In 2010, in Antananarivo, street children began stretching ropes between branches to build makeshift shelters in the trees of the city. I first became aware of their existence in 2013.
Among them, I met two brothers, Fabrice and Rara. They had left the countryside in the aftermath of the 2009 crisis, seeking a way to survive. Aged nine and thirteen at the time, and without their parents, they arrived in the capital and attempted to find a place among the existing street communities. Rejected by every established group, the older brother decided they would build their shelter like a nest, using whatever materials they could find: pieces of cardboard, rice sacks, and rope.
Over the years, this small arboreal family gradually earned the respect of the local Fokontany (neighbourhood council). Perched above Lake Behoririka, beside the railway station, they came to occupy a role of watchfulness, acting as a deterrent to theft and violence in the area.
Deeply affected by the strength of these children—their resilience and quiet determination—I returned regularly to spend time with them, seeking to understand this extraordinary way of life. Within this landscape of extreme poverty, where hope often seems out of reach, I witnessed the persistence of a childhood that resists, imagines, and strives to take shape amid the world’s adversity.
Enfants des arbres
In 2010, in Antananarivo, street children began stretching ropes between branches to build makeshift shelters in the trees of the city. I first became aware of their existence in 2013.
Among them, I met two brothers, Fabrice and Rara. They had left the countryside in the aftermath of the 2009 crisis, seeking a way to survive. Aged nine and thirteen at the time, and without their parents, they arrived in the capital and attempted to find a place among the existing street communities. Rejected by every established group, the older brother decided they would build their shelter like a nest, using whatever materials they could find: pieces of cardboard, rice sacks, and rope.
Over the years, this small arboreal family gradually earned the respect of the local Fokontany (neighbourhood council). Perched above Lake Behoririka, beside the railway station, they came to occupy a role of watchfulness, acting as a deterrent to theft and violence in the area.
Deeply affected by the strength of these children—their resilience and quiet determination—I returned regularly to spend time with them, seeking to understand this extraordinary way of life. Within this landscape of extreme poverty, where hope often seems out of reach, I witnessed the persistence of a childhood that resists, imagines, and strives to take shape amid the world’s adversity.