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Hilarious April Fool’s Day joke for Homeless Child : a fake paid parking sign on a university campus that led to 160 euro in donations. The article is in Dutch only but you can all enjoy the photo

Marieke de Lange, from the Netherlands, made a play with the Proniño boys that they performed for large crowds in El Progreso.  The theme: violence and how to prevent it.  Today they were the hero’s that they deserve to be, in the local news paper:

http://www.laprensa.hn/Ediciones/2010/03/12/Noticias/Menores-alzan-su-voz-contra-la-violencia

Her smile speaks volumes: Yuliza is a happy girl! She has a rather good reason for it as well; today was her first day in school. Not just any school either. Yuliza has been officially registered as a pupil of El Progreso’s most palatial centre of learning. She’s being taught in English, classes are small and they even have a basketball court with those funny little rings through which one has to throw a ball.

If things carry on like this, she will soon be able to teach English to the orphanage staff, and tell all the other children in her neighborhood about that fancy new sport that hardly anyone in her town has heard of: basketball. Who would have ever imagined all that, when a mere three years ago Yuliza was carried into the nutrition center; an emaciated toddler, her tiny body ravaged by famine, her skin wrinkled from dehydration. Her own mother had come to bring her in. She was devastated, filled with desolation, and if she had waited two more days, Yuliza would have died.

The El Progreso nutrition center was founded many years ago by the Catholic Church. Severely malnourished infants and toddlers are being cared for until they have gained sufficient strength to keep going under their own steam. They are being brought in via the local hospital, neighborhood clinics, and deeply ashamed mothers. That’s why Yuliza’s mother only showed up when her despair overcame her feelings of shame. Why should she feel ashamed? Because she didn’t have the means to provide her child with a daily meal? Because she never attended school and is unable to read the instructions on the milk powder can?

Yuliza was lucky. Not only did her health improve enormously in a short time, the judge also decided that she was to be placed in the orphanage. Because so many children are returned to the nutrition center in a state of neglect only months after they first left, it was decided to get a better grasp on the matter.

The mother, father, or another family member is held responsible for the wellbeing of their own child. Each responsible person is expected to assist at least one day a week in the feeding, changing and care program of all babies and also to attend information meetings about hygiene, malnourishment and child-care. Through this fantastic initiative, ignorance is replaced by knowledge, distance becomes involvement, and finally shame can give way to pride.

But this doesn’t always suffice. Sometimes there are no parents, and no family member who is willing or able to care for the child. Sometimes, a mother is only just about thirteen years old and utterly incapable of caring for her own baby. And sometimes it is just a horrible set of circumstances that can determine people’s fate only in extremely poor nations. This was the case for Yuliza’s mother, who, although pregnant at the immature age of fifteen, did have a boyfriend who was truly determined to care for them.

Then Mitch, the infamous hurricane, came to call and took the lives of ten thousand people in it’s wake, leaving a hundred thousand more without shelter. The boyfriend died, Yuliza’s mum was homeless, and two months later her son Ricardo was born with no father, and nowhere to live.

Ever since, things have continued on a downward path. How can you care for your baby son, if you have no place to live, have never learned to write, and are too penniless to buy food? Even before Yuliza was born, her half-brother Ricardo was being rushed into the nutrition center. He had caught cholera, when he was washed in infected wastewater. He too received great care and soon gained strength, but at that time the orphanage did not exist, and so he finally ended up on the streets, where food was more easily found than at mum’s.

Fortunately, Yuliza doesn’t realize all this. To prevent children from leaving the nutrition center only to end up in the street, the El Progreso Catholic Church opened an orphanage two years ago. Almost half their donations are local, an impressive achievement in a country as poor as Honduras, and proof of the active involvement of Yuliza’s co-citizens. Often, the small deeds of many lead to large changes.

Yuliza’s education doesn’t come cheap; she attends a private school usually reserved for the wealthier kids in town. In fact, Yuliza wouldn’t have been able to go there at all if it weren’t for the school’s generous decision to admit her and all the other orphanage children at half price. The other half is paid for by American donors. That is why she now smiles so broadly! Well, of course, she doesn’t know about the donors, or even that it actually costs money to attend a school, because those things aren’t at all important when you’ve just turned six.

Yuliza smiles for her brand new pink backpack that brightly shines on her shoulders, and for the magnificent pencil, smelling of fresh lead and it’s fragrant shavings, with which she learned to gracefully write her first English word this morning: ‘welcome’. Pronunciation isn’t her greatest strength yet, but being surrounded by foreign volunteers, she’ll certainly be speaking better English than even her wealthiest classmates soon enough!

By now, her older brother Ricardo is doing significantly better too. Ricardo has had a hard time. At first, finding money was easy. Virtually everyone was willing to give a coin or two for such a sweet little face. But living alone on the streets is terrifying indeed when you’re still so small. A friend showed him how to sniff glue. It makes you high; screaming hunger cramps are temporarily silenced, and you’re not afraid of anything, not even adults!

But one thing leads to another. When you sniff glue, you need more money, and it doesn’t really do anything for the innocent cuteness of your face either. Soon enough, Ricardo had to steal to satisfy his need for drugs. He needed food less and less. In the end he was caught. Fortunately he wasn’t sent to prison. The judge put him with Proniño, the street children’s program in El Progreso, only kilometers away from his smaller sister Yuliza’s orphanage.

Ricardo doesn’t attend his sister’s private school; both he and his friend have lost too much precious time for that. Most of these kids have suffered so many traumas of abuse and despair in the streets that they need a year anyway, just to get back on their feet and learn to see the bright side of life again. But now, Ricardo too can smile and in his case it’s not just an ordinary smile. He has had to work harder for it than anyone, but now he sometimes doubles up with delight. The innocent sweetness has returned to his face, and when you see him going about so cheerfully at Proniño, you would almost forget that only recently he was still on drugs. Who knows, maybe Ricardo himself will forget that episode one day too, or at least be able to consign them to memory.

