible to the eye, the responsibility in the form of the child that Taghreed was left with, the daily reminder in the mirror, was no longer there. We left his clinic with one less burden to deal with, one less reminder of a life full of challenge, full of violence, full of fight.

As we were getting into the car, Taghreed turned around and asked me to bring my camera to the shelter tomorrow because now she was no longer ashamed to take pictures with her son.

أحفاد الشوارع… يزحفون في ظلال الصدقة

لم أكن رأيت ريم من قبل. وكنت قد سمعت عنها عندما حدثتنى شيماء عن أسماء غريبة لبعض الأطفال، وكيف يطلق عليهم الملجأ أسماء أخرى. وكان اسم الطفلة ريم ذات السنوات الخمس، «أم حامد» فى شهادة ميلادها. وراقبتنى ريم بعيون تشع ذكاء. وقد تدربت، لأنها عاشت فى الشارع طوال سنواتها الخمس، على ملاحظة الغرباء وتحديد ــ خلال دقائق قليلة ــ ما إذا كانوا يمثلون خطرا أو لا يضمرون أذى. وهى موهبة يتمتع بها معظم أطفال الشوارع الذين قد تقابلهم.

وقد شاهدتنى وأنا ألعب مع الأخريات، وتابعت بعضهن يأتى ليعانقنى وأعانقه. ورأيتها بطرف عينى، وهى تستمع باهتمام إلى تعليقاتى، وهن يحكين لى ما حدث فى الملجأ خلال الصباح، وعن آخر رسوماتهن، وكيف تعرضت سالى للعقاب لأنها أهانت إحدى «أخواتها»، وعندما تأكدت أننى لا أمثل تهديدا، سارت نحوى مترددة. حملتها وأثنيت على ملابسها وسألتها عن اسمها. فقالت »أنا ريم». قلت «آه.. ريم، سمعت كثيرا عنك، أخبرتنى ماما شيماء وماما ناهد كيف افتقدتاك، وظلتا تتحدثان عن جمالك وأدبك». وكان رد فعلها مؤثرا. فألقت بذراعيها الصغيرتين حول عنقى وقفزت لتجلس على ركبتى. ولاحظت لأول وهلة أن لديها قمل فى شعرها، وكنت خجلة من نفسى لأننى ابتعدت قليلا حتى لاتزحف الحشرات إلى شعرى. وفى مثل هذه اللحظات أود أن أذكرك، أيها القارئ، بالإعجاز والتفانى الذى يتسم به هؤلاء الذين كرسوا حياتهم لأطفال الشوارع، واختاروا العمل معهم بشكل يومى، وينتقل إليهم فى كثير من الأحيان القمل، والطفح الجلدى، والالتهابات والعدوى من الأطفال، ولا يخجلون من معانقتهم، ورعايتهم، وتقبلهم. و لهؤلاء الناس ارفع القبعة بكل إحترام لأنهم يعرضون حياتهم للخطر بشكل يومي و هم يدافعون عن أطفال الشوارع الذين هم في الأصل مصدر دخل من الشحادة و الدعارة لبلطجية و زعماء دوائر شحادة او دعارة في الشوارع.

ويدور هذا الموضوع عن أبناء أولئك الأطفال فى الشوارع جيل جديد أكثر تهميشا من الأطفال الذين أنجبوهم. ولأنهم لا يندرجون تحت التصنيفات التقليدية لـ«الأيتام»، فهم إما يباعون، أو يقتلون، أو يستخدمون للتسول، أو إذا كانوا محظوظين للغاية يتركون فى الملجأ، الذى يتعلم، من خلال التجربة والخطأ، التكيف مع حاجات أطفال الشوارع بسبب عدم وجود مثال يمكن اتباعه.

