Stories from the long way home.

The day A. chose her own name

She came into our San Salvador shelter on a Tuesday afternoon in April, fourteen years old, wearing a school uniform that did not belong to her. The intake worker remembers the silence most of all. For the first seven days she said nothing.

By month three she was speaking to her counsellor. By month six she was writing letters to a grandmother she had not seen since she was nine. By month twelve she was the first person to volunteer when our tailoring instructor needed help threading a borrowed sewing machine.

"I do not want to be the girl on the bench. I want to be the girl who chose the name."

Three years later she graduated from the vocational program with a level two certificate and a job placement at a workshop in a neighbouring estate. The day she signed her contract she asked us to start calling her by a name that means "morning" in her mother tongue. We did. We still do.

Her case file is closed. Her follow-up calls are quarterly. Her grandmother answers the phone now.