I remember the first day I encountered Danny.  It was early one evening as I walked through La Terminal in Guatemala City with two volunteers.  A small boy darted across our path from nowhere, disappearing quickly into a dark alleyway.

We settled on three wooden planks, which were makeshift surfaces by day for selling flowers.  Opening a large rucksack, we laid out various worksheets for the children—colourful activities designed to engage and inspire them.  Alongside the worksheets were a few simple games.  It wasn't long before about ten children gathered around us, their laughter filling the air as they played games and chattered excitedly about their day.

A short while later, Danny reappeared, clutching a small plastic football. With an unbridled enthusiasm that only a child can possess, he began playing with several boys his age in the car park area in front of us.

Danny was quiet. He chose his words sparingly but expressed himself with ease as he called for the ball and complained when one of his friends missed a golden opportunity to score.  His love for football was evident in his every movement—each kick of the ball spoke volumes about his passion and joy for the game.

Later that evening, I conversed with his siblings—his brother, Carlos, and sisters, Amanda and Roxanne. They expressed concern about Danny spending increasing amounts of time on the streets. There was a consensus among them that his current path might lead to harm or involve him in activities inappropriate for someone his age.

That night marked the beginning of my journey with Danny, a young boy who rarely smiled and seemed driven by an unspoken need to prove something to the world.

As the years unfolded, Danny faced many trials and temptations.  The chaotic nature of his family life offered little stability or the nurturing environment he needed to thrive.  He rejected school numerous times—yet each rejection was followed by attempts to reintegrate and learn.

Despite these challenges, it was clear to me that Danny was exceptionally bright. He possessed a sharp mind, was quick on his feet, and had streetwise instincts that served him well in navigating his surroundings. His curiosity led to endless questions about the world and how things worked—an inquisitive nature that hinted at boundless potential if only channelled into the right opportunities.

Life seemed to perpetually challenge Danny, and he often voiced his feeling of not belonging to this world.  He yearned for something beyond his daily existence in La Terminal, the bustling heart of Guatemala City's central market area.

Watching him lurch from one struggle to another was heart-wrenching.  Fights, beatings, death threats, and the seductive allure of street life eventually wore him down.  The streets claimed him full-time as he succumbed to their dangerous embrace.

Now 17, Danny had resigned himself to life on the streets, with all its inherent perils and destructive habits.  Those of us who cared for him were deeply concerned about his health and safety.  The risks loomed large: the violence, substance abuse, and constant exposure to danger weighed heavily on him—and on our hearts.

Despite it all, there remained a glimmer in Danny's eyes—a hint of the hopeful spirit that once aspired for more.

Before returning to the UK, I visited Danny earlier this month.  He was in rough shape after being hit by a car, and his injuries were severe enough that I'd helped his brother take him to the emergency department at the main city hospital.  Unable to walk and in a lot of pain, Danny looked defeated.

Unfortunately, the hospital sent him right back to the streets.  This dismissal felt like just another rejection—a painful reminder to Danny of his perceived worthlessness.

As the weeks passed, his health continued to decline. Just before I departed for the UK, I made an impassioned plea for him to enter a rehab program. Having buried other members of his family, it pained me deeply to think that without help, I might soon be planning Danny’s funeral. The harsh truth lingered between us like an unspoken weight.

Wanting to lift the mood even slightly, I asked Danny to recall a time when he was most happy.

Danny immediately took me back to 2022, recounting with great fondness the trip he, his brother Carlos, and I had taken to Rio Dulce—a breathtaking river that winds its way to the Caribbean coast.  My friends, Sheldon and Pamela, had graciously offered us a cabin at their tranquil river resort.

For Danny, this journey was an eye-opener.  His world expanded beyond the confines of La Terminal in a way he'd never experienced before.  As we travelled through fields dotted with cows and vast mountains stretching toward the sky, I could see his anticipation building.  Upon reaching the river, he couldn’t wait to leap out of the car and take it all in. The sight filled him with wonder, and for the first time in ages, I saw him smile—a pure expression of joy I'd seldom witnessed.

On our last day at Rio Dulce, something extraordinary happened with Danny. He no longer seemed burdened by the weight of street life; he stood taller, lighter, and free. In that moment, it became clear to me that he didn't belong to the chaotic world of La Terminal.

As if out of nowhere, Danny came running toward me, enveloping me in a heartfelt hug and holding on tight. It was a special moment filled with warmth and understanding.  In his embrace, I felt hope—a glimmer that perhaps now he could see life in a new light, one filled with possibilities beyond his previous experiences.  There was a chance for change, and as we parted from the river's side, I believed this newfound sense of freedom could be a turning point for Danny's future.

Sadly, the hope that once flickered for Danny eventually dimmed. The pull of the streets proved too powerful, ensnaring him once again in its relentless embrace. His life slipped back into emptiness, despite our tireless efforts to help.

On a Saturday afternoon, Juan Carlos, a devoted prevention worker with the SKDGuatemala project, rushed Danny to the hospital. His body was failing him, and despite the valiant efforts of the overwhelmed hospital staff, Danny lost his battle for survival and passed on to stand before God.

Today, family, friends, and the SKDGuatemala team gathered to carry Danny's body to its final resting place in the General Cemetery of Guatemala City. It was a sombre and distressing affair for everyone involved.

Due to circumstances beyond my control, I could not change my flight to be with Danny during his final moments on Earth. I feel guilty for my absence, but I hold onto the memories of those brief moments when he felt lighter and free by the river.

As I sit here in the UK, preparing to return to my home in Guatemala tomorrow, I reflect on Danny's life. My mind is filled with lingering questions—could we have done more? Did we love him too much or not enough? The familiar "if only" conversations echo within me, each one still wishing this chapter had a different ending.

Danny, we will miss you deeply, and your life will not be forgotten. Your spirit remains etched in our memories, and your story continues to inspire our efforts. While we mourn your loss, we also celebrate the moments of joy and freedom you briefly tasted. Rest assured that your journey has left an indelible mark on us all.  I hope that writing this not only helps me verbalise my feelings but also leaves a mark in history to your life and struggle.  Rest in peace, dear Danny.

Crossing the land border from El Salvador to Honduras has generally been straightforward, but this trip was a different story. A recent shift in policy by the Honduran government now mandates British citizens to obtain a visa, a retaliatory measure following the UK's decision to require visas for Honduran nationals entering the UK. Navigating the visa process for Honduras is no small task and certainly not meant for the faint-hearted.

The extensive documentation required for each crossing has made travelling to Honduras nearly impossible for charitable endeavours over the past year. It is disheartening that there is no flexibility or consideration for charity workers seeking entry, and unfortunately, no support or advice from the British Embassy in Guatemala.

