Listen to thisOver the past few months I have shared the stories of young care leavers whose experiences in residential care homes paved the way for their success. These accounts have demonstrated how the structure, support, and sense of belonging provided by these homes enabled them to thrive after leaving care. However, in this instalment, I turn to a different story—one of loss, resilience, struggle and reflection. This is Hossain’s narrative.
A 36-year-old man, Hossain was once a resident of a children’s home catering to the children of sex workers. He was expelled alongside eight other boys following a confrontation with the Home’s principal. You might recall me mentioning their expulsion in the February 2025 issue. Unlike his peers who remained in care, Hossain’s life took a starkly different path, revealing the profound impact of residential support—or its absence—on a child’s future.
Reconnecting After Two Decades
I recently reconnected with Hossain via Facebook, nearly twenty years after our last encounter during my PhD research interviews. Over several conversations, we explored his life’s trajectory: the past two decades, his career, family life, connections with fellow care leavers, and his time in the children’s home. We explored the immediate, short-term, and long-term effects of his expulsion, as well as the real story behind the incident that led to his removal. Hossain’s perspective has evolved markedly since those early, heated exchanges, offering a lens through which to compare his struggles with the successes of peers who stayed in care.
Early Life and Admission to the Children’s Home
Hossain was one of the oldest boys in the children’s home and among the first 50 children admitted when it was established. Born to a sex worker who died when he was young, he had no living blood relatives. Another woman from the brothel took him in, raising him amid its harsh realities. In that world, girls held greater value for their earning potential, while boys like Hossain were often seen as burdens. When this woman learned about the children’s home, she handed him over—perhaps to lighten her burden or in the hope that he would find a better life.
For nearly six years, the children’s home became his sanctuary. A spirited boy with a sharp wit, Hossain had a fierce passion for cricket and a natural flair for leadership. He was always ready to take risks to help others, excelling in martial arts and occasionally joining the home’s group dances, even though his academic performance remained average.
A Changed Perspective
Hossain’s view of the home has shifted since our PhD-era talks. Back then, he was brash and resentful, claiming, ‘I could have revoked their expulsion if I wanted to,’ and dismissing my concern, care, love, and affection for them as ‘crocodile tears.’ He spread rumours of the home misusing donors’ millions and alleged improper relationships among staff and residents. Now, our discussions are calmer, more composed, and more reflective. Hossain tearfully shared, ‘The home was my everything, my father, my mother,’ acknowledging its foundational role in his life. This shift underscores the depth of what he lost when expelled—a loss that his peers, who stayed, never had to endure. It was a place where he formed brotherly bonds with other children and parental connections with staff, creating memories that would stay with him forever.
The Immediate Aftermath: Adrift Without Anchor
Hossain’s expulsion at around 17 thrust him into chaos. Returning to the brothel, he found it jarring after years in the home’s structured environment. ‘After living seven years in the home, I couldn’t adjust to that life,’ he admitted. With no family or resources, he initially relied on the other expelled boys. A neighbour, whom he called ‘Grandma,’ let him stay temporarily, but his presence soon felt burdensome. Rubel (another expelled boy) started a laundry and ironing business with assistance from his mother, and when he agreed to let me stay overnight at his shop, it offered some respite.’ These arrangements, however, were temporary. ‘Life felt unpredictable; there was a lack of structure, and no one reached out to check on my well-being or suggest any actions,’ he recalled. Meanwhile, his peers in the home continued to benefit from education, guidance, and stability.
Descent into Survival Mode
Without the home’s support, Hossain’s life unravelled. ‘I began to understand what I had lost,’ he said. To survive, he took odd jobs in the brothel—cleaning and washing dishes at restaurants—but stable housing remained elusive. ‘The main problem was that I didn’t have an address where I could sleep properly,’ he explained. Many of his expelled companions deteriorated rapidly. ‘I noticed that most of us who were expelled were deteriorating; a few had even started to deal and use drugs, engaging in sexual activities and drug trafficking related to the brothel to fit in,’ he said. The home’s parent organisation offered a skills-training programme for youth from brothels, but pride and anger kept Hossain at bay. ‘Although Rumee bhai (a social worker) encouraged us to participate in the project (led by the parent organisation, which aimed to assist troubled youth), our ego prevented us from surrendering and accepting the truth. We denied it and attempted to shift the blame onto the children's home, insisting they were at fault,’ he confessed. This combination of wounded pride and adolescent stubbornness further hindered his prospects of receiving help during this critical period.
