Based on real facts

This story can hurt sensibilities

+18 Adult content, sexual content, violent content

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An exit is sometimes too far from the entrance. What is difficult, above all, is to distinguish where one begins and the other ends.

Distinguishing boundaries is just as difficult... Knowing boundaries, even worse.

The Boma National Park is huge... Not only does the Kachipo tribe inhabit it... There are many others but I don't want to belong to any.

I've been studying the behavior of those around me for some time, making sure who carries an AK-47 and who acts as a snitch for the boss. And I have it difficult ... Very difficult. But I've always believed that you can get out of all the places where you don't belong.

My path is very long. I'm not going to stand here.

The children have taken a liking to me... I, meanwhile, remain close to them because, although fierce, they are the most innocent and pure and do not hold an AK-47 in their arms. At least not the little ones.

Tomorrow, they will be the same... or not. Maybe they leave, broaden their horizons, leave the tribe and this life of free nature, to take their steps to their true place in the world.

Meanwhile, I am making my own strategy. I watch over, I get involved, I play, I help women, I attend to all their needs, I behave like one more, I respect that, as a woman, I have to eat after men, together with children. As if we were a pride of lions... Tradition dictates that men first eat all they can and want, then, and respecting the hierarchy, women and children can eat what is left.

I leave the hut where I am staying just to take a few group walks, without straying from the tribe. I still believe that I am under surveillance... I have refused to do any more scarification, but I know when someone is more dangerous to see those scars on their bodies. They proudly display the drawings that make it clear who is the better hunter, who has killed more men, who has won the Donga, who can become more fearsome... through geometric motifs or scenes from their daily lives: animals, nature, weapons…

They wear body paintings and are adorned with rings, bracelets or belts, among other objects. They paint their entire body with white chalk mixed with water, sometimes mixed with ocher, or other dyes obtained from the earth. Then, with their fingertips, they remove parts of that painting, thus creating art on the skin. Women have lip piercings where they place wooden discs, especially the older ones. They pierce the lower lip, where they put a small saucer that, over time, they gradually change for larger and larger dishes. It is a body adornment that has its importance at the time of marriage: the larger the plate that the bride carries, the greater the opportunity for the family to request a dowry, generally consisting of heads of cattle, since cows are also the commercial pattern.

The father, owner of the herd, gives thirty cows to each son when he marries.

In large families, the youngest tend to run out of this present and have to resort to other types of resources, usually quite irregular, to get their dowry.

Young people have abandoned the canons of beauty. However, they maintain the scarifications, they wear hairstyles of great complexity and beauty, although most are shaved, even the women. They regard their image as something abstract. They paint their bodies two or three times a day, as if they were changing their clothes in a particular way of seduction, of expressing their mood or their pride. The scarifications and mutilations that are inflicted are also signs of elegance, strength and courage.

And it is increasingly clear to me that I have to leave here before the harvest, in November.

Between November and February, the young Surma are dedicated to their favorite sport: Donga. A type of fight with long rods (dongas) in which the prestige of their community and the possibility of celebrating a good marriage are at stake. They come together for a series of very violent fights, in order to demonstrate their masculinity, for personal revenge and to win the wife.

The fifty or more men participating in each tournament represent different peoples. The participants fight two by two and are eliminated until there are only two fighters left, from whom the winner of the tournament will emerge.

After the preamble of the dances performed by the women, the wrestlers enter the scene armed with their dongas. Each clan is represented by its own fighter. The fight ends when one of the combatants loses consciousness. And the victor is carried on the shoulders of his followers.

According to my plans, in less than a week, I will have crossed the forest to my next destination: Akobo. I just need to prepare my escape, take the necessary supplies and run.

They call me Ingwe. It means «leopard» in Shona. They know that my name is Shona and it means «God sees». But they like to call me a «leopard» because, according to them, I survived their lethal bite and became it. That is why one of the children of the tribe has decided to paint me. In addition, with the days to come, at the end, they forced me to dress as they do, almost naked, dressed in leaves, with bracelets and necklaces.

Now I am surrounded by children, in a circle behind various containers filled with dyes, chalks and paints.