Nevertheless, I decided to attempt the border crossing without a visa, hoping the immigration officials would be more accommodating than their counterparts at the embassy in Guatemala City. If that plan failed, my alternative was to spend several days in El Salvador, where I could commence my study on street-living children instead.

I wasn't alone on this journey; Herbert, his daughter Valerie, and Frank, the new Director of SKDGuatemala, joined me. Their practical assistance would be invaluable in carrying out the evaluations I intend to start in both countries.

Given the uncertainty surrounding my potential entry into Honduras, my fellow travellers prudently remained on the El Salvador side of the border, ready to regroup if I were turned away.

To my delight and surprise, I was warmly received by a young female immigration officer in Honduras. With a friendly stamp on my passport, she welcomed me into the country, easing my concerns.

Eager to reunite, I called Herbert, inviting him, Valerie, and Frank to proceed through El Salvador immigration and join me in Honduras. As I waited for about ten minutes, anticipating their arrival, I stood by the immigration office, observing the steady flow of cars. A group of young boys energetically approached each vehicle, offering parking assistance and keeping a watchful eye over the cars.

"Hi there!" I heard, turning to meet the gaze of a young man who greeted me in English and offered his translation services. Introducing himself as Marcos, he shared that he had spent most of his life in the USA but was originally from Mexico. His travels through Central America brought him to this border, where he fell for the charm of Honduras and its lifestyle. Marcos had settled into a rhythm of earning a modest living at the border, enough to sustain his daily needs and cover his rent.

As we chatted, two of the boys working alongside Marcos approached, offering their assistance. By now, Marcos realised I spoke Spanish, and we both assured the boys that I was fine. This understanding opened the door to a more profound conversation about how Marcos and the boys operated at the border.

Soon, we were joined by Jose, a spirited nine-year-old with a bright and engaging smile. He looked up at me with curious eyes before quickly immersing himself in our conversation, adding his own lively energy to the exchange.

As the next car arrived, the boys swiftly dashed off to offer their services. Marcos lingered, continuing our conversation, and unfolded a deeper glimpse into life at the border. He explained that while most of the boys lived with families on the Honduran side, Jose was left to fend for himself on the streets. The details of why he had run away from home remained a mystery, but Marcos revealed the harsh reality of Jose's current life—he was being used as a drug mule, shuttling substances from one side of the border to the other.

By the time my travel companions arrived, I had absorbed a whirlwind of information from Marcos and the boys about the inner workings of the border. In just ten minutes, I learned about their earnings, living situations, the movement of drugs, and, most heart-wrenchingly, Jose's plight on the streets.

As we journeyed from the border to the capital, Tegucigalpa, I had ample time to reflect on the conversations and the stark realities I had just witnessed. Leaving Jose behind was a heavy decision; knowing a wonderful children's home in the city that could readily welcome him made it even harder.

As we travelled towards Tegucigalpa, our car ride sparked discussions about our mission to document the true scale of children living on the streets of Central America. This endeavour was seen as a vital step, one that would eventually extend into South America and beyond, highlighting the global issue of street-connected children.

Our reflections naturally touched on the myriad reasons kids find themselves on the streets, including a haunting story shared by Frank. He recounted how a friend from church was grappling with the devastating news of his fifteen-year-old daughter's abduction while she was simply running an errand to the local shop. Tragically, her story echoes that of countless children in Central America who go missing daily.

Statistics from PGN, Guatemala's government body for child protection services, reveal that while child abductions have seen a decline since 2019, the numbers remain distressingly high. Each day, ten children are reported missing in Guatemala, and shockingly, two of them are never found. The Alerta Alba-Keneth, Guatemala's missing child alert system, has been crucial in locating and reuniting many children with their families, but much work remains to safeguard the vulnerable and prevent such disappearances.

As we drove on, there was a shared consensus among us: despite the significant strides made in Guatemala to bring the number of street-living children down to zero, the journey is far from over. There remains a vast number of children still in need of assistance and protection.

We anticipate that our comprehensive study will require around twenty years to complete, but we remain hopeful. With the support of various national and international commissions and the implementation of effective strategies, there is a genuine possibility of achieving a significant reduction in the number of street children. 

Our dream and vision are clear—a world where no child lives on the streets. The challenge before us is enormous, but our passion and determination to see this dream realised are equally powerful. With your help and unwavering support, we aim to reach out to those children whom society has forgotten, offering them hope and a chance at a better life.

Childhood memories often paint a vivid mosaic of our early years. For many, these recollections are filled with joy—games played under the sun, secret dens crafted from blankets, and the mischievous tricks shared among friends. Yet, for others, these memories are tinged with shadows, marked by experiences of bullying, rejection, abuse, and loss.

While we can't rewrite the past, no matter how much we might yearn for different circumstances or choices, we are left to embrace what has shaped us. All we can do is strive to make the best of what lies ahead, using the lessons from our past as stepping stones for a better future.

When I speak to children about my own childhood, I share how enduring adversity, neglect, and suffering has given me a deep empathy for those enduring similar hardships. Although I can never fully grasp the unique experiences of every child, given their distinct circumstances, I can extend a compassionate offer of understanding. I aim to convey to a child what I imagine I would feel if I were in their situation. I desire to walk alongside them in spirit and offer my perspective, grounded in my own journey and faith in a God who does precisely the same.

Establishing a connection between my own life experiences and those of a child is a cornerstone of our mentoring programme. Each mentor receives training to step into the shoes of the child they aim to guide, to really understand what it would be like to be that child. For many, this involves numerous listening and learning sessions, genuinely hearing the child's story. It also means visiting their homes to understand the unique environments in which these children live. This holistic approach ensures mentors can offer genuine support rooted in an authentic appreciation of the child's world.

This week, my thoughts have been deeply stirred by the beautiful transformation I witnessed in a child attending the mentoring centre in Guatemala City.

The first time I saw Jesus, he was just a year old, living in a cardboard box on the street while his mother worked nearby. He had fallen asleep against the edge of the box, which was buckling under his tiny weight. The photo I took of him captured an image that brought profound sadness each time I looked at it. Yet, it also served as a poignant reminder of my calling—to make a meaningful difference in the lives of children like him.

Jesus is about to celebrate his tenth birthday, and this milestone will drastically differ from any he has experienced. While his living situation remains unchanged—still sharing a single bed with his parents and brother in a tin shack no larger than the bed itself—there has been a profound shift in his perspective.