في أغلب الأحيان يضطر الإِنسان أن يكتم صوت صريخ ضميره عندما يسمع هذه القصص بأنه يشير بأصبع الإِتهام على أطفال الشوارع و يتهمهم بالإِهمال كأنهم كانوا أصحاب القرار أن يحملوا و هم في هذا الوضع من المعيشة و يقولوا “كيف لهم أن يفعلوا هذا؟ الا يروا مدَى سوء وضعهم الحالي الذي سيولد فيه الطفل؟”  لكن ردّي على من يخطر بباله ذلك السؤال و على من لا يصل إلى أن يفكر في هذه الأشياء من الأساس أن اسألهم “و كيف لهم أن يروا؟ هؤلاء أطفال يعيشون في الملاجئ بعدما إغتصبهم والديهم أو بعدما تحرش بهم و إغتصبهم أزواج أمهاتهم أو إخواتهم أو من يعملون عنده.  أطفال تعاني من مشاكل نفسية و ذهنية، أطفال إغتصبهم من كان الأصح منه أن يرعاهم. هذه الأمثلة التي في الأرجح سببت لك الإِستياء موجودة لكن الإِغتصاب من قبل الأهالي أو في المؤسسات أو من الشرطة لا يعبر في حديثنا اليومي كأنه سر أكبر من كل الأسرار، لكن صدقني، عزيزي القارئ، أن الفتاة التي تحمل في الحالات المذكورة مسبقاً وضعها و حظها أفضل من غيرها فالإِغتصاب الذي يحدث في الشوارع ضرره و خطورته و ألمه اكبر بكثير.

وهناك ثقافة معينة للاغتصاب فى شوارع القاهرة، لم أكتشفها إلا عندما بدأت بحثى عن العنف الذى تعرضت له هؤلاء الفتيات. فبمجرد أن تغتصب فتاة الشارع للمرة الأولى، وإذا اتضح أنها عذراء، يجرح وجهها من تحت العين أو فوق مؤخرتها. وقد تم عمل 16 غرزة لإحدى الفتيات التى كانت تبحث عن مأوى فى الملجأ، بعد تعرضها لمثل هذا الاغتصاب. وهى إشارة إلى أن الرجال الذين اغتصبوها للمرة الأولى «علموا عليها» و«حطموها»! وينجم عن عمليات الاغتصاب التالية ندبة رأسية على جانب الوجه.  معاناة بنات الشوارع لا تنتهي عند تعرضهم للإغتصاب فالعلامات التي تنحت عليهم و الحمل ليسا إلا شيئين من أشياء أخرَى كثيرة بشعة سيواجهونها. إذا إستطاعت البنت ان تصل إلى ملجأ فمن الممكن أن تلقَى رعاية ما قبل الولادة في العيادة التابعة للملجأ لأنها لو لجأت للمستشفيات العادية فإِنها تتعرض للإِهانة و المعاملة القاسية من الموظفين الذين يسبوها و يعتدوا عليها اكثر.

ومن أكبر الإنجازات التى تفخر بها «قرية الأمل»، الدعوة الناجحة لتغيير قانون الطفل فى عام 2008 فيما يتعلق بالأطفال الذين يولدون لأمهات من آباء غير معروفين. فقبل عام 2008، كان الطفل المولود لفتاة الشارع، يبعد عنها، ويسجل تحت تسمية «مجهول الأبوين»، ويفصل عن الأم التى توصم بعد ذلك بالداعرة وتحبس فى مؤسسة إصلاحية بناء على هذا الاتهام، ولا يلتئم شمل الأم وطفلها مرة أخرى. وبعد حملة واسعة وبذل الكثير من الجهد، تم تغيير هذا القانون، وقرية الأمل الآن قادرة على مساعدة أمهات الشوارع الصغيرات على تسجيل أطفالهن باسم « مجهول الأب»، وتقديم المأوى للأم الطفلة وطفلها حتى تستطيع العيش بصورة مستقلة.

