When the Indio girl opened her eyes in the morning, she knew exactly what she had to do. She didn’t want to suffer any longer. For weeks, she had been tormented by three mean boys nearly every morning as she and her two sisters walked the long way to school in Huamachuco, the small town deep in the Andes. Today would be different. She had hidden her father’s knife in her homemade backpack, along with a bottle of chicken disinfectant, poisonous and acid. Undiluted, it ate through human skin. She knew from painful experience what terrible burns the undiluted acid had left on her right hand. The scar still hurt.

Nuria could no longer stand the fact that the teenagers continued to abuse her. Her parents were unable or unwilling to help her. It was her duty to take her sisters safely to school and to attend school herself, as required by law. If she could not defend herself against the boys, she would just have to take it. Lucia’s parents were not exactly loving towards their children. Quite the opposite. They brought up their four children with severity and beatings. Only her older brother was exempt from this, since he was taller and stronger than his father. Her parents hardly knew the joys of life, because in the highlands at an altitude of almost 4,000 meters they had to fight daily for food and against the cold of the night and winter. But there was no other place for the few people. Survival was the only thing that mattered. That made them hard.

It was bitterly cold outside. The grass was frozen. Nuria had put on her only cloak and was milking her two goats, not exactly gentle with them. She was about to work herself into an unfamiliar rage, preparing for a potentially fatal fight. “I’d rather die than suffer the constant humiliation, the pain these boys cause me. I hate them, I hate all humans.” She repeated the words to herself as she collected the chicken eggs, gradually getting into the mood she wanted to be in.

Her two sisters were ready to leave. The path to Huamachuco was dangerous. They took a shortcut, but it was a steep descent, and in the morning the stones were slippery. Her twelve-year-old sister, Huapa, usually made it alone, but ten-year-old Juvena often had to be held. Ten metres from the dirt road into town, Nuria stayed behind and sent her sisters to school alone. It seemed to her that the boys would leave her alone today, but she looked down uncertainly. Yes, there they were. “Come down, Nuria. We can see you. Today is your lucky day. There are only two of us.”

That was really luck. Maybe she could make it around two. “Come get me. I’m going back home now.”

The boys didn’t need to be told twice. The taller one quickly climbed up the rock, the shorter one following. Nuria was holding the plastic bottle. She had punched a hole in the lid with a nail to make it easier to spray the acid. On the last steep section, Nuria jumped out of her hiding place and squirted the taller boy into his face. He screamed and groaned, rubbing his eyes. Nuria hit the other boy with a large boulder, causing him to slide down the rock and land hard. Quick as a puma, the girl glided over to the moaning boys. Both seemed badly hurt, but Nuria didn’t care. It was their just punishment for the suffering they had caused her. Nuria kicked her rapist Pedro in the groin with all her might. He was surely the boy who had impregnated her. She skilfully tied the arms of the smaller one, Bernard, behind his back. He had always hurt her particularly, always trying to win recognition from his cronies with treacherous meanness.

Nuria tied the vicious Bernard to a tree. His leg seemed to be broken. He moaned incessantly. But the girl, who had been abused for weeks, showed no mercy, ripping off his trousers, spraying his genitals with the acid and putting the trousers back on. “You bastards have ruined my life. You made me pregnant. Before I throw myself into the Naya Gorge, I want you to suffer too.”

There was a whistle in the distance. It was surely Eduardo, the limping boy. As he approached, Nuria hid behind a Coca bush. He too would receive his punishment. He approached with a limp. Surely, the girl could have run away, but no, he too deserved his punishment. As Eduardo bent over Pedro, Nuria’s stone hit him on the back of the head. The girl struck again. He was not dead, but his head was bleeding profusely.

Now Nuria had time to look after Pedro. He rubbed his eyes, unable to see. Blisters had started to form on his cheeks. He had been punished enough, but that wasn’t enough for her. He would never rape another innocent girl. She held the knife to his throat, briefly slicing the skin. “Pull your trousers down or I’ll slit your throat.”

At first, Nuria wanted to castrate the boy, but then she stuffed the sharp knife into her rucksack and sprayed the corrosive acid on the rapist’s exposed abdomen. “Next time I’ll cut your parts off!” she shouted at Pedro, who barely knew where it hurt the most and writhed in agony.

The girl looked at the three badly injured Indio boys. They desperately needed help, but Nuria didn’t care. For weeks, they had tortured and abused her, even penetrating her in all sorts of places with pieces of wood. Even today, she still felt unbearable pain when defecating. Her intestines were severely damaged. No, she didn’t care. “If they die, it’s God’s will,” Nuria thought to herself, and cheerfully left the scene of her repeated violation.

