LIP-The journal of a street kid

It's been twenty years since our home was taken away from us—the only place where I felt safe and secure. The memories still haunt me, trailing behind me like a shadow.Sometimes, it feels like I can hear the children running around the orphanage, their laughter echoing in my mind. They called it their home; I called it mine. Indeed, "Miracle House" was home to us all.Life there was peaceful. We sang, danced, and prayed together. It's hard to recall those moments without shedding a tear.Perhaps that's why I hesitated to share this story in the first place. Maybe I wasn't ready to face the reality that everything—this 'miracle'—is now a thing of the past. It's time for me to move on.But how do I move on knowing that my brothers and sisters were taken from me without a chance to say goodbye? The feeling haunts me still.Every day is a struggle. It feels as though I lost a piece of myself, something irreplaceable. I think back to how happy I was then, and I wonder how such beauty could lead to so much pain. What if the orphanage had never shut down? Where would I be today?Would I be the same person, with the same achievements?Even back then, I never saw myself as a normal child, and now, as an adult, I still don't see myself as normal. The orphanage must have changed me. I can't face reality as it is now, not without expecting it to be like it was then. The child in me still cries out for a return to those days, when life was beautiful and full of hope and dreams.There was nothing more important to me than being surrounded by a family that loved and accepted me for who I was. Judgment was something we were never allowed to hold onto. We were always reminded that we were special, handpicked by God himself to be part of the "Miracle House" family.I believed it. I knew I was lucky to be part of that family.Since leaving "Miracle House," my life has changed in countless ways—both subtly and profoundly.My name is Muna Sisonke. I was born on November 5, 1990. This is my story.