وبعد زيارتى الأولى إلى الملجأ قبل بضعة أشهر، سألت نفسى كيف يمكن لهؤلاء الفتيات الصغيرات ذوات البطون الكبيرة التعامل مع حالة الأمومة، هؤلاء الفتيات اللاتى هربن فى كثير من الأحيان إلى الشارع بعد اعتداء عنيف بدنى وجنسى، ارتكبه الأب أو زوج الأم. وهناك تاريخ لكل من هؤلاء الفتيات حيث تمثل كل منهن قصة رعب فى حد ذاتها، فكيف بعدما إغتصبها من قبل والديها ستتعامل “سميرة” التي تبلغ من العمر ١٢ عام  مع تلك هذه المسؤلية التي هربت بعد يومين من عملية قيصرية، وكيف سيكون التعامل بين “مايا” و بنتها “سمر” بعد ما تعرضت “مايا” لخلع ملابسها و ضربها و تركها على سطح المنزل مغطأة بالعسل من قبل والدها! كيف ستستطيع شوشو” التي تبلغ من العمر ١٤ عاماً أن تستيقظ كل يوم لتطعم طفلها الذي يبلغ من العمرشهرين عندما يجوع بعدما حرقوا عينيها في موقف من مواقف العنف الكثيرة التي واجهتهم من أهلها لكونها معاقة؟”

وبعد شهرين، جلست فى جلسة علاج جماعى، وشاهدت هدير (14 عاما) تلقم ثديها لوليدها الجديد فى حنان لم أره من قبل ولم أقرأ أو أسمع عن مثيله أبدا. ورحلت ذلك اليوم وأنا أشعر بالألم من ظلم هذا العالم الذى نعيش فيه وأدعو سامع الدعاء ألا يتخلى عن هؤلاء الصغيرات، وأن يمنح أطفالهن الفرصة التى لم تتح للأمهات. غير أن الواقع يختلف كثيرا عن ذلك الدعاء. فلا يقيم فى الملجأ و«يتخرج» منه سوى 20 فى المائة من أطفال الشوارع. وتعود الأخريات إلى الشارع خشية هذه المسئولية الكبيرة، التى اضطررن إلى تحملها.

وحتى الفتيات اللاتى تعلقن بأطفالهن، غالبا ما لا يستطعن البقاء. ومن أكثر الأمثلة التى تمزق القلب الطفلة منال ذات الثلاثة عشر عاما وتعانى من فصام عقلى، التى أنجبت الطفلة هند. وتعتبر منال أفضل طفلة أم على الرغم من أنها تترك ابنتها فى الملجأ. فقد تعرضت للاغتصاب من صبى فى منطقة ريفية بمصر، وأمضت شهور حملها فى الملجأ. وقد ظنت أنها إذا أخذت طفلتها معها، سوف تحرك العينان الصغيرتان اللامعتان مشاعر أبويها ليتوليا رعاية طفلتها الصغيرة. وبعد يومين، تم استدعاء الإخصائية النفسية إثر استغاثة من منال لإنقاذ هند من حبسها فى مزرعة الدجاج، فى محاولة من الوالدين لإخفاء ما اعتبروه العار الذى لحق بالعائلة. واستقلت شيماء الرائعة حافلة لمدة تسع ساعات، ثم حملت على صدرها الطفلة الصغيرة طوال تسع ساعات للعودة. وتحضر منال كل شهر لتمضى يومين مع هند. وهى تعمل بقية الأيام الأخرى لشراء الطعام والملابس لها. وانا أتحدى من يرى صراعها النفسى كى تغادر فى نهاية اليومين، أن يستطيع النوم فى تلك الليلة.

ويبدو أن حياة هؤلاء الأطفال لا تفتقر فقط إلى التمويل بعد الثورة ولكن إلى الاهتمام والوعى المجتمعيين. وهناك أمل فى نجاة أحفاد الشارع من الاغتصاب والجوع، والعنف إذا كنا، كمجتمع مسئول عن ظروفهم، نشعر بالغضب من عدم وجود قوانين تطبق لحماية هؤلاء الأطفال. وأنا أريد منك أيها القارئ، أن تغضب لعدم وجود قانون يسمح بأخذ الطفلة جودى ذات السنوات الأربع من أم الشارع التى أخرجتها من الملجأ لتتسول بها، بعد أن أحدثت فى رأسها قطعا من شأنه أن يكسبها نجاحا أكبر فى نيل تعاطف المارة. وعندما تمر أيها القارئ بجودى وآلاف من أمثالها فى الشارع، ولا تشعر بالغضب معنا، فعليك أن تدرك أننا جميعا السبب. فلتساند حملتنا لحماية هؤلاء الأطفال بحيث لا نواصل تحويلهم، مع جميع الأقليات الأخرى فى بلادنا، إلى السكان الأصليين فى مصر.