The true transformation lies in his newfound understanding of his own worth. No longer does he see himself as worthless, as he once did. He now knows that he is valued and that someone genuinely cares about him. This revelation has brought about a beautiful change in his outlook on life, illuminating his world in ways that no physical change ever could.

The afternoon sessions at the mentoring centre were in full swing when Jesus stepped away from the games to converse with Sony, the Director of the SKDGuatemala project. With a heavy heart, Jesus shared his feelings of being overlooked for mentorship, attributing it to a perceived lack of value in himself—a sentiment rooted in his past experiences.

This candid moment highlighted Jesus's deep emotional struggles and underscored the importance of mentorship in reshaping a child's sense of self-worth.

As Sony listened to Jesus and delved into the reasons behind his feelings, an idea began to form. Could he extend his mentorship to another child? When Sony offered to mentor Jesus, it took a while for the offer to register with him fully. Slowly but surely, the realisation that someone had noticed him and was willing to walk alongside him unlocked a profound emotional response.

For the first time, Jesus felt truly loved and accepted. This newfound connection sparked a transformation in him. Although his external circumstances remained unchanged, his outlook shifted dramatically. With this change in perspective, his true self began to blossom, revealing a boy who was now full of hope and potential.

He was no longer the child confined to a box. A helping hand enabled him to break free from the constraints that had defined his life for many years. Now, thanks to your unwavering support, he is free to experience life from a refreshing new perspective, one filled with acceptance, hope and opportunity.

There are countless other children like Jesús, whose lives hang in the balance, awaiting the transformative power of a mentor willing to give just one hour a week. Your sponsorship of the mentoring programme will provide the necessary resources and fund special activities that create unforgettable, positive childhood memories.

Your support doesn’t just change lives—it breathes new life into futures that once seemed hopeless. Thank you for making such an incredible difference.

Over the years, many people have questioned me about why children and young people decide to live on the streets.  These resilient souls navigate a world many question, but few truly understand. With its raw and untamed allure, the street seduces them into its embrace, offering a kind of liberated survival on the fringes of society. Yet beneath its rough exterior lies a harsh paradox—leaving is as formidable as surviving.

This past week, I have been helping 17-year-old Ruben try and make positive choices about leaving the streets. Street life has been his teacher and his tormentor, but a recent, cruel twist had knocked him, quite literally, onto the harsh reality of his chosen path. A car, in a reckless dance with fate, had left him sprawling, his leg fractured, his body an aching map of bruises.

I went with his older brother, and together, we carried him to my car and drove him to the hospital.  Two days before, he had been taken there by the “Bomberos”, the local volunteer fire and rescue brigade, but had signed himself out due to lack of help and the many hours he had to wait.  There was also the draw to the familiar unpredictability of the streets.

On returning him to the hospital and watching his brother wheel him into the emergency department on a stretcher, I was expecting a lengthy wait outside.  About half an hour later, both appeared at the entrance to the emergency department, and I pulled the car up and lifted Ruben back into the car.

He was unable to be cared for as he had signed a release form the day before and, despite not being able to walk due to his broken leg, was told to come back in three months after the Christmas and New Year celebrations.  I was rendered speechless.

I could see he was upset, but was trying to maintain his usual steely front and asked to be taken back to the streets.  His brother and I pleaded with him, knowing that infections and possible complications could lead to more uncomfortable days ahead.

But here’s where the story takes a heartwarming twist. Just a couple of days later, his sister stepped in, and whatever magic she worked it convinced him to return home - a modest tin shack in the heart of La Terminal, Guatemala City. It’s not much, but it’s a start - a safe haven surrounded by family.

I visited him the following day and he seemed to be quite the different youth I have known for many years.  He smiled, a rare occurrence indeed and one that suggested to me he was happier and feeling cared for.  He was lying on a metal bed frame, with some cardboard on top of his mattress.  I imagined what it would be like to be lying in a tiny tin shack with no windows and nothing to do.  There is not even a toilet for him to use.

Discussing this with two of our older youth who have been volunteering with us for a while led to a plan of action to buy him a mattress, some craft items and wool to make friendship bands.

The streets don’t easily loosen their grasp, but Ruben has now survived a week without drugs, and already I can see the difference in him.  Not only is he much chattier than I have ever seen him before, but he is also asking for prayer.  And prayer he will need!

If we can keep him focused on the better road ahead and continue to provide some resources to him and his sister, I believe he can make it.

It's been quite a while since my last blog entry. I believe it was before I immersed myself into the whirlwind of Radio Christmas, and so much has unfolded since then.

The Christmas break, which extended into January, was brimming with adventures as we embarked on trips with three visitors from the UK and Moses in tow. This holiday marked a special occasion for Moses: the first proper vacation he had experienced in a long time. A court order granted me custody of him for ten days, allowing us this rare opportunity.

Now a tall and muscular 17-year-old, Moses had eagerly awaited this holiday, meticulously planning every detail over several weeks. Our time with the three volunteers offered a much-needed break from the relentless demands of the ministry, allowing us to savour life's simpler pleasures and giving Moses a chance to start learning how to drive.

Once we returned to the capital, we were all hands on deck as we set about reconnecting with the children and families in the mentoring programme. Our time away recharged us, readying us for the work ahead and reminding us of the importance of these vital relationships.

Our team may be smaller this year, but the excitement for the challenges ahead is palpable. The task of getting 120 children back into school or enrolling newcomers for their first academic adventure is formidable. Our various teams have started crafting plans to reopen the mentoring centres.

I've been particularly eager to hit the streets at night to assess the current situation and understand how those still living on the streets have fared over the last month. Walking through La Terminal to reach "las casitas" (the little houses) was supposed to be a quick trip, but it stretched into nearly two hours as people stopped to talk, some requesting prayers along the way.

Eventually, we reached the dark alleyway where 24 families reside. This place bore the scars of a devastating fire in December that razed it within minutes. Thankfully, all the families were alerted and escaped just in time. Though their material possessions were lost, the most important thing was their lives were spared. The aftermath is now a haunting landscape of charred wood and twisted metal, serving as a stark reminder of the fragility of their circumstances.

Thanks to the incredible generosity of The Forge Church in Suffolk and many others across the UK, we were able to extend immediate support to the families in need. In those critical first days, we provided essentials like food, bedding, and clothing while collaborating with The Door of Hope charity and the municipal government to prioritise rebuilding their homes.

Now, seeing the tangible impact of those donations fills me with gratitude; I recorded a short video thanking everyone who contributed to the appeal. As I walked through the area, the transformation was evident; some of the little houses—home to children in our mentoring program—radiate the warmth and inviting scent of freshly cut pine.

