A young Mongolian woman is walking along Ulan Bator’s busy main street,
enjoying an ice cream cone. Suddenly a small boy darts in front of her
and knocks the cone from her hand. It has barely hit the ground before
five urchins scoop it up and make off down the road, laughing as they
share their booty.
These “highway robbers” are among the estimated 3,000 children living
on the streets of the Mongolian capital, victims of an economy in
crisis and a society adrift. During the day they can be found hanging
out at the railway station, outside cinemas or in front of department
stores and hotels. In the evenings, they shelter where they can—some in
doorways and many in the underground network of pipes that deliver hot
water to heat the capital’s buildings.
“A decade ago, homeless children were virtually unknown in Mongolia,”
says Dean Hirsch, president of World Vision International, a Christian
development organization. For more than three generations, this central
Asian communist state—bolstered by $900 million in annual Soviet
subsidies—provided nurseries, day-care centers, schools factories and
collective farms for its 2.4 million people. “The facilities were
Spartan and authoritarian,” says Hirsch, “but they provided a minimal
safety net.” That net began unraveling in 1990, after the collapse of
the Soviet Union ended aid from Moscow and forced Mongolia to move to a
market economy. Things worsened this year when the Asian financial
crisis pulled down prices for copper and cashmere, which accounts for
two-thirds of the country’s exports.
Large numbers of rural families moved to Ulan Bator in search of jobs
that did not exist. Government subsidies dried up and then the “vodka
culture” left by the Soviets kicked in—adding a rise in domestic
violence to the country’s array of social ills. Husbands drifted away
from home, and wives and children finished up on the street. The
government reports that one in five families now lives below the
official poverty level. A 1997 World Bank report found 16% of families
in absolute poverty. “It’s getting worse,” says Monkjin, a young
Mongolian who works with the children at centers set up by World
vision. “There’s more and more poverty, violence, alcoholism and
unemployment.”
I follow the boys with the stolen ice cream to a nearby park, where
they sit below a statue of Lenin to finish what’s left of the cone.
Nyam-ochir, 14, the leader, tells his story. “My stepmother kicked me
out of the house after my father died,” he says, adding that he never
knew his real mother. “During the day, I hang around the Ulan Bator
Hotel trying to find food in the trash cans,” he says. “I live
underground because it gets really cold outside in the winter.”
Like the others in this group, Nyam-ochir says he does not want to go
to any of the children’s centers set up by private and Christian groups
because the bigger children steal their food and clothes. Nyam-ochir
has a bandage around his head—the result, he says, of being struck by a
rock thrown by another boy.
Three brothers—Zolbayar, 11, Batbayar, 13 and Munkhjargal, 15 –say they
left home because their parents mistreated them and “we always felt
hungry.” Despite their bleak existence, they seem to enjoy the
adventure and camaraderie of their life together on the street,
possibly a throwback to their c country’s traditional nomad culture.
The youngsters deny they are habitual thieves. “We only steal food when
we are hungry,” one says. But it is clear many others have turned to
small-time crime. One youngster, Mungsuk, happily owns up to extorting
money from prostitutes by threatening to spray them with a water pistol.
It is lunchtime at one of the World Vision centers, and dozens of
children are just finishing a hearty lunch of thick soup and bread.
Erdenesuvd, 10, but looking at least two years younger, sports a
Chicago Bulls baseball cap pulled down low over her eyes. Her right
hand is deformed—from what she doesn’t say. Her family moved to the
city after their alcoholic father left them, and her oldest brother
sold their ger, or traditional nomad’s tent. She has been living with
two brothers, a sister and their mother on the streets of Ulan Bator
for more than a year.
She is a regular lunch visitor at the center, picking through garbage
for food to feed herself at other times of the day. She is now
receiving basic education through a program arranged by World Vision.
Erdenesuvd says she is constantly afraid of being kidnapped or bullied
by other street kids. Her brother and sister did not want to come to
the center today, so she waited for another older boy to accompany her.
“My dream is to have my own ger and to live there with my mother and
sisters and brothers,” she says.
Around midnight, I arrange to meet a group of teenagers to pay a visit
to their underground home. A few streets from the railway station, they
lift up a manhole cover and deftly clamber down. I follow with more
difficulty. After my eyes adjust to the darkness, I find I am in a
space measuring about 10 square meters, with no room for an adult to
stand up. Two large water pipes run through this “room,” which is
shared by 10 people, the youngest 10 and the oldest 23. Earlier this
year, a pipe in one such refuge exploded, scalding several children to
death.
Cardboard is spread on the floor to provide a dry sleeping area. In the
far corner is a man in his 30s. The children say he is suffering from a
liver ailment, but cannot get medical help because, like many
immigrants from the countryside, he has no identification papers. The
youngsters share their food with him. Despite the conditions, they seem
quite happy, frequently joking. “Why didn’t you call me on my mobile
phone before stopping by,” asks 16-year-old Tsogt-Erdene, tilting his
head sideways in mock seriousness. Odonchimeg, also 16, is the only
female. She is the girlfriend of the leader, Zaya, 19, and is pregnant.
“We are husband and wife,” she says as she leans over and kisses him.
Odonchimeg says her stepfather beat her and chased her out of her
family home.
The gang member normally surface at about 10 a.m. and head for the
railway station, where conductresses allow them to clean the trains and
keep any discarded food they find. When the weather is warm, they go to
the river to bathe and to wash their clothes. In the winter, they can
shower at the children’s centers. By 9 p.m., they are normally back in
the warmth of their underground home.
“We support each other,” say Zaya, who looks like a pirate with his
loop earring and bandanna. He points to his comrades one by one: “He
sings in the railway station or in front of the disco, he picks
pockets, he shines shoes and he begs for money.” When they get a bit of
money to buy a little meat, they cook a communal soup in a small
container in the corner of their hideaway.
“We miss our mothers,” says one of the older boys, who has not seen his
in the nine years that he has been on the streets. Zaya has been living
around the railway station—among the pipes, on rooftops or under
stairways—since the Soviets pulled out eight years ago. He says he
would like to find a job and have a more normal life, but he doesn’t
know how. “Leaving here is difficult if you don’t have identification
papers,” he says. “But we have no permanent address, so it’s difficult
to get them.”
World Vision and similar operations work hard at reintegrating these
street kids into society. Monkjin says a group of 12 children at one
center have been encouraged to find an apartment of their own. She has
offered to help them negotiate the rent and find the money to pay for
it. A new informal education program has also started, and charities
are liaising closely with the government on education and health care.
Still, getting the youngsters back with their families is a difficult
task; Monkjin says they succeed in only 10% of cases. This should come
as no surprise, say Peter Bryan, a project manager with World Vision in
Ulan Bator. “Nothing has changed at home,” he says. “The poverty is
still there, the violence is still there. It’s all very good to get
them back with their parents, but the situation has to change.” As
Mongolia’s problems mount, nobody knows when that will be.
