Milena Moser about our differences: Strange children

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This year Victor dedicated his altar to children. Children who are victims of violence, regardless of its type: domestic or systemic, arbitrary, targeted, physical, emotional and even self-inflicted.

Victor was such a child. The indigenous roots that his mother tried so hard to hide were unmistakable in him. She beat him so brutally that his little heart began to beat too fast from fear. Like a hummingbird. A medical examination revealed not only that, but also an alarming amount of bruises and bruises. At that time, in Catholic Mexico, it took a long time before a child was taken from his parents. But Victor was temporarily sent to live with his grandmother, who loved him for who he was. And who immediately sent him to the shamans.

His grandmother saved him, his culture saved him, art saved him. When he first visited a museum at the age of six or seven, he knew he wanted to become an artist. He saved for his first box of paints for more than a year, then he had to paint in secret at night. His mother, to whom he was sent back, tore up his drawings whenever she found them.

“I was laughed at, beaten and tortured at home and at school,” says Victor. “Because I wasn’t who I was supposed to be. Not what they wanted me to be.”

How many children around the world feel like this, exactly like this? No matter how well education is provided, social isolation and bullying increase at the same rate. Children want to belong, they want to be part of a community, they want to be accepted, valued and loved. It is more of a desire; it is necessary for survival. But sometimes something else is stronger. Something that cannot be suppressed even by force. Inner confidence, melancholy, a piece of the soul that cannot be removed with tweezers.

I was such a child too. Books saved me: first I read, and then I wrote. Sometimes I recognize myself. If the situation allows, I take this child, this young man aside and say: “Your time has not come yet. Your time has not yet come, but it is yet to come. Trust me.” And sometimes, years or decades later, I actually get confirmation: “Do you remember? You were right.”

It’s Victor’s time. My time has come. But many others will never have the opportunity to become who they are. Or live at all. “I knew other kids like me,” Victor says. “But they could not withstand the pressure from outside, they could never become who they were meant to be. Some became depressed and self-destructive.” What gave him the strength to persist? What am I?

We were, we are not stronger than others. But we had allies. We had shelters, at least in our fantasies. Research on resilience shows that it is possible to survive, and even more so, to find oneself even in the most unfavorable circumstances. All it takes is one person, just one person, who believes in a child for him to thrive. Victor picks up the image of the blossom: the hummingbird he created for his altar visits all flowers, regardless of their color, shape or scent.

Source: Blick