A few homes have even been reconnected with electricity, bringing a sense of comfort and normalcy back to these resilient families. Witnessing their steps toward a brighter future embodying hope and renewal amidst adversity is heartwarming.  WATCH THE VIDEO

Not everyone shared in the newfound sense of hope, as I noticed Carlos trudging up the alleyway, seemingly bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders. His demeanour spoke volumes, evoking a deep sadness in me. It was clear that Carlos wasn’t in a good place. Working as a refuse collector meant long, gruelling days throughout the city, and the ingrained dirt on his skin was a testament to those hard hours. It reminded me of a past conversation with him, where he lamented the futility of showering, as the next day always brought the same grime.

Carlos had been on a promising path, having completed a rehabilitation program and initiating better plans for his future. Yet, I knew returning to La Terminal could easily pull him back into the grips of old habits, with street life’s familiar temptations looming large.

I sat with Carlos in his modestly constructed home, a tin shack no larger than 2m x 4m, its sparseness evident. At the far end, he'd fashioned a bed out of plastic boxes, topped with an old metal frame that had somehow survived two devastating fires. Carlos appeared to have surrendered to life's hardships, merely existing from one day to the next. The spark of hope I'd witnessed in him last year seemed extinguished.

His girlfriend had recently given birth to his son, a child Carlos desperately wanted to support and be around, despite her now living with a new boyfriend. The weight of his despair and deepening sense of loss was etched across his face. It was challenging to reach him and instil any hope for the New Year. Yet, I understood that sometimes, just being present was enough.

Ultimately, it was Carlos’s life to live. We can only stand by, offering support and possible solutions. Each individual is responsible for making those "better" life choices.

Walking away from Carlos was heart-wrenching, as every part of me wanted to do more, to somehow make everything better for him. Yet, I knew our journey was far from over; we were destined to encounter more young people ensnared in desperate circumstances, facing overwhelming need, pain, and challenges.

Living and working here, dedicated to these children and young people is truly an honour. Even as many of them are in the transition into early adulthood, our care doesn't wane. It simply means their options may become fewer, making our support all the more crucial in their evolving journey.

As the sun glistens over the still water in the Royal Victoria Dock in London´s East End, I stand, grasping hold of the cold iron railings that separate the dock from the walkway.  The towering Stothert & Pitt cranes cast long, elegant reflections in the water below—silent sentinels of a bygone era.  I close my eyes for a moment, trying to picture the bustling energy of this place when it first opened in 1855, a lifeline for steamships connecting trade and industry to the nation's growing railway network.

Today, I know emotions will run deep.  After a short visit to Customs House to apply for a new passport, I prepare to walk the streets of the East End, paths that whisper stories of childhood struggle and resilience.  

My work with street-living children in Central America has stirred something within me, raising questions that echo in my heart: Why do systems often trap people in cycles of poverty?  And how can we create spaces where freedom is more than just a dream, but a doorway to transformation?

As I embark on what may become a five- or six-year journey into the history of street-living children, I find myself deeply moved by the haunting stories of those who once wandered the streets of London in the 1800s.  The voices of social historians paint a vivid and sobering portrait of young lives shaped by hardship, neglect, and abuse.  Thousands of children were trying to survive in the shadows of the city’s rapid expansion.

What strikes me most is the unsettling familiarity of their plight.  The faces and names may change, the accents differ, but the struggles of those children mirror the same pain and poverty I have witnessed among street-living children in Mexico City, Guatemala City, Tegucigalpa, Honduras, and Bogotá, Colombia.  Across time and continents, their stories echo each other with tales of survival, vulnerability, and the desperate hope that merely existing one more day might lead to a brighter future.

The cobbled streets of Victorian London and the cracked pavements of modern Guatemala City appear, at first glance, worlds apart, separated by oceans and centuries.  Yet, as I delve deeper into the lives of the thousands of children who once called the soot-streaked alleys of 19th-century London home, I begin to see reflections, faint but unmistakable, in the eyes of the children I have worked with in Central America.

Then, as now, poverty was not merely an economic condition but a cage, confining generations within a cycle of invisibility and survival.  In London, young children sold matches or shoelaces to passersby, slept beneath bridges or in doorways, and evaded the brutal grasp of the workhouse.  

Today, their counterparts in Tegucigalpa or Guatemala City shine shoes at busy intersections, beg at bus terminals, or rummage through piles of rotting rubbish for scraps, haunted by the same hunger, fear, and fragile hope.  Both then and now, systems intended to protect often failed them; families fractured under pressure, and society turned a blind eye until their stories became too loud to ignore.

Eager to grasp the spirit of London’s East End, I wander its winding streets, aware that so much of what once stood here has been swept away by waves of redevelopment.  Yet, now and then, a lone red or yellow brick building rises like a relic from another time.  These enduring structures, with their weathered facades and dignified symmetry, speak to the brilliance of neo-classical architects who once blended stone and vision with such grace. They are more than architectural curiosities; they are monuments to a turbulent chapter in Britain’s history, a time when the industrial revolution shattered the rhythm of rural life and lured thousands into the smoky heart of the city.

The stories of London’s street-living children are as numerous as they are heartbreaking. Thanks to the work of social historians and commentators, we are left with a vivid and often harrowing portrait of life in the East End during the height of urban poverty. These accounts reveal a world where childhood was fleeting and often cruel.

I was horrified to discover that the life expectancy for a child in this part of the city was a mere sixteen years.  Hunger gnawed at their stomachs, bitter winters claimed their fragile bodies, and unsafe, exploitative labour stole what little innocence they had left.  Among the most tragic were the young boys, some as young as five, who were forced into the narrow chimneys of the city’s fine homes, recruited as sweeps and destined for suffering.  Rarely did they live past ten.  For them, there were no warm beds, no safe havens, only soot, silence, and the shadow of early death.

My wandering steps lead me through the bustling present-day streets of London and into the heart of Tower Hamlets, where I find myself on Copperfield Road - a name bestowed in 1868 in honour of Charles Dickens’ beloved character, David Copperfield, whose story echoes the struggles of so many children of his time.

Here, nestled beside the quiet waters of the Regent’s Canal, stands the Ragged School Museum, a solemn yet inspiring tribute to what once was a lifeline for the city’s most vulnerable.  Within these brick walls, generations of homeless, orphaned, and destitute children - those once described as “raggedly clothed” - were given not just an education, but dignity, warmth, a hot meal, and a glimpse of hope.

As I wandered into the building, it still breathed with the echoes of chalk on slate, the whispered prayers of hungry children, and the tireless efforts of those who believed every child, no matter how poor, deserved a future.  The school desks were still in place, and the worn, creaky floorboards were testimony to thousands of children who had walked, run or skipped through this impressive building.

