This is a true story (I've changed the names though). And I share this, to make others aware of how horrible some people can be. And to make them aware that we need to protect children. Whether they are our own children, or someone else's.
I never forgot him. And I will never forget him.
I was about 8 years old when I met him. He was enrolled in our school in the middle of the school year, because the school he was in kicked him out.
And not only that. Mark had been to over 15 different schools and all the schools kicked him out, because those teachers couldn't handle him.
According to them, Mark was naughty, stubborn, worked poorly and was dangerous to the other children. I didn't understand that at the time.
In fact, after 20 years, I still don't understand it. Yes, Mark had his flaws. But nobody is perfect, right?
Mark's parents had died when he was only 5. He was an orphan. He was an angry little kid who needed attention and love. Because there was no one to take care of him, he lived with an uncle and aunt. An uncle whose eyes I still see before me today. Bright, heated, full of anger.
On the day Mark appeared in class for the first time, the teacher said: "This is Mark. From today on, he's going to be in our class. And he is very naughty, but here he has to behave! Because otherwise we are going to teach him manners.'
I was eight years old and even I understood that you could not introduce a child like that. How could the teacher not know that? She immediately dashed all the boy's hopes. Hope that things would be better now. Hope that he would now make friends. I became angry and decided to be a good friend to Mark.
Mark was of course immediately bullied by the other children at school. Because of the teacher's words, everyone knew that Mark was naughty and he got all kinds of nicknames thrown at his head.
I can still remember his looks. A short, little boy with pink glasses. Who was smart enough to give a boy pink glasses? These are all questions that come to my mind now.
But they didn't back then. All I knew then was that I wanted to be friends with Mark, the boy who was bullied by everyone.
Weeks and months passed by and we became friends. Mark worked very poorly in school. As a result, he was also punished. One day the teacher hung a piece of paper around his neck with the words "I'm stupid" and he had to walk all over the corridors of the school so that everyone could see it. Who? Who had trained these teachers anyway?!
Mark's uncle had to go to school almost every day because there were complaints every day:
He had fought with someone. But nobody talked about the fact that he hit the boy who was bullying him.
He had cheated on a test. But that he had cheated because he didn't want to be called "stupid" anymore, no one saw.
He didn't answer in class when the teacher asked him questions. But when he answered and it was wrong, everyone laughed at him. Didn't anyone see that?
Was I the only one?
Although I sat with Mark more often during our breaks at school, he didn't talk much. I didn't mind being friends with him. I was also bullied anyway (because I was skinny).
Then one day I asked him the question. A question I was afraid to ask.
'Mark, yesterday your uncle was at school because you had cheated. He was very angry.'
He stiffened and then nodded.
'Why do you cheat anyway?', I asked.
'I don't want to cheat. But if I get a failing grade, I get spanked. And if I score a little higher by cheating, then I still get spanked but less.'
I got goose bumps. I was never spanked as a child and I couldn't imagine what he had to put up with.
'Do you get spanked a lot Mark?'
He nodded. 'Just yesterday. With a wire. '
I got quiet about it. 'With a wire?', I whispered.
'Yes. And sometimes with a thick dog chain. Look.'
He rolled up his jeans. I could see from his face that it hurt him. And the image I saw then is forever etched in my memory. Long red swollen stripes on his legs. Threads on his lower leg. On his thigh.
He always wore a long-sleeved shirt under his uniform. That day we sat in a corner of the school where no one saw us and he took off his uniform and shirt. I almost fainted. The same stripes (blood was still coming out of some of them) on his back, on his arms, his neck.
'Mark! Surely this is not allowed! Is this why you always have to put on a long sleeve shirt? So no one sees this?'
He nodded.
'Does your aunt know this?'
'Yes. When my uncle has hit me, she sometimes puts pepper on it too.'
I got tears in my eyes.
'Does the teacher know this?'
He nodded. I saw a few tears glistening in his eyes, but he tried to keep strong.
'Mark, you must not cheat anymore.'
I held his hand. 'I'll help you.'
Two hopeless eyes looked up at me and I saw that he was touched. He was touched because no one had ever held his hand so lovingly.
'Stay away from me.', he said. 'I am stupid.'
And he ran away.
As an 8-year-old, I didn't know what to do. I didn't tell anyone, but for the next few days I hardly slept. I didn't know who to talk to about it. Who could help him?
Shortly after the conversation between me and Mark, however, something terrible happened at school.
At that time, we still had a subject called "Agriculture" at school. Actually, we were supposed to do something creative in that hour, but because the school had no creative teachers who could teach us, we did agriculture. The vegetables we grew were sold and the money went into the school treasury.
So one day we were busy in the garden. The boys with hoes and the girls with shovels. At one point, one of the boys started to tease Mark. He got angry and answered back. A quarrel started in which the boys began to fight. One of the boys pushed Mark backwards. And he fell to the ground. Right on a hoe. His neck got a deep gash and blood gushed out. Everyone ran away screaming. A teacher held a sweater pressed against his neck, but far too much blood spurted out.
While everyone was screaming and running around in panic, teachers rushing to call an ambulance and the police of course, I stood still. I was facing Mark and the only thing I heard was a whooshing sound. The only thing I saw at that moment was Mark's face, his eyes. He was not crying, did not show any emotion. He stood still with his head bowed and eyes fixed on me. They were eyes that wanted to tell me something. Eyes that were broken, that didn't want to live anymore, that had given up hope. Eyes that no longer cared about what people did to him. I looked at him, I wanted to hug him, to tell him that I sympathize and that it will be okay. But a teacher pulled me away from him and they dragged him to the car to drive to the hospital. I felt empty. I sat down on the sidewalk of the school and tears rolled down my cheeks. It pained me that I had not been able to do anything more for Mark.
I never saw Mark again after that day. After the incident with the hoe he wasn't allowed in our school anymore and the subject "agriculture" was removed from the curriculum.
We heard that he had survived the accident and would move to Guyana. But after that we never heard anything.
I have always wondered what became of him. Every time I think about him, I get angry. Angry at his uncle and aunt, angry at the teachers at school. Why didn't anyone give him the love he was looking for?
If his uncle and aunt didn't want to take care of him, why wasn't he placed in an orphanage?
Unfortunately these incidents occur very often. And in Suriname there are not many institutions that do something for these children. My heart bleeds when I see a child that is spanked. And as I get older and older, I stand up for children more and more.
I now don't hesitate to contact the police if a parent is abusing a child. I do everything I can to help the child as much as possible. Maybe that's also because of my guilt about Mark. If I had told my parents about this at the time, maybe they could have done more for him? I don't know.
But through this story I also want to request to everyone not to keep their mouths shut. Do not turn your back on a child who is suffering. Help if you can.
Children are so sweet and nice. Why mistreat them?
Not everyone deserves to have children. Unfortunately, that is a truth.
I pray for Mark to be well, wherever he is. 💙