ولكن الآن، عودة إلى ريم ذات السنوات الأربع، فبعد أن تسلقت إلى حضنى واستسلمت لعناقها، واختلط شعرها الموبوء بالقمل بشعرى المغسول، وعندما تذكرت بارتياح أن لدى شامبو للقمل من لندن يحقق نتيجة خلال عشر دقائق، قلت للطلفة الصغيرة أننى كنت أنتظر لقائها، وقد سمعت أنها كانت بالخارج فى زيارة عائلية. فنظرت إلى بجدية بعينيها المستديرتين اللامعتين، وقالت: «أكره الزيارات العائلية، لقد اوقعت هبة الكوب، فربطنا والدى نحن الاثنتين معا، وضربني بالحزام هنا (و أشارت على ظهرها و العلامات الكثيرة التي تملأه) وتوقف عن ضربى عندما بللت نفسى. عندما أكبر سأصبح شرطية. وسوف أقتل أبى”.

thank you to Ahmed AboElhassan (from Tahrir Supplies) and Gameel Mattar (from Al Shorook News) for helping with the translation

Grandchildren of the Street: Crawling in the Shadow of Charity

I hadn’t seen Reem before. I had only heard of her when Shaimaa was telling me about strange names some of the children are given and how the shelter gives them nick names while they are there. Five-year-old Reem’s name on the birth certificate is Om Hammed. Reem watched me with eyes that shone with intelligence. Having lived on the street all of her five years, she was trained to eye up strangers and judge how dangerous or harmless they were just a few moments after meeting them; this is a talent most of the street kids you will meet have. She saw me playing with the others and watched as a few came to hug and be hugged. Out of the corner of my eye I saw how attentively she listened as they recounted their morning at the shelter and told me how Sally was punished for swearing at one of her “sisters”.

Once she had decided I posed no threat, she walked up to me tentatively. I held her, complimenting her clothes and asked who she was. She said, “Ana Reem”. “Oh!! Reeeeeem” I said, “I have heard all about you! Mama Shaimaa and Mama Nahed tell me how they have missed you and keep talking about how beautiful and well behaved you are.” Her reaction touched me. She flung her little arms around my neck and climbed to sit on my knee. I noticed at once that she had lice in her hair and I was ashamed at myself for pulling away a little so that the insects don’t crawl into mine. It’s moments like this that I want to remind you, reader, of the incredible work and dedication of those who, for what is often very little money, chose to commit their lives and to work with the street kids on a day-to-day basis. I would like you to remember those, who have on many occasions caught nits, rashes and infections from the children and do not shy away from hugging them, caring for them and from accepting them. My hat is taken off to those who put their lives in danger when protecting these young ones who are often a source of income through begging and prostitution to the thugs and street leaders.

This post is about the grandchildren of the street – a new generation that are more marginalised than the children they are born to. Not fitting the conventional categories of “orphan”, they are often sold, killed, used for begging or prostituted – all of which we have documented cases. If they are very lucky, then they are left in the shelter that has learnt to adapt to the needs of street children through trial and error for lack of an example to follow.

Some of us chose to silence the screams of our conscience by blaming the children for having children of their own. We say “how can they do that, can’t they see how miserable their own lives are?!” To those people, and to those who never got so far as to asking the question in the first place, I would like to tell you “how?”. There are children at the shelter who have been raped by their parents, step parents, brothers and they are children who have been raped by their employers and children with mental health problems who have been raped by those who are meant to care for them. You may find the list horrific, incest, institutional and police rape are taboo and rarely spoken of, but believe me, my dear reader, that if the girl is pregnant through those attacks, then she is lucky. Being raped on the street, bares greater pain.