The Ragged School on Copperfield Road was the vision of the Christian philanthropist, Dr. Thomas Barnardo, a tireless advocate for the countless children surviving on London’s unforgiving streets.  Transforming a disused warehouse into a beacon of hope, Barnardo opened the school in 1877, dividing it into two sections, one for boys and one for girls.  The school provided free lessons and meals for thousands of impoverished children for over three decades until its closure in 1908. Barnardo’s mission was more than charity; it was compassion-based justice.

In 1867, Dr Barnardo invited the Earl of Shaftesbury, already a reformer in his own right, to encounter the stark realities of child homelessness in London.  What Shaftesbury saw deeply unsettled him: wide-eyed, shoeless and ragged children sleeping under canvas sheets, scavenging for survival.  Moved by his Christian convictions and stirred by Barnardo’s urgent call, Shaftesbury joined the effort.  Together, their faith ignited action, and their partnership laid the foundation for a movement that would forever change the fate of street-living children in Britain.

As I step out of the Ragged School Museum, the past still clinging gently to my thoughts, a lively school group rushes in behind me, their laughter echoing through the old hallway that once held rows of young children, sitting at desks and desperate to learn.  The space, now a modest gift shop and exhibition room, bears witness to the thousands of children who once found refuge and hope within its walls.

I linger outside, letting the group of children pass, and wait for the street to fall quiet so I can capture a photograph, a keepsake of what I feel is a sacred place.  Just then, a young mother walks by with her young daughter, hand in hand, likely unaware of the building’s profound legacy. They walk along the sun-baked pavement where once 600 hungry, barefoot, ragged children gathered daily for lessons, food, and warmth.

Two days later, with the echoes of history still stirring in my heart, I am welcomed into the warm hospitality of Dr. David and Mrs. Ann Barnardo, descendants of Dr. Thomas Barnardo himself.  Over lunch in their beautiful home in Surrey, we share memories, speak of Dr. Thomas Barnardo´s enduring legacy and the astonishing parallels between his mission in the slums of Victorian London and the work I’ve embraced with street children in Central America.

In that moment, the past and present gently fold into one another.  Two very different stories, centuries apart, yet bound by the same heartbeat of compassion.

As I drive back to Amersham, the countryside unfolding around me, I carry with me more than just the weight of history.  I carry a sense of calling.  What lies ahead is more than a study; it is the beginning of a journey—one that will stretch across continents and centuries.

Along the way, I will share with you the stories I uncover, the echoes of resilience, sorrow, and hope that still linger in the lives of street-living children across the world.  Together, we will explore not only what was, but what still can be.  We will explore how compassion, faith, and action can continue to change the story for those who have long been cast aside by family, friends and society.

For many children in Guatemala, “home” is not a house, but a rubbish dump. Growing up surrounded by waste, smoke, and danger, childhood quickly becomes about survival. Each day is a battle against hunger, illness, and the stigma of being invisible to the broader world.

But when we reach out, without prejudice and without judgment, something changes. A smile, a hot meal, a safe place to learn and play: these small acts tell a child, “You matter. You are not forgotten. There is hope.”

Today in church, I was reminded of how we should strive to help and impact the lives of those we come into contact with. The challenge is to step out of our comfort zone and go to places where we can make the most significant impact

We have seen lives transformed when children discover that there is a future beyond the rubbish dump. With some support, they can attend school, build confidence, and dream of surpassing their circumstances.

I think of Danilo, who grew up on a rubbish dump in Guatemala and who is now serving at RockUK, a Christian outdoor centre in Kent, in the United Kingdom. You can´t get more of a transformation than that!

If we work together, we can turn despair into hope and help every child see themselves not through the lens of where they were born but through the light of the possibilities ahead.

Yesterday, I was reminded just how fragile our lives can be.

I had travelled to visit Go Guatemala, an inspirational project working with around one hundred at-risk children and young people in the largest and most dangerous zones of Guatemala City - the notorious Zone 18.

To many people, Zone 18 is known for gangs, extortion and violence. Earlier this year, soldiers patrolled its streets after a wave of attacks that left police officers dead and schools closed.

But that is not what I saw.

I saw children painting pictures. I saw football shirts and school books. I heard laughter and the inevitable squabbles over games. I watched boys and girls doing exactly what children should be doing: enjoying themselves as they played together in a safe place.

As Herbert and I drove through Zone 18, I explained that Street Kids Direct has partnered with Go Guatemala for the past thirteen years. During the first five years, I volunteered every Saturday, running sports activities for the children.

Herbert has worked alongside me since 1993 and has helped develop systems that support our vision of reaching every street-living child in the world.

When we arrived, we were greeted by an incredible team of ladies and girls preparing a hot breakfast for the children. Inside one of the classrooms, Alex was in his element, speaking with humour and passion to a group of young people about the dangers of pornography.

Later, we sat together on a worn wooden bench outside the classroom. We wanted to hear how the project was growing, the victories and the challenges, and how Alex, his wife Evelyn, and their three children were coping.

Alex admitted that he does not sleep well.

The constant struggle to raise funds for the programme weighs heavily upon him. He and his wife, Evelyn, have given themselves wholeheartedly to this work, bringing hope to one of the city's most vulnerable communities.

As Herbert listened, he was beginning to understand just how fragile life can be for Alex and the young people he serves.

One of the things that impressed me most was Alex's commitment to visiting families in the community. He regularly walks the streets delivering food parcels, water filters and practical support. Depending on what donations arrive each week, some families also receive fresh fruit and vegetables.

Most families survive on just a few large containers of water each week, making clean drinking water a precious commodity.

As I watched the children playing all around us, I could not help but think how fragile their lives are.

The difference between a child flourishing and a child joining a gang can sometimes be frighteningly small. A loving family, a safe place to play, a mentor who believes in them, an education, a meal, or simply someone who knows their name can alter the direction of a life.

We often imagine that great changes come through grand gestures, but I have learned that they are more often found in small acts of faithfulness, repeated day after day.

Then Alex told us about last week.

He had been driving through Zone 18 delivering water containers when four youths on motorbikes began following him.

When he reached another of the area's many slums, they pulled up alongside him.

The teenagers drew their guns.

"What are you doing here?"

"How much do you pay the gang each time you come through?"

Being threatened at gunpoint is simply another part of working in Zone 18, something Alex has learned to live with over the seventeen years he has led Go Guatemala.

Alex explained that, many years ago, he could easily have been one of those young men.

His uncles were gang leaders. He grew up watching them control their territory at gunpoint. It would have been easy for him to join them and, because of his family connections, he would almost certainly have quickly risen through the ranks.