"Sing, Ingwe."

Fere Heywet say me, whose name means «fruit of life».

I laugh as she begins to take care of my hair with two other girls.

"Make me sing?" I ask because I have no idea what to sing about... but she looks at me, holding a lock of my curly hair held in her hand, with her face inches from mine.

"Sing." She reaffirms herself with a penetrating look that makes me feel intimidated. She is a girl, but she is fierce. More than me.

I remember the song I sang before I met them, before I came face to face with the leopard that has christened me like Ingwe, before I left the forest. But that song was sung to me by my mother.

I look at the faces of all those children. Their faces painted white, red, yellow... their curious eyes, their necklaces, their bracelets... They are so innocent now...

They watch me, they wait for me, they want something good... They, perhaps, are never going to have anything good that I have had. And I just hope they don't have the bad either...

There is silence, except for the murmur of other Kachipo, their shouts with the cattle, their bustle in the huts. Children look at me... and I am sorry that they live like this. But it is their looks, their silence, that lead me to March 2018.

I look at them. I remember. I live. And then, I sing:

"Ubusuku no moya wobomi
Buyakubiza
Mamela…"

I don't know if it's the tone, if it's the words, if it's listening to me sing, but the eyes of those children show enthusiasm and their lips a big smile. They look at each other and I realize that all children are the same. It just depends on their parents who they are tomorrow. And sometimes not even that...

I wonder what mine will be like now, where will he be, who will his parents be? Which will be his name.

"Nezwi
Elinoyiko lwe ntsana
Liyaphendula
Oh, mamela…"

I sing with a lump in my throat because, for him, there were no songs. There were no words, there were no games... There was no name.

The day my son was born, I knew that I had not given birth to my son. I knew that I had given birth to the child of someone I will never meet.

I didn't see his face. I didn't pick him up. I didn't sing to him. The milk I had to give him only caused me infection and illness and, his death, not death, another illness.

"Shhh ... Anoona ... Your crying won't bring him back."

Leiza told me, her face beaten, her hair disheveled, her lips are broken and one eye swollen.

I couldn't breathe. The air was not getting into my lungs as desperation made me hyperventilate and my eyes were on the place where the leader of the human trafficking network in which I was involved had disappeared.

I remember closing my eyes and screaming as loudly as I could with the need to get rid of my anger and pain. A hand covered my mouth and a body flipped against mine, clasping me in its arms. I was little more than a broken doll, my dress in tatters, my legs spread, a pool of blood between them and my hair tousled.

My body was torn open by the passage of a 34-week-old boy breaking me inside... On the other hand, I would have broken a thousand times more to give him life but, at the same time, I wish with all my might that he had not been born.

That child whom I will never be able to call «son» was born wrapped in a net... he was born tied up, he was born sold... he was born engaged. And it wasn't mine.

"Ubukhosi bo khokho
Yima, akukho bunzima
Yiva lamazwi uhlale ethembeni
Hela hey mamela
Hela hey mamela
Hela hey mamela
Hela…"

I feel tears in my eyes as I sing to the children of the tribe that song that I heard so many times on the radio... The same one that a friend from school once taught me on her smartphone. She did not fail the Internet as much as others in Zimbabwe. And it is that she had a much better economic position than many, but she never looked if the rest of us were poorer.

It was the song from The Lion King. I didn't have a television at home, nor the Internet. Radio only. But I had the opportunity to see movies and discover another world at that friend's house. And I will always be infinitely grateful because life is not the same for everyone... It only remains for those who live it differently to know how to see it from other positions.

I wish they were all like Johari and taught songs, movies and the world to whom we do not have a window to it.

"Uphila kuwe
Uphila nakum
Uhlal'ejongile
Yonk'into esiyibonayo
Nansenemanzini
Nasenyanisweni
Nase mfanekisweni wakho
Uphila kuwe…"

My tears fall down my cheeks as I sing that song and look at the ground so as not to see the children of the tribe...

