TheBanyanTree: Trials at Casa Hogar

[apmartin at canada.com]

                  Trials at Casa Hogar


My work at Casa Hogar (Camino Seguro’s live-in facility
for at-risk children) is more rewarding than any job
I’ve ever worked at.  It is also more frustrating. 
Sometimes I am filled with gratitude that I have found
a place where I believe I can make a difference.  Other
times, I imagine walking out of the casa (house) for
ninos pequenos (small boys) where I have been working
for nearly a month, because I want to throw my hands in
the air and scream.  Always, I keep trying because I
care about these children.  

I work with nine boys, aged five to eleven, and I have
come to know them very well.  Some are very
affectionate.  Whenever they see me, they run over and
throw their arms around me.  They are starved for
cuddles and hugs.  Others are more distant and
distrustful.  A couple, I believe, will return to work
in the garbage dump or choose a life of crime if
someone can’t reach them.

Each boy is special; each boy is precious.  But in a
group, these boys are often unmanageable.  They hit,
kick and punch each other, and they don’t listen when
told to stop.   They’re street kids who have observed
and personally experienced plenty of violence.  They
regard hitting as a solution to frustration and anger. 
When one boy sees another misbehaving, he kicks or hits
him, which only serves to escalate the situation.

When Julieta, the dayshift teacher I work with most
frequently, (there are several shifts), tries to
establish order, at least one of the boys runs outside
into the courtyard.  When she gives chase, several
others escape too.  Sometimes it takes fifteen minutes
before all children are sitting quietly, and even then
order is short-lived. 

Countless times I have said in Spanish, “Violence is
not good.”  Just as many times I have reminded them,
“You aren’t the teacher.  This is not your problem.” 
But they continue to hit.

Julieta and I spend so much time trying to control the
trouble-makers we don’t have time to sit with the
quieter boys who really need our help.

Disciplining abused children who have nothing is
difficult.  Spanking is out of the question.  The only
privilege teachers can take away is the right to swim
in the pool.  
However, when the boys are swimming, most of the
fighting ceases.  After telling the boys they aren’t
allowed in the pool, teachers often find it easier to
give in.  There is little discipline here.  Nothing
scheduled is ever on time.  Communication is poor. 

I want to help teach the boys; I want them to develop
an interest in learning.  I don’t want to be a daycare
provider, and often that’s what I feel like.  I
recently discussed the problem at a volunteers’ meeting.

“We have trouble finding teachers who will even work
with these boys,” Monique, one of the Volunteer
Coordinators said.  “There is no doubt they are hard to
handle; their home life before Casa Hogar was
horrendous.  They’ve seen it all.”

“But, the teachers here don’t discipline them,” I said.

“We are aware of the problem,” Monique said. “We’re
working on it.  In theory, the kids are given three
warnings if they misbehave.  Then, they must leave the
program.  In fact, we don’t want to send them back
home.  After awhile they catch on.”

There are thirty seven children living at Casa Hogar
and I know all of them by name.  I know which ones were
abandoned, starving, at the Project’s doors.  There are
several.  I know who is at a crossroads, deciding
whether to have ‘una buena vida’ (a good life) or to
return to the slums (and potentially a life of crime)
permanently.  

I know which children desperately need affection; I hug
those kids until they finally let go of me.  I know
which children remain into the background, lack
confidence and really need someone to help them believe
they are worthwhile.  I seek them out and offer them my
time.  And I know the children who misbehave in order
to receive negative attention—the only kind of
attention they have ever received—and I refuse to be
provoked.  I try to show them there are better ways to
be noticed.   It isn’t easy work.

These kids have not been removed from their families by
the courts; no government agency cares enough about
them to do that.  Casa Hogar is a voluntary program
where Camino Seguro’s social workers have convinced
their family that it is in everyone’s best interest if
they live at Casa Hogar where they are provided with
housing, clean clothes, regular meals, medicines and an
education.  

But it isn’t easy to convince parents to let go of
their children; they view their kids as a potential
source of income.  Most people living and working at
the Guatemala City dump have never been to school. 
When they were children, they began helping their
parents as soon as they were able (as early as age 4),
and they expect their children to do the same.  

Every Friday, a van arrives at Casa Hogar to collect a
specified list of children and return them to their
families in the slums for the weekend (at the family’s
request).  Oftentimes, the parent only wants them at
home in order to put them to work.  

Some children here have no family and no one to return
to. Others desperately want to go home but their
parents don’t want them.  

Two nights ago, Brandon (aged 5) climbed a tree in the
dark courtyard and howled for his mother for over half
an hour.  None of the teachers nor I could convince him
to come down.   His brother, Cristian (age 6), lay on
the ground beneath the tree weeping so hard that his
face and shirt were soaked with tears.  Both brothers
were abandoned; both still love their mom and want to
go home.  They don’t understand that she doesn’t want
them.  

Friday, as expected, their names weren’t on the list of
children selected to go home but Brandon made his mind
up he was going anyway.  Time after time, he left the
compound (he’s strong enough to open the door) and
headed down the road.  When I approached him, he picked
up a boulder to warn me off (but didn’t use it).  Time
after time, I carried him back.  

Every weekend, there are children in tears because they
are reminded they do not have a family who cares enough
to want to see them.

Other children don’t want to go home even though their
parent has asked for them.  For the past two Fridays,
Henry, another boy I work with and one of the
hardest-to-handle decided he doesn’t want to visit his
mom any more.  When the van arrived, he screamed
hysterically, refused to walk and punched anyone who
tried to force him toward it.  He begged not to have to
go home.  

Witnessing his pleading upset me, especially since I
was told he is beaten at home.  Still, Casa Hogar’s
residential program is voluntary and if his mom asks to
see him he is supposed to go. To my relief, because no
one could calm him, Henry managed to get his way.  Both
weekends, he remained on-site.

And so I continue to work with the children at Casa
Hogar.  I watch them play and cheer them on.  When they
want me to, I carry them on my hip.  They melt against
me and their eyes grow soft in my embrace. Then, I know
I am making a difference.  I kiss the top of their
heads, lice and all, and say, “Te amo” (I love you.