"It was God who changed all that for me," Alex said quietly.

He spoke about the violence and hardship of his childhood and how he believes God rescued him from gang life so that he could return to rescue others.

Alex explained to the young men that he was delivering donated water and could not afford to pay a gang tax every time he entered the community.

Eventually, after threatening to kill him if he ever returned, they let him leave.

The cost of that encounter was more than Alex's own safety.

He had to make the heartbreaking decision not to return to that community for the time being, meaning that the very families he was trying to help would no longer receive water and support.

Back at Go Guatemala, another surprise awaited him. A boy was waiting outside the centre with a cheap mobile phone.

Children are often used by gangs as messengers and runners. Alex immediately knew what it was.

The gang wanted him to keep the phone so they could contact him and demand a monthly payment to keep the centre operating.

Fortunately, one of the older young people from the project saw what was happening. Knowing that his own uncle held influence within another gang, he chased after the boy and returned the phone.

Alex was spared another threat.

As I sat opposite Alex and looked into his eyes, I could see that life had dealt him a difficult and painful hand. He was close to tears. But I could also see something else - resolve. A quiet determination to keep going, to keep serving, and to keep believing that the children of Zone 18 deserve a different future.

As Herbert and I drove away through the labyrinth of alleyways and roads that lead back into the heart of Guatemala City, we sat in thoughtful silence.

The children of Zone 18 reminded me that fragility and hope often live side by side.

But so did Alex. His life is fragile. The lives of the children are fragile. Our lives are fragile.

The Bible reminds us that our lives are "a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes" (James 4:14).

Perhaps that is why we should treasure every opportunity to love, encourage and protect those around us.

Yesterday, in one of the most misunderstood parts of Guatemala City, I was reminded that the strongest communities are not built by wealth or power.

They are built by ordinary people who refuse to give up on children.

And perhaps that is where hope is found.

There is something deeply moving about seeing young people give up their time, energy, and comfort to invest in the lives of children at risk.  It’s a powerful exchange, one that transforms not just the children but the volunteers themselves.

At Street Kids Direct, we have witnessed time and time again how young volunteers bring a unique energy, relatability, and authenticity to their roles.  They don’t come with all the answers, but they come with open hearts, and that makes all the difference.

Whether it’s playing games, offering tutoring, simply listening, or showing up week after week, their presence speaks volumes to children who have grown up feeling invisible.  For a child who has experienced abandonment or trauma, the consistent care of a young volunteer can begin to rewrite the narrative.  It says, “You’re worth my time. You are important. I see you.”

This week, I witnessed something truly special—something that reminds me why we do what we do.

I have recently returned from the UK after seven weeks away and brought with me a stash of chocolates and sweets for the children in our mentoring centre.  As I approached the door, I could already hear the excited squeals from inside.  The moment I stepped in, I was swarmed with hugs from children, staff, and volunteers.  The joy was electric.  But the real magic was waiting in one of the activity rooms.

There stood Jonathan—now 19 years old—guiding a group of younger children through a homemade science experiment.  He had vinegar in a bottle and baking soda in a balloon. As the two substances combined, the balloon inflated, and the room erupted with laughter and awe.  Their little eyes lit up.  Their imaginations sparked, then each child had the opportunity to reproduce the experiment with their ingredients and a plastic bottle.

Six years ago, I did the very same experiment with Jonathan when he was one of the children.  And now here he was, taking the lead, teaching with confidence, patience, and joy.  The younger ones called him “Profe” (teacher), and he beamed with pride.

That’s the power of investing in a child.  That’s the transforming nature of mentoring.

As I made my way to the entrance hall, I was greeted by Edwin, one of the older boys.  His presence brought both relief and concern. Edwin had dropped out of our programme, and we feared he was heading in a dangerous direction—one we’ve sadly seen so many times before.

I couldn’t help but think of José, a boy much like Edwin, who drifted in and out of school, and in and out of the mentoring centre and was gradually seduced by the lure of the street. Eventually, the streets claimed him. One afternoon, we heard the sirens and then came the tragic news: José had been killed just metres from our centre.  Another young life lost to gang violence.  I saw echoes of that same risk in Edwin.

But then something unexpected happened.

Realising he felt out of place among the younger kids, I gave Edwin a simple task: manage the distribution of the chocolates and sweets.  Suddenly, he had purpose.  He sprang into action, counting children, measuring portions, preparing bags, and organising the entire group with remarkable maturity.

By the end, he stood taller—not just physically, but in confidence and pride.  His smile said it all: “I did something good. I mattered today.”

For at-risk youth, volunteering isn’t just about giving—it’s about becoming.  Giving responsibility to a young person can be the key to unlocking their self-worth.  It can help them find their place in a world that often tells them they have none.

Both Jonathan and Edwin remind us of this: when young people are empowered to serve others, something powerful shifts.  They go from being at-risk to being role models, from receivers of care to givers of hope.

That’s the transformation we long to see.  And it’s happening—one child, one moment, one act of trust at a time.

In a world where young people are often portrayed as disengaged or self-focused, we are proud to share a different story. A story of young people rising to the challenge, standing in the gap, and becoming part of something greater than themselves.

Your support changes lives!

The heat was still clinging to the concrete pavement as the sun dipped behind the tower blocks that now surround La Terminal, Guatemala City. I walked a few steps behind Juan Carlos, his wife Heydy, and their little girl, Camila, three people I deeply admire.

It was prevention night. This is when we come before the darkness settles in, before the gangs, the drugs, and the dangers take over, and we sit with children and families, offering a listening ear, a safe presence, and a glimpse of another way forward.

Juan Carlos and Heydy have chosen to serve here in one of Guatemala City’s most dangerous neighbourhoods. They even bring Camila, not to expose her to danger, but to let her see the truth: that children are growing up in a completely different world from her own.

We wandered through “La Quinta” as shop shutters rattled closed, stopping to greet business owners and check in with families we support. Then my eyes caught a familiar face, a large man in a plastic chair, smiling warmly. We shook hands and talked for a while. He runs the “Happiness Hotel,” a brothel with a name that hides its sadness.

That place carries memories for me. It was there, six years ago, that a contract killer tried to end my life. It was there that many children first met us and began coming to our mentoring centre. It was there that I saw so much conflict and so much suffering, but also the first sparks of hope.

Two little children ran up to me, smiling, and wrapped themselves around my legs in greeting. Together, we headed to the alleyway where the children gather each week for games and activities with the SKDGuatemala team. Camila joined the games, her bright smile drawing younger children like a magnet. Later, when Juan Carlos shared a Bible story, she chimed in with a verse she’d memorised that week, her own little ministry in the making.