There is a specific culture of rape on the streets of Cairo. A street girl, raped for the first time, will be carved on her face, under the eye, or above her bottom – one girl seeking refuge at the shelter received 16 stitches after such an attack. It is a sign that the men (yes, plural) who have raped have “marked her” and “broken her”. Subsequent rapes result in a vertical scar on the side of the face. The plight of street girls after rape is intense; these markings and pregnancy mark only a few. During her time at the shelter, the child mother will receive pre-natal care at the in-house clinic where she is spared the abuse of the hospital staff that swear and physically assault the street children.

One of the biggest achievements Hope Village are proud of, is their successful advocacy around the change of child law in 2008. Prior to 2008, a child born to a street girl, was taken away from her, registered as “of unknown parentage”, separated from the mother who is then labeled a prostitute and locked up in a correctional institution on that charge and is never to be re united with her child again. Following a large campaign and much effort, this law was changed and with the right help, young street mothers are able to register their babies as ” of half unknown parentage” and keep them.

After my first visit to the shelter a few months ago, I left wondering how these little girls with big tummies will be able to handle motherhood, these children who have run away to the street after what is often violent, physical and sexual abuse. There is a history to each of these girls that is a horror story each in its own right. How, after being raped by both her mother and father, can 12-year-old Samira be judged for her fear and running away 2 days after having a C-Section? How can Maya be blamed for the violence she inflicts on baby Samar after being stripped naked and beaten and left covered in honey on the roof for the bees for days by her father? How can you easily teach 14 year old Shosho to wake up to feed her hungry 2 month old when she has had her eye burned out in a series of abusive attacks by her parents for being a disabled child.

A couple months later, I sat in the group therapy session and watched 14 year old Hadeer hold her breast for her new born baby in both her hands, with a tenderness I have never seen, read, or heard about. I left that day with an ache at the unfairness of this world in which we live and a prayer to who ever is out there hearing prayers, for these little ones to not give up, to give these babies a chance, even if they themselves were not afforded one. The reality, however, is much different to that prayer. Only 20% of street children stay at the shelter.

Even the girls, who grew attached to their babies, often cannot stay. One of the most heart breaking examples is of a 13-year-old schizophrenic child who had baby Hend. Manal was raped by a boy in a rural part of Egypt and stayed her pregnancy months at the shelter. She thought if she took her baby back with her, the little bright eyes and soft feet would move her parents to accepting the child. The psychologist was called 2 days later in a plea from Manal to save Hend from being locked in the farm with the chickens in an attempt from her parents to hide what they saw as the shame that was bought on the family. The amazing Shaimaa took a nine-hour bus ride and carried on her chest the little child, the nine hours back. Manal comes every month to stay two days with Hend. She works all other days to buy her food and clothes and her struggle to leave at the end of the two days is something I challenge any observer to sleep the night after.

It is not just the money that seems to be hoarded after the revolution that is missing from the lives of these children, but a legal and societal concern and awareness that begs to be present. The grandchildren of the street have hope of being spared rape, the hunger, and the violence if we, as a society responsible for it’s vulnerable, are outraged that there are no laws enforced and implemented to protect these children. Reader, I want you to be angry that we were not legally allowed to keep 4 year old Jude from her street mother taking her away from the shelter to beg now that she has developed a lump in her head that would make her more successful at gaining passerby’s sympathy. When you pass Jude and the thousand of other Jude’s on the street, reader, and you have not been angry with us, realise that we are all to blame. Help us campaign to protect these children so that we do not continue to make them, along with all other minorities in our country, the indigenous people of Egypt.

But now back to 5-year-old Reem. After she had climbed onto my lap and I had given in to hugging her, her lice infested hair mingled with my newly washed strands, remembering comfortably that I had lice shampoo from London that promised to work in 10 minutes while Reem would soon be the cause of an outbreak to all the other 10 children. I told the little child that I had been waiting to meet her and had heard she was away on a family visit. She looked at me seriously with her round bright eyes and said, “I was with my father and mother. He hits mama and she cries all the time. I hate family visits. Heba slammed the cup down hard and so my dad tied us both up and beat us. He hit me with a belt here.” she shows me the bruises on her small back “He stopped hitting me when I wet myself. When I grow up, I am going to be a policewoman. I’m going to kill my dad.”