In Huamachuco, she couldn’t stay. She would surely be wanted by the boys’ fathers or by the police if the boys were found. That could be her death sentence. She had to get to Trujillo as soon as possible. No one would find her in the big city by the sea, she thought. The bus left in an hour and cost 60 SOL, but Nuria had no money. She knew the only way she could earn money was through prostitution, but she didn’t care. She was pregnant anyway, and she was probably sick, too. But it was early in the morning. She wasn’t going to meet a man on the street willing to have sex with her for money. She’d never done anything like this before, but she had to get out of here. A girl in her class had once told her how she earned money. “For 100 SOL I’ll give them my body, but only with a condom”.

Finally, uncertain, she approached the bus driver and asked if he would take her to Trujillo without paying. He looked her up and down, lifted her poncho and saw her teenage breasts. “If you’re not a bitch, come with me to my dressing room. Okay?”

Nuria stammered. “I’ll do it for 100.”

“Fine. You get 50, but with a kiss and a free ride. Ready?”

Nuria nodded, still unsure, but she had no choice.

The older man wasn’t as rough as the boys. He made an effort to please her. For the first time she felt relatively comfortable during sex and even helped the man to relax faster. At the end she was allowed to wash up and was given an Inca Cola. Nuria sat in the last seat of the bus. Shortly afterwards, the bus took her to the strange city. She had done it; she had escaped her tormentors and punished them. Somehow, she felt happy, maybe not really happy, but somehow. “The Lord helped me. He will definitely do it again.” As she had done since childhood, she prayed briefly, closed her eyes and let the rocking of the bus lull her to sleep.

Nuria looked out of the bus window, amazed at the hustle and bustle of the big city. She had never seen such huge buildings before. The fourteen-year-old was the last to get off the bus and had carefully considered her words. “Thanks for the ride. I’m warning you: If you tell anyone you took me to Trujillo, you’ll be in trouble ... I’m only thirteen. If the police find me, I’ll tell them you abused me, an innocent child. But no one will find out, will they?”

“You bitch, get lost. I’ve never seen you before, never”.

Smiling, Nuria ran to the large fountain in the square in front of the huge cathedral. For the first time she felt free, without fear. Somehow, she would get by. The first thing she needed was a safe place to sleep. In many places she saw women, usually with small children, kneeling or squatting in front of churches or on the edge of the large park, begging. Suddenly, she realised how difficult her life was going to be. Alone, without her goat’s milk or her daily egg, without her big brother or her parents’ shelter, she was helpless, with little hope but no way back.

The park was overgrown in places with bushes and trees, but blankets and sacks with the begging women’s belongings were scattered in every convenient spot. An old, surprisingly fat woman snapped at her, “Go away or there’ll be trouble. This is our park. You have no business here.”

When Nuria tried to object, the woman approached her threateningly. “Get out, or do you want to feel my club?” She threatened her with a strong branch.

Nuria disappeared, later asking stalls if she could help, but no one needed her. One woman gave her some plantains. They still needed to ripen a bit. Luckily, she still had the bus driver’s 50 SOL. Nuria bought a portion of rice with chicken at a stall for eight SOL. That was enough for today. She knew the money wouldn’t last long. First, she had to find a place to sleep. Then she had to look for work. She certainly didn’t want to become a prostitute. Nuria sighed. She had imagined that life in the city would be easier.

She strolled down the street, marvelling at the wealth in the shop windows and wondering why most people were hurrying through the streets as if they were fleeing. Nuria was indeed fleeing, but unlike the passers-by, she had endless time. She was alone for the first time in her life. She felt like an outcast. No one returned her smile. The nice Indio girl was simply overlooked.

Nuria watched as some teenagers went into an office. Others came out. It seemed to be open to everyone. She read the large window: ‘Centro Peruano Americano El Cultural’. They couldn’t do anything but throw her out, as had happened to her several times in shops.

Fortunately, things were different here. A nice woman asked her what she was looking for, sat her down at a computer workstation and showed her how to use it. She watched videos about the United States of America with rapt attention. For the first time, she learned about the beauty of other countries. It warmed her heart.

She jumped as the nice woman approached her from behind. “Do you like it?” Luckily, Nuria had been paying attention in Spanish class and was talking about her impressions. The woman stroked her hair. “We’re closing now. It’s almost one o’clock. If you want, you can come back around 4:00, but it will be pretty crowded then. If there aren’t any computers, you can borrow newspapers or books. OK?”

“Thank you, Ms Miller. You’re welcome. I still want to learn so much.”

