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“Manuel? Gosh no, he is dead you know, he was murdered”.

“Murdered?”

Dalila is sitting next to me, while the bus bumps along the road and while she speaks, a sad smile, full of compassion beyond her years, is etched on her face. By now I knew that death is still part of daily life here, but eleven year olds don’t get bullets through their heads or a knife that rips their throats apart, do they?

Apparently they do. In Honduras, children and youths are regularly killed. A substantial part of them are more mature or they are a member of a violent gang, but some are as tiny and vulnerable as Manuel and are being exterminated by adults who have decided that they are but a thorn in their flesh; because they steal the occasional apple, because they symbolize the country’s poverty in such a painful way, or simply because they are so filthy.

I lack the courage to believe her. While the bus plows on at a speed that is far too fast to negotiate all the pits and potholes on the dirt road, relentlessly punching my knees into the back of the person sitting in front, I try to catch Dalila’s eyes once more.

“Are you certain Dalila? Who told you, where did it happen? Who was the perpetrator and did he use a gun or a knife, or was he simply strangled? Did they rape him too? Was he the only one? Did they find the offender? Are you absolutely certain?”

Poor Dalila has witnessed her share of misery in the eighteen months that she has been working with Proniño, but she seems bowled over by my barrage of questions and an awkward silence hangs between us for a moment or two. The rumor emerged from amongst the children, who had gotten word of it in the streets. Everybody is in the dark, no one knows the ins and outs, but the rumor is stubborn and continues to buzz around.

I remember Manuel from last year, but now I wish I could erase him from my mind, that I had never met him. But I cannot, the memories keep returning like obstinate ghosts in the shadows of my brain. To make things worse I stumble across some old photos and instantly the vague ghosts turn into sharp images.

Nicky, she can tell me more, I’m sure! For the past two years, she’s been wandering through all the streets and alleys in the scariest neighborhoods and there isn’t a child that she doesn’t know or vice versa. Filled with dread I ask her the same question and before answering she gives me a melancholic smile. The murdered Manuel is another boy she thinks, a slightly older one, and the expression in her eyes makes me think she had known him better than she would wish right now.

But even Nicky doesn’t have a clue as to “my” Manuel’s whereabouts; she hasn’t seen him in the streets for months, or in any of the centers in the neighboring city. Everyone has lost track of him.

Carlos, the head of staff, might have some advice and with determination I ask. He too is of no help though. He considers the children’s stories to be idle rumors, but how much comfort can you get from a rumor when it’s about the killing of a child? Francisco, the night guard, tells me with admirable confidence that the lad was adopted by a loving gentleman, who has a degree and who now takes good care of him.

This last version sounds most attractive in my ears and, unconsciously I cling to it. Each time that I think of the boy, I picture him on the shady veranda of a villa with a mug of milk, studying hard on his homework and trying to catch up with the education he’s missed.

Probably my fantasy is considerably more romantic than the truth. There are awfully few caring gentlemen here who have studied and lovingly adopt little lads on their own, but when reality is unbearable it becomes so tempting to soften it behind the welcoming veil of an illusion.

Authorities in Honduras simply lack the resources to hold files of children and to track their whereabouts. No nationwide search is organized when a child disappears, because each day tens of children disappear. Where would the operation start? It only hurts when the child has a name and a face, when his smile is registered on your eyes and his voice relentlessly repeats that same joyful little phrase in your memory, like a skipping record that you can’t turn off because you can’t reach the button inside your head.

Pampered as I am, I have forgotten how to cope peacefully with an unpleasant situation and I envy the Hondurans, who are able to embrace life so naturally in the way it presents itself. The good things and the bad.

I decide to try to shake myself out of my despondency and to put the matter to rest, and soon I am absorbed in the smallish disasters and wonders that keep our spirits going here. We are busy. Thanks to our donors and with the help of the Dutch government we have collected enough money to build an extra classroom and a computer area. The children deserve a lot of attention and always want to romp, play marbles, soccer or simply chat away. There are also the volunteers, friends and members of Homeless Child who have made the long trip to do their bit.

Two of them are Sander and Wessel. Sander has decided to gather funds and playground materials on his own initiative, so the children can horse about on swings, climbing frames, a cable lift and other playthings of Dutch make.

They too are inspired by the enthusiasm of the children, who firmly believe that all white males are movie heroes, regardless of their build, age, looks or physical shape. And as all children are fully aware, movie heroes never die, so you can use them without any limits as a rocking horse, a boxing ball or a climbing net.

Fortunately Sander has a kind thought before he is submerged in the flood of attention.

“Listen to me Bas, we are secretly going to fill two hundred balloons with water at a discrete little water point behind the building and share them between two groups to provoke a spontaneous water war! We make up the adult group and the children’s group is simply going to vanish!”