The truth is, this work isn’t easy. It’s not glamorous. Few volunteers are willing to come here, and even fewer stay. But Juan Carlos and Heydy have been faithful for years, quietly transforming lives, not only children, but also young adults who have found their way off the streets because someone believed in them and invested time to make them see they are loved.

On our way back, I heard devastating news: a young man had been shot dead just behind the mentoring centre days earlier. Then, at his funeral, seven members of his family were gunned down by the gang.

The violence has risen fast this year. Yet, in the middle of it all, there are still those who choose to walk into danger to reach children before the streets claim them.

And they can only do that because people like you pray, give, and stand with us. Without your support, I know many more names would be added to the list of lives cut short.

Thank you for helping us hold back the darkness…until the last child is safe.

Most days in Guatemala are filled with the joyful sounds of children at play. The mentoring centres are alive with laughter, games, and chatter. Visits to homes and schools often remind us why we do this work — to ensure children are safe, supported, and allowed to thrive.

But every so often, the sound of joy is pierced by something that shakes you to your core: the phone call you wish would never come.

That call came on Sunday from Yoni, one of the boys I have mentored since he was ten years old. Today, Yoni is twenty, the only one in his family to complete both primary and secondary school. A remarkable achievement, given that no one else in his family ever made it beyond the early grades.

His voice was heavy as he told me the news: “My brother Wilman is dead.”

Nothing prepares you for words like that. Nothing prepares a young man to bury his brother.

I have known Wilman since he was a child. He drifted in and out of our programmes, always on the edge of embracing help, but never quite able to hold on to it. We tried many times, offering opportunities and even inviting him into a rehabilitation programme. But the struggles he carried were relentless, and the streets always seemed to pull him back.

I will never forget the call I received when he was about fourteen years old. He had run away again and was surviving in La Terminal, one of Guatemala City’s harshest environments. We found him temporary accommodation, and he told us that he had found a job that paid very little, but would give him the independence he needed. When we visited, we discovered that he was working in a carbon factory, a job that scarred his lungs and prematurely aged him.

A friend once took a photograph (above) of Wilman in La Terminal. I have used it here. I could stare at it for hours, as I feel it captures both his strength and his deep desperation. Looking at it now, I see the silent cry of a young man battling with more than he could bear.

From that time onward, Wilman’s life spiralled. He made decisions that hurt him, fell into vices that numbed him, and carried pain that no young person should ever have to carry. It was heartbreaking to watch, knowing how much he longed for peace but how far away it always seemed.

In the early hours of Sunday morning, Wilman’s struggle came to a tragic end. A toxic mix of chemicals and alcohol overwhelmed his body. He died in the arms of his girlfriend as the ambulance tried to save him, as they rushed him into the hospital.

That same evening, I went to Santa Faz with Paula, our mentoring centre coordinator, to comfort Yoni and his mother. Yoni was broken with grief and regret, sobbing over his brother’s coffin. Soon after, members of the local gang arrived. Many had grown up with Wilman and came to pay their respects. Though he was never part of the gang, he was known. The atmosphere shifted; some gang members sat outside smoking weed, and Paula and I quietly made the difficult decision to leave, knowing we had to weigh the risks.

The next day at the cemetery, the sadness of watching Wilman’s coffin arrive was overwhelming. Yoni stood there, numb, his face etched with pain, but trying to stay strong for his mother. A bus had brought friends and family to the service, but the journey had been traumatic with arguments, loud, offensive music, and smoke filling the air. Instead of preparing for a final farewell, the family felt Wilman’s funeral had been hijacked by chaos.

We did our best to bring order to the graveside. Herbert, a member of the SKDGuatemala team, offered a brief service of dedication, urging those gathered to reflect on how Wilman’s death might prompt us to make better choices and to seek God’s will for our lives.

Saying goodbye to a young man we had walked with for so many years was heartbreaking. There is no easy way to write this, and no good news to share in the loss of Wilman. What remains is hope, hope that for those still with us, we can help them discover life in all its fullness.

The challenge in Santa Faz is enormous. With the rise in gang violence and constant death threats, the task feels humanly impossible. And yet, we continue to believe that with God’s help, every child can find a different path. Every life is worth fighting for.

(Thanks to Cesar López Balan for the article photo)

This past weekend, Guatemala lit up with colour, noise, and pride as thousands of children and young people celebrated Independence Day with the traditional Antorcha (Torch) Run.

I watched with joy as our kids joined the crowds running to El Obelisco (The Monument to the heroes of Independence), carrying their torch high. Whistles, vuvuzelas, and laughter filled the streets, while families stood by to cheer them on, and, of course, throw bags of water over the runners! It was chaotic, loud, and beautiful. Best of all, we made it back safely with every child we started with — a big tick for our safeguarding team.

But behind the noise and excitement lies something far more profound. For the children we accompany, many of whom live on the very edge of society, the Antorcha is more than just a run. It is a chance to belong, to feel seen, to carry the light of a story that is much greater than their own.

Children growing up in fragile or at-risk contexts often feel invisible. Events like these remind them that they have value, dignity, and a place in their community. They are not outsiders; they are heirs to a history and a hope that extend beyond their daily struggles.

As I watched the children run, I thought of the wider world. In the USA and the UK, people are searching for their place, heading to the streets, raising their voices, and longing to belong to something bigger. Isn’t this what we all long for? A strong identity rooted in who we are and where we fit within the whole.

Helping our children discover this is not easy. Many of them have been hurt, betrayed, or overlooked. But with God’s help, we will not give up. We will run alongside them, torch in hand, until they learn that they are loved, that they matter, and that they, too, can shine a light in their community.

Your gifts make this possible. Without you, we could not offer these children the chance to belong, to celebrate, and to grow into citizens who will one day shape the future of their nation. Thank you for standing with us.

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Each generation shapes the nation's future. In Honduras, that future is slipping away. The classrooms may be open, but for too many children, education never truly begins. The warning signs are already present, and unless quick action is taken, Honduras risks losing more than test scores. It could forfeit the very hope of social mobility, stability, and dignity for millions of young people.

This week, I visited two remarkable projects in Honduras that are daring to stand in the gap.

The first was the Micah Project near the capital, Tegucigalpa. From the moment you drive into the spacious property, peace greets you. It’s a tangible sign of grace for boys rescued from the streets of the capital. The staff radiate joy and love. They don’t just work there; they delight in being with the boys. For children who have never known stability, Micah offers what every child craves: a family.

Michael Miller, the Director and Founder, reminds me that Micah is always spoken of in terms of family. “Every boy longs to belong,” he explains. And here, they discover the beautiful reality behind that word.