Shortly before 4 p.m., Nuria and a group of young people were back at the door. The director of the cultural centre led her into the library and showed the Indio girl the colourful magazines from all over the world. Nuria was alone in the room, so the television was on. The news was about a faraway country, Libya. She had never heard of it. She saw riots, shootings. People being shot in the streets. Then there was a report of a huge fire in Rio de Janeiro, burning valuable books and collections from a library.

Then Nuria was shocked to hear her full name on television. She was wanted for attempted manslaughter and grievous bodily harm. The police suspected that she had thrown herself into an inaccessible ravine because she was pregnant and had lost hope. Fortunately, she had told the injured boy this. And there was no photograph of her. She had never been photographed in her life. It had saddened her before, but now it helped her.

A reporter interviewed her brother. He looked good on TV and spoke good Spanish. Nuria almost laughed when she heard her completely untrue description. She had a typical Indio full-moon face, a hooked nose and was very tall for her age, almost as tall as him. In fact, she was much shorter. He added that she wore a blue and green striped poncho. Her brother knew very well that Nuria only had a red and white one. He was on her side and wanted to prevent her from being caught. But now Nuria was even more frightened. They were looking for her all over Peru. She knew she was in danger.

She took the form Ms Miller had given her to register and invented an entirely new name for herself. She looked up names in a newspaper and wrote Lucia Mayta Quevedo, born in Trujillo on 28 August 2003, making herself a year older than she actually was.

To make sure she didn’t forget her made-up name, she filled in another form and put it in her rucksack. She was now Lucia, a girl from the big city by the sea.

The cultural centre was open until 7 p.m., but Lucia wanted to find somewhere to sleep before nightfall. She left her shelter and hid in a church. When the sexton locked the door, she was alone. It was cold inside, but she was safe for the night. Suddenly, she was frightened. A terrible roar echoed through the nave. Was the Lord punishing her? She trembled all over until she realised that the sounds were forming a melody. The girl had never heard an organ before. The sounds were breathtakingly powerful, but also beautiful. Days later she learned that the sexton often practised playing the organ in the church in the evenings, but on that day, she felt the music give her strength and move her deeply. “Oh God, the Lord is with me,” she whispered as if in a trance. She had a deep sense that God had forgiven and redeemed her.

The next morning, she was rudely awakened. The sexton had discovered her behind the side pew. Lucia was shivering with cold and fear, but the man was kind and reminded her that it was forbidden to sleep in the church. When she was about to leave, the girl asked if she could pray first. She knelt before the magnificent altar and thanked the Lord for his grace and goodness.

The sexton led her to a side door. “You are a poor but pious girl. We give free food to the poor every day at noon. If you come before 12, you’ll get a hot meal.”

Lucia smiled gratefully. Life wasn’t so bad for her after all. On her way to the cultural centre, she bought a loaf of white bread to save for the evening. Although she was very hungry, she only ate a small piece. There were few visitors at the cultural centre. Ms Miller looked after Lucia personally and showed her other things that could be done with a computer. Lucia learned quickly and took her first steps on the World Wide Web. She was curious, amazed at all the things she could discover on the Internet and delighted with every little new discovery.

Shortly after 11 a.m., Ms Miller called Lucia into her office. “I see you’re eager to learn and want to learn a lot. Why aren’t you at school?”

Lucia stammered, wanting to lie but not having a story prepared. “Be honest, Lucia, or should I call you Nuria, as you introduced yourself yesterday?”

Paralysed, she looked at the woman who had been so kind to her. Was it all over now? “Tell me your story, Lucia. I know you’re the Nuria the police are looking for, even if you don’t have a hooked nose or a round face. Your brother told them a lot of lies for you.”

For the first time, the girl nodded, revealing her identity. At first a few tears streamed down her cheeks, then she cried uncontrollably, recounting in fragments the almost unbelievable story of her weeks-long ordeal. Ms Miller gave her time and handed her a napkin to wipe her tears and her nose. Lucia couldn’t believe how touched the woman was, who also had to wipe away tears.

After a few minutes of silence and reflection, the woman said, “Lucia. Leave it as it is. You are Lucia, a girl from a suburb of Trujillo. I won’t betray you. You must have punished the boys too harshly, but I want to tell you something. Last night, I discussed the police raid with three friends. Even if you overreacted, this is the first known case of a seemingly helpless girl fighting back against her tormentors. Perhaps it will bring some men or young people to their senses; some should be afraid of the consequences of their actions”.