I can never sing it to my son. I remember that he was thin, his skin was lighter than mine, and he was almost grayish, wet and pure... He didn't cry until the umbilical cord was cut. He smelled of life... But it was nothing more than merchandise, a wad of bills, cattle, traffic... I didn't want my life for him. I didn't want him suffering. That is why I tried many times to abort by natural means, with plants, with blows, with anything that could prevent him from becoming a sold child. That they take it from me.

Instead, I couldn't. When they realized that I was missing my period and all my unfortunate accidents, they discovered my plan. So they took me away from the others and locked me in a dark, cold and empty place.

They fed me more than normal because I had to nourish myself for two and, while I thought that they would leave me lying in a gutter because it would no longer be of any use, the day came when a wild man entered my cell, knelt down, held my hands, and face against the ground, getting on all fours like an animal and penetrating me so bestially through the anus that I knew there would be no limits to a son of a bitch who wanted sexual satisfaction. And there were no limits for any.

The more my belly grew, the more interest I aroused. A 17-year-old pregnant and prostituted girl: a delight for every man. Forced to all kinds of harassment. They touched me, they insulted me, they forced me to do blowjobs for which they always made me vomit, they penetrated me wherever they wanted...

Actually, it was the usual, but they loved to see my belly full of life no matter how much my scrawny body showed blows, wounds and dirt from that disgusting place that I was imprisoned, tied up and watched, until I gave birth.

Afterward, I didn't speak for days. I gave no sign of life. I didn't want to move. The beatings didn't matter to me anymore. But I remembered that Leiza had told me to flee north and not go home... She pointed the way for me, she gave me everything so as not to lose the route and I ignored her just because I wanted to see my mother again.

What I did not know is that my captors would track me...

"Nakupenda, Anu."

Over and over again... I wish my mother would escape. I hope they didn't find her when they found me because, because of my disobedience, because of my need to see her again, I risked her life. But I didn't stop running even though I was caught again.

"I ignored you, Leiza..." I told her regretfully when I spoke again. She looked at me with a sad nod on her face.

"I know, girl ..." I showed her the compass I took from my humble home in Zimbabwe. I looked at my hand with that compass on it.

"To North..." I said and looked at her.

I made her smile and in her eyes I could see a glimmer of hope.

"I don't care if I die trying, but I'm leaving here." I said as tears ran down her smiling face, ruining her makeup.

"I'm dead here." I said and stood up: "My mother told me to run and I intend to obey."

Leiza took my hands, in goodbye.

"Come with me ..." I supplicated her. But she refused.

"Go you." She looked around. "I'll leave the way open for you."

 I listened to what she said, because Leiza was aware of many things that happened inside and outside. She had been like this for so long that she had learned to play well, but she was too scared to run away, because she already did it once, and they captured her again, as me had been.

I was wrong to go home to see my mother before I left, but this time I knew I would go straight north.

"Get out tonight. A group of boys will leave to cross the border into Uganda…" She said softly, squeezing my hands.

"Go with them." She took a deep breath. Who knows everything that was going through her head... "It won't be easy to get out of Kenya, but I trust you." She said smiling.

That was the first time that I crossed a border on my own foot. And the last one I saw Leiza.

She provided me with clean clothes, a backpack with provisions, and food for at least a week if I knew how to distribute it well. I finished only with the compass and the tracksuit and now I only have the compass left.

It can be said that I am Ingwe... one of the Suri tribe, in the mountains between Ethiopia and Sudan, the most isolated people in South Sudan, who maintain their independence and their customs thanks to the isolation provided by the mountains, the absence of missionaries and government structures. But their traditional way of life is threatened by war, the Christian churches that are beginning to enter this territory and tourism.

I look the children of the tribe to the eyes. My song ends while I think if «he lives in me». One of them blows a mountain of mustard-colored chalk out of the palm of his hand, spread out in front of my face. I close my eyes and I can't help sneezing because my nose itches. Two girls carry a tin container in their hands and invite me to look at myself. Then I see my reflection. They have combed my hair and it almost looks like a lion's mane. They have put red dyes on me and the powder on my face has adhered to my skin, leaving the trail of my tears darker on my cheeks and annoying clumps on my lashes.

A child brings his finger to my cheek, moving it in a circle to paint a black dot. It must be soot...

