Dear Santa, let me explain

14 May 2008

In partnership with YMCA Wales, a Y Care International Youth Justice in Action delegation of young people from South Wales has just returned from Sierra Leone where they explored youth justice issues with young Youth Justice in Action campaigners there. Here, Stuart Wroe, Senior Global Youth Work Coordinator, talks about a day spent at Sierra Leone’s Juvenile Court.

The walls of the white colonial Court House are covered with stencilled ‘no piss ya' signs. Photocopied posters explain in English, ‘this is the judiciary, don't urinate here'. Down an endless, dimly lit corridor is the juvenile court; a sparse, stuffy, unlit room.

The public – us – face the witness bench; four wooden benches of the sad-eyed victims, including the six year old rape victim. A further two benches down the left hand side are for the prosecution and whichever defense lawyers turn up. When we were there, a defense lawyer from a pro-bono law centre had shown up. A small round cheery chappy with glasses who takes his place squeezed between the policewoman prosecutor and the remand home probation officer. Alongside them are a member of DCI (Defense for Children International) staff and Obi from the Sierra Leonean YMCA. Together the YMCA of Sierra Leone and DCI are actively taking Y Care International's Youth Justice campaign forward in Sierra Leone.

Down the right side of the room are two benches for the young ‘defendants' or ‘offenders' as they are known - a line of boys in their teens wearing t-shirts, shorts and flipflops. One boy’s red t-shirt's stands out, with the slogan:

‘Dear Santa, let me explain...'

All rise for the magistrates. The small elderly, sympathetic Chair is flanked by two larger middle aged men. A couple of hours pass by in which the police prosecutor barracks the boys. They respond falteringly, in hushed tones.

‘Speak up boy!'

Their few words of halting testimony are repeated. Inaudible against the chatter and guffawing of the public benches and the racket in the corridor outside. The barracker repeats it all out loud again. The slightly deaf Chair asks him to repeat it. And then writes it all down. In long-hand. Slowly.

‘Dear Santa’ is accused of stealing a mobile phone. The defense lawyer looks the boy up and down like he is buying a horse. The boy's age is put in doubt. The boy says he is 17 - a juvenile. In statements he is also down as 14 or 15. The police prosecutor says he is 18. The Chair doesn't care to believe him. Very few words are said. Twenty minutes passes. ‘Dear Santa’ is sent back in remand for another two weeks whilst a doctor's report can be made as to his true age.

In another case, one confused policeman gives evidence but is unclear if he was at the police station when the lads were brought in, when he should have been, or at least said he was. Helpfully, the police prosecutor couches all his questions in the form of statements that just need a ‘yes' answer. The accused lads are asked if they want to cross-examine him. Without any legal training, one lad gives a good account of himself in this lopsided topsy-turvy court. But in the end this case and all the cases slump to a halt.

Each case ends the same: ‘Are your parents here?'

‘No.'

The question is a ridiculous one. In many cases, the boys are war orphans or have been living on the streets because their parents threw them out of home and have left them to fend for themselves. Those who do have parents around are unlikely to see them in court – they’re too afraid they’ll have to pay the bail money to show up.

So they are sent back to the remand home. Again. Again. Again. One boy is discharged out of the ten. No case to answer. He has been locked up already for five months. No case to answer.