The price we pay
My afternoon with the disabled in Mae La. (since I have absolutely no confidence in my video-posting skills, here is the link):
So, it's nearly 7pm and I've been at work for a very, very long time. I should go home. I want to go home. But, instead, I am blogging. Not that I have anything super exciting to share tonight. I am in the middle of a nine DAY monitoring and observation from Bangkok child welfare/protection higher-ups of my program here in Mae Sot (Best Interest Determinations for separated children for those of you who only skim my highly-informative postings). I hate monitorings. Lucky for me, I work with a great team that makes me look good. Unfortunately, the US resettlement campaign continues to put cases on hold until our report is completed, and there are well over 200 cases in the queue. (Queue is, by the way, my new word of choice. Likely caused by spending far too much time with Brits. It's a quite useful word though, I might add). I am working frantically trying to assign cases, interview, guide recommendations, write up reports and edit the fairly botched English of about 20 cases a week. It's weird knowing that I help decide the fate of a child and an entire family. In some cases, everyone involved wants the child to go with an aunt or grandparent and resettle with the US - and I have to make the decision that it is better for the kid to stay with his parents in the mind-numbingly stagnant refugee camp... indefinitely. It's a really scary role to have. I am learning a lot though, about child welfare, child protection, advocacy...
Last week was difficult. A young girl that I have been seeing for nearly six months ran away from home last Thursday. Actually, not home even - she ran away from a safe house. Her story is rather tragic. Tossed around various family members in Mae La for her entire life, she was never really loved or accepted by anyone. At 14, she lost her virginity to a man in camp who hit her over the head with a flashlight before raping her, then her friend. He told the girls he would kill them if they didn't leave camp immediately. So, at 3am, less than an hour after being violently attacked, the girls fled the refugee camp. Their plans were to run to Burma, where they hoped to join the KNU resistance army. They made it about 20 kilometers down the road before meeting a woman who promised them a job, only to sell them to a brothel for one hundred dollars. When the girls refused to sleep with the men, their "owner" pointed out that they were no longer virgins anyway, so why were they so upset? A few months after being trafficked, the girls escaped, returned to camp... and were arrested on charges of prostitution. Other than the authorities, no one had even missed them in their absence. Jailed for six months in the camp prison, and called whores by their own family, the girls ran again - ironically (or, not so ironically if you think about it) back to the brothel where at least they felt safe. Two months later, my girl - who I'll call Grace - was purchased from the brothel by one of it's customers. He paid $50 and took Grace home with him. She was again arrested by the camp authorities for prostitution (absurdly instigated by the wife of her rapist), when they discovered that she was pregnant. Now, 16-year-old Grace has a three week old baby who she wants to give up for adoption on some days (the child has been "promised" to the old lady up the hill) and other days wants to keep. Children having children. Grace wants to resettle to the US as an unaccompanied minor. My heart cringes at the thought of her alone, in a strange country, after so many years of trauma. Her life is so volatile now though - it is almost hard to imagine how it could get any worse. She ran away last week, and I spent several sleepless night worried about her back in prostitution. She came back a few days ago, and I received word that she wants to talk to "that bossy white girl". We'll see what happens. Maybe she still wants to resettle. I had to break the news to the "old lady up the hill" that she cannot keep the baby, so now she is mad at me too.
My visit to the Karen Home for the Disabled was a highlight of last week. The men - all living with various disabilities from battles or landmines - want to resettle to a third country. They laughed with me and told stories and sang. They have a tightly-knit community in camp, and part of me feels like it would be disastrous to separate them. What is one poor Karen villager, with no arms, going to do in Des Moines by himself? I tried to give him as much information as I had about life in the US, services available for refugees and for people with disabilities... but there are so many unknowns. As I was explaining to their group about the potential for many disabled adults to lead successful, relatively-independent lives complete with jobs and education, they stared at me with a mixture of hope and disbelief. "And our families?" they demanded. "Will the government help take care of them?" I assured them that their are many programs and services to dependents of people with disabilities. "What about me?", one asked. "What kind of job will they give me?" I turned, to see a man with no arms or legs; mangled skin covering the sockets where his eyes should have been. "I don't know," I said quietly.War. What have we done to each other...
posted by Amy @ 4:45 PM
1 comments
Who needs a swimming pool when you have a water pump??
Hanging clothes out to dry