From Tegucigalpa, I travel to Proyecto Alas in Talanga. The contrast in setting is striking, but the heartbeat remains the same. As children arrive at the mentoring centre, they don’t simply walk through the door; they burst in, faces lit with joy, excitement overflowing. Their enthusiasm is infectious.

As I stand watching, two arms suddenly wrap tightly around my chest. A little game of hide and seek follows until a grin peeks around my shoulder. It’s Danny, 15 years old, a boy I remembered from my last trip. Right behind him is his twin brother, Angel.

The twins’ story is heartbreaking. Both boys have been out of the school system for years. Despite being “promoted” through three grades, they cannot read or write a single word.

How is that possible?

It’s not just their story; it’s Honduras’ story. The World Bank reports that nearly 8 in 10 children of late primary age in Honduras lack proficiency in reading skills. Imagine sitting through years of lessons and still being unable to understand a sentence. This occurs every day. Although 95% of children enrol in primary school, the reality is grim: only 6 out of every 20 will graduate from secondary school. By adolescence, almost 41% of boys aged 12–16 are already out of school.

The numbers are shocking. But sitting across from Danny and Angel, the statistics have faces.

Over lunch — their first meal of the day — they share fragments of their story. They live with their grandparents. Their grandmother is an alcoholic. Their grandfather struggles to provide, scraping together a living by copying and selling pirate films. Their mother is in Guatemala, and their father is absent. Hunger is a constant companion, and gangs hover at the edges of their young lives.

I look at them and silently count the risk factors: poverty, broken family ties, hunger, lack of education, and community violence. If not for Proyecto Alas, where would these boys be now?

Later that afternoon, I pulled out a piece of paper and asked the twins to write their names. Danny grips the pencil, carefully copying each letter of his name, struggling to tell “b” from “d.” Angel starts bravely, falters, and gives up. I gently guide his hand, tracing the letters of his name together. Each stroke of the pencil boosts his confidence, straightens his back, and lights up his face.

The next day, they run into the centre and wrap me in another hug. When I hand Angel the pencil again, he writes his name perfectly and without hesitation. His pride is uncontainable.

A small victory? Yes. But in Honduras, where dreams are slipping through the cracks of a broken education system, even one written name feels like a triumph.

Because when the school fails, the streets are waiting. They are waiting with false hopes, with gangs, drugs, exploitation, trafficking, and despair.

Yet here, in places like Micah Project and Proyecto Alas, hope still flickers. These centres are alive with small steps forward. Each hug, each hot meal, each carefully traced letter is defiance against despair.

At the end of the day, Angel looks at me with quiet determination. “One day,” he says softly, “I want to be like Sergio.” Sergio, once a street boy in Guatemala, is now a staff member at Alas. A young man who turned his story around and now mentors others to do the same.

For Angel and Danny, every letter matters, every day in the mentoring centre matters. For Honduras, every child who learns to read is a step away from the streets and a step toward hope.

The question is not whether change is possible, but whether we will choose to walk with them.

Violence against women and girls in Guatemala is not simply a women’s issue. It is a human rights crisis, and a reflection of deep social inequalities that continue to scar one of Latin America’s most beautiful yet troubled nations.

I have been deeply burdened since returning to Guatemala this week by the way so many women and girls have their lives destroyed by violence.

As one of the mentoring centres organised an event to celebrate Mother’s Day this week, many girls were finding ways to hide the painful realities of the world they live in.

What brought this all to mind was a trip I made to Boots, the chemist in Amersham, on Monday. I needed to buy vitamins for one of the grandmothers we support, and while I was there, I picked up some protective skin cream. I was overwhelmed by the range of products and only needed a simple cream with a high UV filter.

It was then that I noticed a lady wearing a headscarf carefully checking the information on the boxes. She selected a cream designed to help heal damaged skin, and when she turned towards me, I could clearly see she had a large black eye. She quickly pulled the scarf across the side of her face and quietly made her way to the till.

I wished I could have spoken to her and hoped that perhaps a member of staff might notice and offer some support or advice.

She shuffled her way out of the shop, once again covering one side of her face with the scarf, her head hanging low on her shoulders.

That image stayed with me, and I could not stop thinking about the life she was forced to return to.

Yesterday, I spent time with some of the children in the mentoring programme at La Terminal in Guatemala City.

The squeals of joy, the excitement of being with their friends and the SKDGuatemala team, (intro photo) and the sight of bags of chocolate in my hands made for the perfect welcome back after three months in the UK.

Yet behind the laughter and excitement were deeper struggles.

Two of the girls in the programme may need to be taken into protective care because of violence at home.

The girls' smiles, joy, and natural, playful spirit often hide the reality of their lives when they are away from the safety of the mentoring centre.

One day, one of the girls arrived at the centre with a huge black eye. Throughout the afternoon, she kept one hand covering the side of her face. She was withdrawn and struggled to smile as her friends greeted her.

What struck me most was that not one child asked her what had happened.

There was a silent acknowledgement that her pain was also their pain. The gentle touches on her shoulder and the quiet stroking of her hair by some of the other girls communicated something words could not — they understood, and they cared.

For many girls growing up in Guatemala, violence is not something distant or occasional; it is woven into daily life.

The numbers are both shocking and heartbreaking.

Almost half of Guatemalan women (48.8%) report having experienced some form of violence during their lifetime, while more than one in three women (34.5%) have suffered sexual violence.

Guatemala also continues to record one of the highest rates of femicide in Latin America. In 2022 alone, more than 530 women were killed in acts classified as femicide.

Girls are especially vulnerable. Between 2018 and 2024, nearly 14,700 girls aged 14 and under gave birth in Guatemala, often following sexual abuse or rape. Many crimes are never reported, and countless women continue living alongside those who abuse them.

For those of us working directly with vulnerable children and families in Guatemala, these statistics are not abstract. They have names, faces, and stories.

We meet girls who have stopped attending school because they fear harassment or assault. We support mothers carrying the trauma of domestic violence while desperately trying to protect their children from the same and from the pull of the streets. We hear stories that no child should ever have to tell.

But lasting change requires more than outrage.

It requires investment in prevention, education, justice, and community transformation. It requires men and boys to become part of the solution. And it requires the world not to look away.

Thanks to your support, we are able to play our small part in bringing hope, protection, and safety to some of the most vulnerable children and families.

The last three months of travelling around the UK have taught me one important thing: despite the economic struggles many people face, there remains a deep desire to help make a difference.

Thank you for standing with us as we stand with those who need a champion, those who need protection, and those who simply need a safe place amid their chaotic and often violent lives.