Immediately I am taken by the idea and run off to the balloon salesman, who rubs his hands, eyes glittering. The ordinary birthday party averages some five to six balloons and two hundred opens the door to an unprecedented turnover for the day.

Of course, Sander’s wicked plans don’t work out the way we had imagined. Himself, Wessel, two Dutch volunteers and myself are companions in the intrigue and the five of us are supposed to stand up against the pack of youngsters.

Within moments though, the scamps can scent the imminent danger and our supposedly discrete meeting around the water point turns into the center of attention for a large group of rebellious youths.

Now and then, people ask how the children themselves have experienced their lives on the streets, and how they think about living with Proniño. Below follow some of their own statements and stories..

Ariel (13, has lived on the streets for six years, ex drug user, mainly glue)

Usually I got up at eleven. I always felt filthy coz I slept on the sidewalk. Sometimes I laid on cardboard but my back often hurt due to the concrete. (Ariel has developed a hernia on the streets and will undergo surgery in the summer of 2004).

When I was hungry I went to Burger King coz they sometimes gave food away there, or people gave the leftovers of their hamburger or fries. I felt bad anyway cos they would beat me as soon as I begged money.

Then when I finally had enough pennies I always went straight to the PULPERIA, where they secretly sold glue to me. (many street children sniff glue to disguise the hunger cramps and find the courage to steal or beg). A little jar would go for 50 cents and it lasted two nights.

I never pinched, really, I didn’t. A friend of mine did, he’s dead now. When he nabbed a bike they shot him in the back of his head, like that. I was hidden in an alley when it happened and was terrified coz I saw he whole scene. Later we went to the morgue and stayed there the whole night, near him.

One day I met Nicky (Nicky works at Proniño) and she convinced me to go with her. Now I never wanna sniff glue again.

Ariel has been living with Proniño for a year and a half, and after his stay in the rehabilitation center he went to the permanent living center of La Montaña. He goes to second grade because he is five years behind. But what is five years if you might have been dead otherwise? Ariel is a quiet boy who at times is sad because his mother does not wish to see him. How can we explain to him why his mother doesn’t wish to see him if we ourselves don’t understand why? Usually though he sees the bright side of life and he likes attending school.

Sebastian (9, has lived on the streets for one year, ex drug user, mainly glue, pot and crack).

Recently, on our way to the dental clinic, Bas and Sebastian had this very serious grown ups discussion.

B: So what would you like to be when you’re big Sebastian?

S: Engineer !

B: So do you know what an engineer does?

S: Yeah silly, of course I do.

B: Then tell me.

S: An engineer is a man who tells other men how to build things.

When Sebastian was eight, he has, with a needle and his own hands, tattooed an M in his leg, that will be legible for the rest of his life. The “M” is a symbol of Mara Salvatrucha, Central America’s most infamous gang, that spreads death and violence. When you’re eight and hazy with drugs, you apparently find it cool to prick an M in your leg, because it improves your chances of becoming a gang member when you’re twelve, and eventually of killing someone for real too. For three months now, Sebastian has been living at Proniño’s rehabilitation center LAS FLORES, and with the help of his educators he has begun another struggle, the struggle to forget the glue and become an engineer one day.

Denis (Denis thinks he is 13, has wandered the streets for several years, then lived in the streets for seven months, has sniffed some glue).

Ever since the Proniño project started, Denis has had the run of the place. First at the day center, where he was given a meal every day and played football. Then, after a seven month ramble in the streets of a neighboring city, he ended up in the Proniño program. By now, he is part of the first group that lives in the permanent center, where he is very happy, as he’ll tell you himself. Denis is in 3rd grade but doesn’t know his exact age. Many of the children have an uncertain birth date and they obviously don’t carry their certificates after having lived for years in a porch.

“Denis, what do you like most at Proniño?”

“Everything but especially that we have trees because the shade is cool and you can climb in them”.

“And what do you like least?”

“That we have to work after school now and then. I like school and homework too but after that we sometimes have a chore like collecting trash or pull weeds or trim bushes and usually I don’t feel like doing that”.

Currently, no girls live at Proniño, although both centers are equipped to have them. Bas asked Denis if he doesn’t miss them.

“Of course not, now we are only boys and that’s way cooler coz we can play soccer and marbles and fight!”

“And are you happy to have your older brother here?”

“Yeah, he is the only family member I have near me. I also have a mother and a little sister, but they live so far away, I can never visit.”

Children who live at La Montaña and who still have family ties, are allowed to visit sometimes if that holds no risks for them. If they cannot visit their family or if they have no family left, they can spend a Sunday now and then at the home of an educator, to play and eat and enjoy the taste of family life.

“So what do you think of the educators?”

“Well I think they’re fabulous people, they care for us like fathers and mothers.”

The names Sebastian and Ariel are feigned. Denis asked to be portrayed with his own name and photo.