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In Togo, a 10-Year-Old's Muted Cry: 'I Couldn't Take Any More'


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"In our country, when a girl gets married, she has to have money and clothes," she said. "That's our culture."
She said she didn't know if Adiza had been beaten. "I can't tell who is telling the truth and who is lying," she said.
Togo passed a law banning child trafficking in 2005, and about 20 people -- mostly women -- have been prosecuted since then for trafficking children across Togo's borders, said Abra Tekpo Agbezo, head of the national police department's child protection unit.
But, she said, not a single case of internal trafficking has been prosecuted, even though her officers go out an average of twice a week to rescue girls in domestic service who are being abused.
"This is something that has been going on for a long time," Agbezo said. "It will take even longer for people to change their attitudes."
Wuregawu, sipping a milky drink from a big plastic cup, said she had no idea it was illegal for a 10-year-old child to work.
"I am not aware of those legal things," she said, laughing heartily.
'Tip of the Iceberg'
When Adiza ran away from Abdulai's house, the food vendor who saw her crying and listened to her story took her to a local political official. He called the Oasis Center, the largest of several shelters for abused children in Lome.
Run by a Swiss charity, Terre des Hommes, the center shelters more than 600 children a year -- more than 400 of them girls, mostly abused domestic workers.
"These are just the ones we reach," said Jerome Combes, the organization's head in Togo. "It's just the tip of the iceberg."
Combes said that the shelter's social workers and lawyer try to investigate each case but that it's often impossible. They notify police about the worst cases of abuse. But mostly they try to make the girls safe, negotiate for back wages and tell employers about the child labor laws.
In Adiza's case, center officials found Abdulai and urged her to come in for mediation. She came to the office and paid Adiza an additional $42, the balance of her wages. They were trying to track down what happened to the money she paid Wuregawu.
Interviewed several times over the course of a week, Adiza answered questions with one word or a nod, fiddling with her hands and picking absently at her toes.
She said she would like to learn to be a seamstress and make dresses back in her village. But at the shelter she has been making Christmas decorations and learning carols in French.
Sometimes she and the other girls put on little blue soccer uniforms and head to Lome's wide, palm-lined beach to kick a ball around. Adiza rarely smiles, but on the beach, playing with her friends, she sometimes laughs so hard she doubles over.
Combes said Adiza's options are limited. At 10, she is far too young to work legally, and in the local culture, she is seen as too old to start school.
It is almost certain, Combes said, that when Adiza leaves the shelter she will end up cleaning someone else's house. So the center will tell her about her rights and how to avoid being exploited. "The best we can do is to teach her to protect herself," he said.







