On Thursday, January 28, I met again with the pastor from the jail. A heavy sense of discouragement weighed upon us as it seemed that it would be impossible to overcome all the challenges in bailing the children out of jail. I told the Pastor that if the children could not be out by this weekend and ready for the program’s commencement on Monday, we would not be able to do anything to help the children anymore. I also stated that on top of that, our budget was limited to a specific quantity, and I could go no higher. Simply put, if I could not have them out, we could not do the program.
The following morning I accompanied a group of HEAL Africa visitors, one of whom was a prison chaplain in the US. As he preached that morning to a joyful crowd of prisoners, the badly moistened firewood from the recent rains smoldered heavily around us, thick black smoke stinging our eyes and our lungs for an hour.
As we prepared to leave,
the pastor pulled me aside and said that the jail wardens had agreed to allow the children to leave as long as the fines were paid. In fact, so much so, that he already had a signed letter of dismissal for all 16 of them! I looked at him in disbelief. “16 children for the price of 12?” I asked, “Where will they stay? They cannot simply go to the street!” A couple hours later, we had found spaces for the complete orphans in a Catholic street children home. Within a short time, their staff had picked up the freed boys and integrated them into their programs. We returned to bail out the last ones, who were all orphans as well but had somewhere to say in Goma with extended family. When we entered the VIP room, the children shone with anticipation. We took pictures and were celebrating until the warden pointed out that Liban was a complete orphan with nowhere to return to. Thirteen year-old Liban, who had eagerly put his jacket on and gripped his belongings, confirmed this, which sadly forced us to wait until the following work day, Monday, to put him into another street children’s home. His small face quivered in disappointment, even as the warden yelled at him that if he shed even one tear, he would never see the outside of the prison ever again. He tried to be strong, but his youthful 13 years betrayed his severe disappointment, and not a small amount of fear, as he looked at the cracked concrete floor. We mourned in compassion for him in our hearts, hurting at his vulnerability at having to sta
y extra nights when his fellow inmates knew that he was going to be leaving but they were not.
The other children joyfully walked out of the room and we made our way to front door, a red metal door that let bright rays of sun shine through old bullet holes and hatchet marks into the dark, dusty lobby. Their bodies were tense, hands clenched together, weight shifting from toes to heels, as if wanting to run outside before anyone changed their mind, and at the same wanting to hold back from fleeing too quickly.
We walked them out into the bright sunshine. Walked out, like when you leave somewhere to go home.
The following morning I accompanied a group of HEAL Africa visitors, one of whom was a prison chaplain in the US. As he preached that morning to a joyful crowd of prisoners, the badly moistened firewood from the recent rains smoldered heavily around us, thick black smoke stinging our eyes and our lungs for an hour.
As we prepared to leave,
the pastor pulled me aside and said that the jail wardens had agreed to allow the children to leave as long as the fines were paid. In fact, so much so, that he already had a signed letter of dismissal for all 16 of them! I looked at him in disbelief. “16 children for the price of 12?” I asked, “Where will they stay? They cannot simply go to the street!” A couple hours later, we had found spaces for the complete orphans in a Catholic street children home. Within a short time, their staff had picked up the freed boys and integrated them into their programs. We returned to bail out the last ones, who were all orphans as well but had somewhere to say in Goma with extended family. When we entered the VIP room, the children shone with anticipation. We took pictures and were celebrating until the warden pointed out that Liban was a complete orphan with nowhere to return to. Thirteen year-old Liban, who had eagerly put his jacket on and gripped his belongings, confirmed this, which sadly forced us to wait until the following work day, Monday, to put him into another street children’s home. His small face quivered in disappointment, even as the warden yelled at him that if he shed even one tear, he would never see the outside of the prison ever again. He tried to be strong, but his youthful 13 years betrayed his severe disappointment, and not a small amount of fear, as he looked at the cracked concrete floor. We mourned in compassion for him in our hearts, hurting at his vulnerability at having to sta
y extra nights when his fellow inmates knew that he was going to be leaving but they were not.The other children joyfully walked out of the room and we made our way to front door, a red metal door that let bright rays of sun shine through old bullet holes and hatchet marks into the dark, dusty lobby. Their bodies were tense, hands clenched together, weight shifting from toes to heels, as if wanting to run outside before anyone changed their mind, and at the same wanting to hold back from fleeing too quickly.
We walked them out into the bright sunshine. Walked out, like when you leave somewhere to go home.
Once out, we reminded the boys that God gives us a new spiritual life for eternity through Jesus and that it is not every day people get a new life here on this earth. We encouraged them to live their new lives like Jesus said, and to be a blessing to those around them, to use their new freedom for good. Shyly, with eyes brimming with emotion, they nodded in agreement. We shook their hands and congratulated them on their new lives. Ever so silently, treading slowly on the rocky, bumpy soccer field in front of the prison, the young boys made their way across, stunned at the gift of freedom.Notes: The first picture is the official letter of receipt for the payment of the minor's fees.
The second and third pictures are curtesy of Alissa Everett.
No comments:
Post a Comment