{"id":86386,"date":"2026-09-11T07:39:55","date_gmt":"2026-09-11T11:39:55","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/spiritdaily.org\/blog\/?p=86386"},"modified":"2026-09-11T07:39:55","modified_gmt":"2026-09-11T11:39:55","slug":"dont-call-them-zombies","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/spiritdaily.org\/blog\/dont-call-them-zombies\/","title":{"rendered":"‘Don’t Call Them Zombies’"},"content":{"rendered":"

From Osservatore Romano:<\/em><\/p>\n

\"Don't<\/p>\n

\n

Our journey among the most vulnerable in Kenya begins with a meeting with street children and teenagers addicted to the drug “jetfuel”.<\/span><\/h4>\n

from our correspondent in Nairobi<\/span>
\nGuglielmo Gallone<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Don’t call them zombies. The children and teenagers of Nairobi who live on the streets and stave off hunger, cold, and who knows what else by inhaling glue, gasoline, and other substances hidden inside small plastic bottles are anything but the “zombies” that so many online documentaries have portrayed. We’ve met those children and teenagers. We’ve walked with them and had breakfast with them. We’ve talked to them. We’ve seen them take drugs before our eyes, with the bottle hidden inside the sleeve of their sweatshirt and their mouths hanging on the cap to inhale as much of the drug as possible. Yes, it’s true: they take drugs, they don’t go to school, they’re dirty, their breath and clothes reek of\u00a0<\/span>jet fuel<\/span><\/i>\u00a0, their slippers have holes in them, they sleep on a few cardboard boxes thrown on a downtown sidewalk, covering themselves with plastic bags. Some are criminals, several had knives in their pockets, and the last two who reached us\u2014we were told\u2014are criminals who walk around with guns in their hands.<\/span><\/p>\n

And yet, those children and young people were anything but zombies. In that hour we spent with them, we met their heroes, from Leo Messi to Cristiano Ronaldo to Kylian Mbapp\u00e9 to the Pope\u2014”First there was Francis, now there’s Leo!”\u2014we heard one scold another for taking drugs, we heard them talk about school, but above all, we learned about their memories, their emotions, their fears, their absences, their hearts. Which opened wide in a precise moment. “Do you have Facebook?” one of them asks me as soon as he sees my smartphone. So I unlock the screen, open the social network, and scroll through the feed to show him what’s on my feed. But he asks something else: “I want to look for someone.” So I open the search bar and hand him my smartphone. He enters the first and last name of a woman. Her name is Jackline. Four profiles appear. He sees one photo in each one and clicks on that profile. The third on the list. “It’s my mom, I want to write to her,” he says. The only question that comes naturally is how long it’s been since he’s heard from or seen her. “It’s been five years,” he replies, “since she went to Dubai, since I’ve been living on the streets.” He’s 15. And the messages he’s written, translated from Kiswhaili, read like this: “Hi dear mom, how are you? Nothing special. I just wanted to say hello. I’m with an Italian. We’ll talk.”<\/span><\/p>\n

Could these be the “Nairobi zombies”? Do zombies have a mother? Do they remember her name and face after five years? Do they search for her among four photos on Facebook as soon as they see a stranger with a smartphone? Do they feel the need to simply say, “I just wanted to say hello”? Are zombies homesick? Are they afraid? Do they have memories? Do they worry about letting their mother know where they are and who they’re with? Do they wait for someone to come get them? Do they dream of going home? Do they remember the last time they slept in a bed? Do they miss a hug? Do they still need to be called children? So, is a fifteen-year-old boy who has lived on the streets for five years really a “zombie,” or is he first and foremost a child who lost his mother at ten, a child forced to breathe\u00a0<\/span>jet fuel<\/span><\/i>\u00a0just to sleep and stay warm?<\/span><\/p>\n

To understand where we are and why we’re asking these questions, we need to take a step back. It’s five in the morning. Nairobi is still shrouded in darkness, but it’s already starting to wake up. We are guests of Comboni missionary Father Renato “Kizito” Sesana, and, starting from the center of Kivuli, we head toward the center of the Kenyan capital. Jack Matika is our guide. He knows everyone, and everyone knows him, because for over twenty years he has been a street educator for Koinonia, the community founded by Father Kizito in 1982 in Zambia, which expanded to Kenya in 1991, and to the Nuba Mountains in Sudan in 1995, to support primarily street children and youth, as well as the most vulnerable. Along the way, Jack explains what we’re going to do: look for street children and homeless families spending the night in downtown Nairobi. We need to act quickly, before the city has swallowed up the people sleeping on its sidewalks. It’s one of Koinonia’s missions: “To give hope and life to the most vulnerable.” These are Jack’s people.<\/span><\/p>\n

But he hadn’t sought this vocation. When he arrived in Nairobi in 2001, he wanted to be a teacher, earn a living, and build a future in education. But, he continues, “God had a different calling for me. When I met Father Kizito, my whole way of thinking, my way of doing things, my approach changed dramatically. Koinonia’s mission transformed and changed all the ideas I had about what I thought I was doing, especially regarding humanity, love, and caring for others. And this was a very strong calling. So I left education and joined Koinonia, Father Kizito, and the mission of humanity, the mission of serving the most vulnerable. And, of course, this is a calling that, when it comes, leaves you no alternative. But I like this mission, I like this calling, I like what Koinonia is doing and what it has done in the past. I love touching people’s lives, especially those of children, young people, and women living in difficult situations. People living on the streets; mothers and children living without food, shelter, or simply a home. People dying even from simple illnesses, from the cold, from cholera, and things like that, because the places they live are unhealthy.<\/span><\/p>\n

And indeed, the first face we meet on the street is a mother. Her name is Faith, she’s 24 and lives in Jeevanjee Gardens, a small public park in the heart of Nairobi. Her daughter is with her. “Her name is Joyce,” she confides, “because she brings joy to my life.” Their home has been here for about two months. “I’m living on the streets because I couldn’t pay the rent anymore. I had no one to pay it for me, so I had to come here. I hope someone can help me find a place and then I can go back to living there,” she says. She had a job before. Then it ended. And when you have a little girl, even the most basic needs become a problem: “You have to buy food, diapers, some clothes.” But even what they manage to save can disappear at a moment’s notice. “Sometimes the police come and burn our things, our blankets and clothes. And then we have to start from scratch.” Faith doesn’t talk about grand plans. She talks first about the simplest needs. “The first thing we lack is food. It can take up to two weeks before we can wash ourselves. It’s a huge challenge.” And indeed, Joyce never stops crying. Her nose is full of mucus, she coughs, she tries to grab the microphone we gave Faith as if she wanted to shout out to the world the injustice she’s experiencing. So we ask her mother what being a mother means to her. Faith doesn’t respond with a definition. She responds with a story. With her story: “I was in Form 3, in the second trimester, when I got pregnant. I had to give birth. I wasn’t married. I had a little girl and I’ve been taking care of her ever since.”\u00a0[scroll for more:]<\/span><\/p>\n