Thankfully, there is so much generosity in the world. Without the dedication of staff and volunteers, Yuliza and Ricardo would have been condemned to an early death. Without the donations of their co-citizens and unknown foreigners from distant, mysterious lands, they wouldn’t be able to eat, let alone receive an education. For however young they may be, Yuliza and Ricardo have learnt one thing very well: being able to give is a much bigger gift than being in need to receive.

Yuliza dreams of being an English teacher one day and to teach her own mother to write, and maybe even help her find a job. Ricardo? He dreams of becoming a fireman, and of course of buying a house to live with Yuliza and their mum. Seeing their smiles is enough to make you want to help them to make their dreams come true

Give a child a chance, and offer the world some balance!

“What are you doing?” asks eight- year old Oscar, born with a healthy dose of curiosity.

“We’re filling balloons”, I reply casually, as if I do that every day for an hour or so.

Our efforts to keep the secret have the opposite effect. Rumors buzz around the entire center and everyone tries to learn what’s going on. We are inundated with questions.

“So why are you filling all those balloons?” Pedro demands to know.

“To launch them”.

“Where to?”

“Mmmmm, well, in the direction of your head for instance, or your legs. We’ve got over two hundred balloons here, at least ten of which have your name on them and the rest will soak your mates”.

Pedro and Co. can’t control their joy when they imagine the water battle to come, but they differ about the exact balloon distribution.

It’s not the first time that I’ve underestimated the determination of these children. The survival instincts they’ve learnt in the streets are immediately deployed and within minutes we are reduced to mere spectators of our own performance. Sander is just about allowed to open and close the tap, but the buckets with filled balloons are under the supervision and protection of the younger team.

Shortly after, and soaked, we slink off. The humiliation is painful and we feel quite justified and not the least guilty to mount a revenge against the bunch of kids. After all, twenty-five against five makes unfair odds and we are not speaking about children here, but about unchained little monsters, or at least so we pretend.

This time we decide to go about it in a more professional, and sneakier, way. Let’s go see the balloons salesman.

“Five hundred balloons Señor? No problem at all, would you like them packed or bulk?”

“And four Spiderman masks? Of course Señor, they are on offer today”.

Considering the price, that last remark doesn’t sound trustworthy but when he has generously given us six huge garbage bags we can hardly complain.

Will he think we’re crazy? Spiderman masks, garbage bags, and a higher heap of balloons than the entire city council annually orders to celebrate the national day of independence. What would your average balloon salesman think of such a purchase?

Well, it’s not really important what the good man thinks. To convert our defeat of the first round into a sweeping victory is much more important and we boldly start our preparations.

Christi, a hard working woman who insisted on working for six weeks with malnourished infants before setting up her own company in the Netherlands, is there too.

The hotel where Sander and Wessel stay is inaugurated as our headquarters. Plaza Victoria, as it is lovingly called, is a block away from my own apartment and I am one like the family there. Sometimes I go for a swim with some of the boys who have no family to visit, but are still allowed to leave the center on an occasional Sunday. The room maid takes care of my weekly laundry in a huge American machine from the sixties for a mere two euros and the owner’s daughter is the children’s dentist.

His son works for a local television studio and I have been running in and out of there for two weeks, when a friend came to shoot a documentary for Homeless Child and the owner personally calls the mayor in a conspiratorial voice when I have been given an unlawful wheel clamp or need to take care of some other thing that cannot be dealt with through the ordinary channels in Honduras.

Plaza Victoria’s laundry room is turned into the center of our war preparations. There are two water points, sufficient space to keep the filled balloons in garbage bags, and my miniscule Japanese hatch back car can be parked just in front.

The strategy is simple: Sander will enter the center in the car while honking loudly. In the meantime, Wessel will threateningly hang out of the window, wearing his Spiderman mask and Christi and I, also adorned with the Spiderman face, will be standing on the tiny car’s platform to throw the first balloons.

We’re still only a small minority but our advantage lays in the surprise. The children adore Spiderman and our masks are meant to send them barking up the wrong tree. While launching the balloons, Christi and I will yell “Holanda, Holanda” from the top of our lungs to make it clear that the enemy has come all the way from our renowned homeland.

It is to no avail. Sander hasn’t even stopped the car, before the kids have clambered on its platform. Like wolves they throw themselves onto the mass of rocking balloons, skillfully maneuvering Christi and myself into a corner.

Again we suffer a dramatic defeat. We are no match for twenty-five romping rascals, all the more because, being adults, we lack the passion and commitment to throw ourselves into the game like our young counterparts.

The idea behind the water war is of course not one of conflict, but rather one of fellowship and respect. To the children of the streets, who for years were treated with disdain or utter indifference by the adults surrounding them, it is pure joy to have the right to pepper adults in a legitimate and playful way, especially when afterwards we can discuss together about the best throw, the smartest launching techniques and the most heroic action.

Having Holland lose 2 – 0 against Honduras for such a wonderful result is but a mere inconvenience.

Manuel. Is he dead or alive? Despite all distractions, my fantasy of a happy child with a mug of milk on a shady veranda is cracking. My intention to simply put the matter to rest, in this situation which we can’t change, like my Honduran colleagues, is also difficult to keep. Being beyond my control doesn’t make it easier to accept.

One evening, weeks later, I meet with David and Sanja at the local salsa bar’s terrace. David teaches the children cooking and computer lessons and his girlfriend Sanja is a psychologist. Elated, they bring that summer’s biggest novelty and the following night I spend staring at the cracks in the paint pattern of my ceiling. Is it really true what they told me? Or is it nothing but a painful mistake?