They all repeat what the other has done, while they sing the song I just sang to them. And then I can see that they are turning my face into that of a leopard, simulating its fur.

I laugh and make them laugh. But when Ashanti pulls her little brother into her arms and sits him on my bony knees, something in me shakes. I hold his dark gaze. I never saw my baby's eyes but one of the girls swore to me that she had never seen lighter eyes in her life. I am somewhat afraid of people with light eyes…

"Ingwe!" He exclaims, giving his finger painted black to my nose. I wrap my hands around his body, noticing how small he is. He may be the same age as my orphan son.

I didn't get a chance to fight for him, no matter how much I begged and how much I did to crawl across the bloody ground to stop that cursed man. They held me, hurt me, tied me up and took him away. I screamed for hours, tore my throat as I had torn my body and my life. But nothing gave it back to me.

I believed that childbirth was the most painful thing in the world, even after so many blows, so many falls, so many rapes... but I didn't know how wrong I was...

The most painful thing in the world was losing the son she had won. Although, at least, I was luckier than Akanke... One of the girls in the Traffic Network who ended up pregnant at the age of twenty-five after much suffering, illness and struggle.

She had contracted AIDS. Something that she did not know until she had to be transferred to a hospital due to the conditions in which they left her.

It was a relative who had put her into this business to pay for the promised trip to Spain or the United Kingdom. The journey to her salvation. She accepted the deal without knowing that, the deal, was she and could never believe how her family did that to her.

We were transported from one place to another in trucks and cars, sometimes camouflaged, hidden and crowded. Nothing was visible. Only the rocking of the vehicle on the road was felt. As we rose through the ranks, we were led to one side or the other.

Leiza was one of those who achieved a lot and stayed alive. I was one of those who tried to live and did my best to stay healthy. Akanke, the kind that had bad luck.

A good part of women, girls, boys and elderly victims of sex trafficking were ill. Some showed symptoms, others died. Those of us who live do not even know if we have diseases.

Contaminated water, food in poor condition, lack of hygiene, lack of sexual protection, infected wounds, blows, broken bones... There was everything for everyone. But what Akanke went through impressed me.

I never saw it, but I knew because Delu told me.

It happened in one of the houses of owners who were paid good sums of money to use their rooms. This strategy kept the members of the sexual exploitation network away from the police because, since we were spread out in different places and not in a fixed place, it did not attract much attention.

That is, they rent houses for short periods of time to avoid being followed by the police.

Akanke was taken to a separate room. I was with Begum and Kande and the other girls spread out in different rooms. Delu was touched by the one that faced wall to wall with Akanke's room.

That night at least I had the company of two of mine... and it was fortunate. The screams could be heard throughout the house. The heavy footsteps of the men walking down the hall to her room made the floor shake. Their disgusting laughs sounded like thunders.

It was Delu who yelled that Akanke had broken water, calling for help. But that did nothing. Nobody helped Akanke... She was raped while giving birth, bleeding and full of pain. Hanging from a rope, naked and tortured.

When she did not do what his captors wanted, when she tried to get away, fight, refuse, they pulled a tooth or pulled hair...

The child was stillborn. They say she fell from between her legs to the ground.

I heard a knock and to think that it was the body of that stillborn baby has always made me feel horror.

I know Akanke screamed like she never screamed before... She had no air, perhaps, because they had just taken away the only thing she was fighting for. Like me... But in a wilder way.

At that moment, I was glad that my son was alive even though he has been without me for a year and has many more to come.

Compared to them, compared to being the victim of a sex trafficking ring, are the Suri wild?

They are still indigenous... I understand their way of life more than that of those who make people a business. Especially when some of them are as poor as I am or even worse...

While some of us hope for a dream, others help shatter it. It only remains to recover who you were if you can still stay alive.

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References: https://www.univision.com/noticias/mundo/retenian-a-mujeres-embarazadas-para-vender-a-sus-hijos-despues-del-parto-operacion-policial-acaba-con-fabrica-de-bebes

Based on true stories of many women in the world. For more information, go to the link: https://www.bbc.com/mundo/noticias-internacional-39118432