Remember
Salim? As time has passed, he’s continued to make progress. He’s reading everything in sight these days and has moved into subtraction in math. But his progress outside the classroom is even more remarkable. He’s developed an interest in football. He’s made friends. And he does his laundry without being asked. And while he still has some trying moments, the good moments seem to outnumber the trying ones these days. He’ll invite other kids to play with his tennis ball, and he’ll play without hitting them. Or he’ll carry around his math notebook, telling anyone who will listen how he’s going to have to get a new one soon because it’s almost all filled up. Or on the way to lunch, he’ll find me and say, “Let’s try to sit at the same table today.”
As one can imagine (and as I’ve written in some other posts), there are some hard parts about working with these kids who have experienced trauma. Sometimes the kids decide to run away. Sometimes it’s hard to know what the best decisions are for the kids and their families. And most of these difficult aspects of working with these children can be sad and frustrating.
But one of the hard parts, ironically, is a really happy thing. We get to take abused, hungry, and often angry kids off the streets and love them and feed them and take care of them until they blossom into these wonderful, playful children. Many times you can see them being made new right before your eyes. It is truly a gift to watch.
Once the kids are happy and healthy again and ready to talk about their pasts, many times the family reunification process begins. And although that too is a beautiful thing, it’s also where it starts to get hard. Because, after all the work, after saying for what seems like hundreds of times “Don’t forget to wash your hands” or “You need to raise your hand” or "Make sure you wear socks,” or “What’s a better idea of something you could do if someone starts bothering you?”—just when they start to get it, you have to let them go.
Last week, I saw Salim hanging around outside my classroom door. He looked like he wanted to say something, but when I asked him he said he didn’t. I reminded him that, if he ever had something to say, he could talk to me or any of the caregivers.
A little while later, I came back to my classroom , and Salim was still there.
“I’ve been thinking about my mama,” he said, before I was halfway down the hall.
I was quite surprised. I don’t know Salim’s past, and he’s never brought it up in conversation. And he had, up to this point, refused to have any contact with his family.
“Well, tell me about your mama,” I replied.
So we went into the classroom, and Salim told me about his mama. How she’s short like he is and cooks really good vegetables. He drew a picture of his house and described his chores and the neighbors. He said his social worker had recently asked him again if he wanted to go visit his mama, and he decided that he did.
“I’ve been listening to those talks they give to us in the evenings,” he said, “and I decided that if I go back to live at home, I won’t run away. I’m going to stay there and help in the house and get my education.”
How amazing to hear this 11 year-old boy, who once seemed so immature for his age, say such thoughtful and wise things seemingly just out of the blue. I told his social worker about our conversation, who, in turn, continued to talk to Salim about visiting home.
And so, yesterday, Salim left with his social worker to go see his mama. It takes 2 days to get to his village, and they took all his stuff with him in case things go really well and everyone decides that he can stay.
And while a tiny part of me hopes he’ll be back on that bus with his social worker in the morning, mostly I pray that things go smoothly and that, at home, he is able to have a place where he is safe and he is loved.
This was Salim right after he arrived at Amani:
And here he is last week. He is full of life once again, and his mama is in for a treat.
