A Voice for the Voiceless
- Bailey Bowers
- Mar 10, 2018
- 7 min read
If you have spent any time with me at all, you probably know at least two things about me:
1. I love my Jesus.
2. I have a heart for the orphan.
My passion for the orphan crisis found its roots when we traveled to Rwanda to adopt my younger sister in 2009.
In the past few weeks, I have been reminded of my love for these children and the stories that are dying to be told. Which brings me to tell you that this semester I have had the chance to take a fiction writing class and it has been such a treasure to me in the midst of insanely busy education classes.
For my second short story of the semester, I chose to put my writing to (hopefully) good use and tell a story that is, in the words of my classmates, "so often silenced."
This story comes from a place of passion and desire to be a part of seeing every child find a home where they are loved in Jesus' name. So, without further ado...
A Silenced Story: Aisha
I sat up alone that night on our couch, darkness facing me everywhere I turned.
Remaining silent, I stood to look out the curtains into the night sky. Our street was quiet and isolated, the red Rwandan soil looked black in the darkness. Just feet away I heard the rustling of sheets, my husband rolling over in bed. I held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t wake up and see that I wasn’t beside him.
I had to escape, I had to get away from this house, from this man who hurt me with his words and with his fists, who made me do things that I never wanted to do.
Run. The thought was terrifying. But he was asleep…and maybe, just maybe, I could get away. Carry Isa on my chest, take nothing with me but the clothes on my back and the shoes on my feet and sneak off into the night. No money, no job, no prospects. No family.
Without him, I would have no one to lean on, no one to help me make a life of my own. I would end up in the slums, end up living as one of those people begging for money to survive. My family would be ashamed. Abuse or not, they’d never welcome me back. The shame would be too great. My childhood friends were long gone, each of us in an arranged marriage that took us far away from one other. I doubted that the neighbors knew who I was, to them I was just Cayman’s wife trapped behind a rickety gate and cinderblock walls all day long.
And if he caught me…if he caught me trying to get away...
But if I got away, if I ran hard enough, quiet enough, fast enough from this life maybe I could escape it, escape him forever.
Knowing exactly which tiles would squeak, I tiptoed across the floor and cracked open the door to Isa’s room. Her chest rose and fell, rose and fell with each tiny breath she took. My vision blurred as I gathered her into my arms, using one of her blankets as a wrap that would secure her to my chest as we ran into the night.
She looked up at me, eyebrows furrowed and eyes wide, her sleepy eyes that looked just like her father’s. Surely anything had to be better than this. Better than the bruises and swollen skin and the words he spat in his drunken anger.
All while patting Isa’s back to ensure that she stayed asleep - asleep and silent - I noiselessly gathered what I could from the kitchen. A bottle of milk from the fridge. A mango, a bundle bananas, and loaf of bread that had been baked only that afternoon. I slid my shoes on my feet and pried the back door open with shaking hands and a racing heart and I tiptoed until I was out of earshot from that place that bound me in such misery.
And then I ran.
I ran with a baby on my chest and bag of food over my shoulder, not knowing what I would face next.
As I bent over to catch my breath, I realized my feet were already aching, my side cramping. Isa had already sucked down that single bottle of milk, leaving me nothing to feed her when she awoke. Worse than that, I could still see the porch light of my house. A sinking feeling settled in my gut. You’re already exhausted and you haven’t even gone far enough to escape your worst nightmare. What have you done to yourself? What have you done to your daughter?
I shook these thoughts from my mind and pulled myself back up to my full height, bracing myself for more running when the thought struck me: I barely knew these roads in the daylight, but in this darkness, I was clueless. Surely things had changed since I had last been out of the house, after all, he hadn’t let me leave since before Isa was born.
Then I heard it. Even from that far away, I heard the slamming of the front door and his voice booming down the street. Instinctively I stopped as soon as the first word came out of his mouth.
“Aisha! Dang it, Aisha!” His voice dripped with hatred.