Lucia didn’t understand all the words, didn’t know what ‘consequence’ meant. But she felt it. The woman understood her, wanted to help her. She hugged the woman gratefully, feeling somehow safe. Lucia received the daily newspaper with the main story, “The Huamachuco Massacre”. Below it was a question: “Was it a serious crime or a just punishment?”

Lucia learned that her main rapist, Pedro, had lost his eyesight forever, and that Eduardo was in hospital with a fractured skull. Only Bernard’s broken leg would heal. It was also reported that two of the boys were badly burned, having suffered chemical burns to their abdomens. Doctors were still unsure whether these would ever heal, especially as no one could afford the expensive treatment. For the first time, the girl felt some remorse.

Lucia was given a pass for the cultural centre. It was in the form of a credit card. Ms Miller had written Lucia’s address as ‘125 Venezuela Av. Urb. El Recreo’, the address of the cultural centre. For the first time, Lucia had a means of identification, although not an identity card. With it, she could prove to everyone that her name was Lucia. She proudly kept the card in the secret pocket of her poncho, thanked Ms Miller and hurried to the church. It was after midday, but Lucia was given a bowl of very thin but hot soup and a slice of bread.

Lucia looked at the poor people on the benches. They weren’t all Indios. Many were older women from the city, a little better dressed, but clearly in need. She didn’t want to end up like that. She wanted her child to have a better life. But how could she do it alone?

She had an idea. She helped collecting the bowls, carried them to the kitchen, and washed the many spoons. She dried the bowls together with Martha, an elderly woman. As she wiped the plastic tablecloths, the sexton approached her. “It’s nice of you to help. What’s your name?”

“I’m Lucia Mayta, 15 years old, just finished school, but I can’t find a job. If you’d like, I can help every day. I’m free until just before 4. Then I go to the Centro Peruano Americano to study.”

“It’s great if you can help. But we don’t have any money for payment. Everyone here works voluntarily.”

“What do you mean by ‘voluntary’, Father?”

“That means unpaid work. We need all the money for food. And my name is Jesús Barco, I’m not a priest, I’m the church’s sexton.”

“Good. Is there anything else you need to do? I have two hours left.”

“Not really, but if you want, you can sweep the church and wipe the pews once a week. We’ll only pay 10 SOL for that.”

“It’s better than no money at all. I’d be happy to do it.”

Lucia wandered the streets, unable to get enough of all the things for sale. She still had 39 SOL, but she wasn’t ready to touch her money. She sat down on a bench in the sun. It was nicer here than at home, but she missed her siblings.

Two older boys offered her a cigarette. She saw lust in their eyes, a lust for sex. Was this happening again? She brusquely refused and walked quickly towards the busy street. She didn’t want to be groped or used again. She was Lucia, the proud girl, not an object for others. “No more sex,” she said quietly to herself. “I’ll never let it happen again.”

The cultural centre was busy. Other young people waited behind the computer terminals for their chance. Ms Miller didn’t have time either. She was giving a lecture to students in English. Lucia didn’t understand a word and retreated to the small library.

She read in the newspaper about her fight against her abusers: “The perpetrator disappeared without a trace. No one has seen her since the terrible crime. She probably threw herself into the Naya Gorge. She will never be found. The police plan to give up the search for Nuria Umaro soon.”

’And that’s a good thing. Nuria is no longer here, only me, Lucia Mayta. And I’m alive,’ she thought happily.

Just before 7 that evening, Ms Miller took her by the hand and led her a few streets away. An elderly doctor examined her. Lucia felt very uncomfortable lying half-naked with her legs spread on a special chair. But Ms Miller had told her how necessary it was. The result was as expected. Lucia was at least six weeks pregnant, perhaps eight. The doctor had no experience with such young pregnant women. The patient was basically well, but slightly undernourished.

“Where are you sleeping tonight, Lucia?” Ms Miller asked on the way home. The girl shrugged helplessly.

“I can help you tonight, but then you’re on your own. Okay?”

Lucia was given a room in a rather dingy hotel on a side street. The toilet and washroom were in the corridor and were also used by the chambermaids. Lucia didn’t know any better, she felt comfortable, and for the first time she was able to take a warm shower. She stroked her stomach. She couldn’t feel that she was expecting a child yet. She was surprisingly well. During the evening prayer, she thanked the Lord for helping her so well so far.

The hotel owner offered her the opportunity to clean the hotel at weekends and prepare rooms for new guests if necessary. There was no payment, but Lucia could sleep in one of the simple rooms from Friday to Monday. This helped her immensely. Gradually, the mountain girl became more comfortable in the new town.

The next morning, another woman at the cultural centre showed her how to improve her Spanish on the computer. Lucia could speak well, but writing was still difficult for her.