Maria. #2039

She came from Guatamala, and along with her husband, Carlos, she brought her five surviving children. they were very poor and her oldest boy had been killed by a landmine left over from a previous revolution. Together the family walked here to Vancouver. A journey that took them several months.
Along the way her one year old daughter died. But in spite of the incredible hardships involved with walking such a distance, they arrived two years ago. Because they were refugees their claim with immigration would take years to process during wich time they are forbiden to accept welfare.
Not being able to get support or work they lived on the streets. Their children ended up in child servies where the oldest girl died of hepititis last winter.
Without their children they got caught up in the drugs and street scene of the homeless. Carlos left her and she thought he moved to Montreal with another woman.
Left on her own she became another of the faceless prostitutes walking along Hastings Street. Addicted to drugs she lived behind dumpsters and in stairways where she worked her trade in return for drugs.
I met her on one of my walks through the area. Sometimes I go as myself and just watch and listen. Other times I go as Thanatos and seek out those I have helped. To talk and listen and see what I can learn.
I had scared her when I came apon her behind a dumpster. She called me "Padre del Morte." Father Death. She told me how in South America the figure of death is venerated like a saint and she thought that my coming to her was a sign from heaven.
I gave her a box of granola bars that she devoured as she told me her story. I listened and with her english and my bad spanish I listened as she told of the hardships she had faced. She said she was alright for the night, she would find a shelter that would take her. I gave her one of my little cards and made a mental note to watch for her again.

Today I received a message on myspace from a social worker with a small first nations agency here in the city. The worker had seen the article about me in the paper last week and had several of her 'clients' who had my little slips of paper with them and had told her about me. She gave me a number and requested I call her regarding a young latino girl named Maria.

I phoned her this afternoon.
She told me that Maria had been found a few days ago behind a dumpster, dead from a drug overdose. They were unsure of exactly when she had died but it had been several days before she was found when they emptied the dumpster.
The social worker had been notified because Maria had one of her cards on her. She also had one of mine so the worker thought she would talk with me if possible.

Maria will be buried in a local cemetary later this week. A small white cross will be placed on it. No name. No mention of who she was. Just a number.
#2039
When spring comes a small square stone will replace the cross, marked with the number. All that will ever show that a human being named Maria once lived and died here.
She was 19 years old.

I am fighting a war. There willl be casulties in this war. It will not be easy nor will it be quick. There are no quick solutions to the problems here. Busting heads and scaring bad guys will do little to ease the suffering of those like Maria. To effect change will take time on my part and work.

I do this for those who die for no reason. For those who suffer. So others, like Maria will survive.

#2039

De Oppresso Liber to liberate the oppressed.

I blame immigration for this more then anything. I'll admit I don't completely know how it works, but refugees should be quickly pushed through the system so they can get some welfare.

They can't be expected to just got on their feet by themselves with no back-up at all.

This could so easily have been the story of my family, if we hadn't gotten lucky and arrived as landed immigrants...

Man, I love Canada, but there are still so many people to help...