Despite the sticky heat of the night, chills covered my arms and made their way down my body. Isa squirmed against my chest, a soft whine escaped her mouth. I held her tighter.
“Aisha! You are my wife! Don’t think I won’t find you!” His voice carried far enough that I wouldn’t be surprised if he woke the entire city.
I couldn’t see him. But I knew he was shaking his finger, pointing into the night sky, his hands both shaking with fury. Too many times I had seen that rage take over his body…too
many times he had taken it out on me. I waited for the pounding footsteps, to see him running towards me as I stood frozen in fear.
But the screaming ceased. The front door slammed once again. Had he gone inside? Was he really not coming after me? Or maybe he had and I just couldn’t see him.
This image produced more fear in me than ever before and I started running faster than I thought possible. I couldn’t let him catch me, I wouldn’t let him touch me again. I wouldn’t let him touch Isa again. Not ever. There had been a time when his words were sweet, his actions caring, his touch endearing…but not anymore. Not for a long time.
My legs burned, my lungs pumped faster than they ever had, my head turning to look behind me every other step making sure he hadn’t changed his mind and come after us.
By day five, the food was long gone. I had managed to trade the bundle of bananas for enough milk to feed Isa three times. I had almost grown accustomed to the aching hunger that had settled in my stomach. Nothing would soothe Isa’s whining. Her stomach was too hungry to eat, her bed too far away. With not enough food and no more than a few hours of sleep, my arms grew weaker each day. I’d gotten a few questioning glances as I stopped to soothe Isa’s crying or crouched down between houses, my legs just needing a break. I wondered how much longer I could carry her. How much longer until I could find some work.
I continued to wander aimlessly, asking for work at every shack selling recycled clothes, hand-me-down shoes, and worn pots and pans on the side of the road…anywhere that looked like they’d be willing to take on a 22 year old single mother with a five month old baby.
My options were few.
The money I received in exchange for my wedding band was enough to rent a room for two nights and food to last us the same.
But even then, Isa’s eyes had become shallow, her crying less frequent as she slept more and more throughout the day.
You can’t go on like this. She’ll starve to death. What were you thinking?
I couldn’t put her at risk another day. I couldn’t watch the life drain from her eyes.
I knew what I had to do.
Missionaries of Charity. Sisters of Mother Teresa of Calcutta. Home of Hope. Kigali.
The sound of babies crying and laughing and babbling reached my ears over the closed blue gates. Isa slept soundly in my arms. Without realizing it, I kissed her forehead and held her tighter as if my body knew what I was about to do.
She won’t be hungry. She will have a bed. I preached to my heart pounding in my chest. She will find a family.
I peeked through the crack in the gate. Three old women wearing white dresses and smiles each held the hand of one somber child as they approached three American families with cameras and outstretched arms. There were brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers. Fathers who smiled as they embraced their child for the first time, their hands nothing but loving, their words delivered with kindness.
And though I hadn’t prayed since that first time Cayman had laid his hands on me, I asked that God would give her a father like that, a father who would see her for the treasure that she is.
When I laid Isa down on the doorstep, her eyes were still closed.
“Don’t ever forget how much I love you, Isa.” One last kiss to her forehead.
Her chest was still rising and falling in her sleep. But by the time I made it to the other side of the street, her cries filled the air, louder than they had been since we’d left...like she knew I was gone.
One of the old women with the white dresses and smiles emerged from the blue gate only seconds later, relief and heartbreak filling my chest in an instant as she scooped Isa into her arms and stepped back inside the gate.
I sank to the ground. Sobs finally escaped my mouth. The sound of Isa’s crying mixed with my own as I whispered to myself: Hope. Hope. This is her only hope.
There are hundreds of millions of women like Aisha and children like baby Isa that need our help and need to know our Jesus. If you would like to find out more information about how you can get involved in the global (and national - there is an ever growing need for foster families) orphan crisis, please check out the following resources:
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