The Diverging Paths: Watching Peers Succeed While Struggling
While Hossain and his expelled peers struggled for basic survival, those who remained in the children’s home forged ahead. They completed their education, gained vocational skills, and transitioned into stable careers and family lives. This divergence in trajectories became increasingly clear over time, creating both a practical and psychological burden for Hossain. Hossain, however, faced a bleaker reality. ‘After living in the brothel area for a couple of years, I realised I couldn’t avoid becoming entangled in the criminal activities necessary for survival,’ he said. Many of his friends fell victim to addiction and trafficking. Desperate to break free, he fled to the capital city, determined to find a lawful path despite having no plan. 'One day, I made the decision to leave without telling anyone and headed to the capital city. I departed as planned, but I was uncertain about where to go or what to do next. I felt a powerful urge to seek legal and socially acceptable means of survival,' he explained. His peers, nurtured by the home, never faced such a precipice—their lives were scaffolded by ongoing care.
A New Beginning in the Capital
In the city, Hossain grappled with limited prospects. ‘Without a college degree, I realise that my job prospects remain limited,’ he said. Yet his faith sustained him: ‘I believed that Allah had created all of humanity with the provision of food for everyone. I trusted that if I stayed on the right path, did good deeds, and put in the effort, He would surely assist me.’ Eventually, he found a position as a security guard at a supermarket through a newfound friend. 'I am doing fine; survival motivates me. I'm glad to be managing my finances; life may be uncertain, but I feel fortunate to have avoided a negative path,' he remarked. He credited his resilience to the values instilled during his time in care: 'The religious education and moral values instilled in me at home helped me overcome all the challenges I faced, steering me away from the wrong path. This enlightening education is the reason I am here today.'
This observation highlights an important irony: the very institution that expelled him also provided him with the moral foundation that later helped him survive. It raises questions about what might have been possible had he received continued support instead of expulsion during his formative years.
The Long-Term Impact: A Life of Struggle
Despite his resilience, Hossain’s life has been marked by hardships and missed opportunities. He divorced a few years ago and is now a single father to an 11-year-old son and a 7-year-old daughter. Balancing work and parenting has been a constant challenge. ‘I work the night shift while my kids are asleep. I’m finding it difficult to balance my life, but I’m managing,’ he said. ‘It isn’t easy, as there’s no one available to assist or support me.’ The lack of family models and support systems has affected his ability to maintain stable relationships. His marriage faltered amid mutual suspicions and a lack of guidance. His voice broke when he talked about his marriage, ‘I don’t know, sir; perhaps we had issues. She thought I was cheating. I thought the same of her. Maybe we were both immature. She also had little regard for me due to my anger problems and low income,’ he said. He continued, ‘We had no elders to guide us. I never had lessons or experiences that showed me what a real family was like… In the para (brothel), there was no family structure; my understanding came solely from being in a children’s home and observing my school friends’ families, though I could not stay there for long.' He fears remarriage: ‘If the person I marry does not accept my sons, what will happen? I can’t risk bringing someone into their lives who may not love them. Also, bringing a woman into my life requires a lot of money, which I do not have.’
This reflection highlights how residential care provides not just basic needs but also models of healthy relationships and conflict resolution—elements Hossain missed after his expulsion. His peers, who remained in care until proper transition, had opportunities to observe and absorb these patterns, while Hossain had to figure them out on his own, often through painful trial and error.
Disconnection from the Care Community
One of the most painful aspects of Hossain’s journey has been his isolation from other care leavers who might have provided support and understanding. Unlike his peers who remained in the home and went on to build successful lives, Hossain feels invisible and forgotten. ‘It felt as if they didn’t recognise me; I was invisible to them, not part of their lives,’ he said. ‘Perhaps they saw me as one of the worst offenders who caused trouble in the home, which led to my eviction. Or maybe they stayed away out of concern that the home authorities would disapprove or worry I would seek favours and support from them,' he suggested.
This isolation cut him off from a vital support network that might have eased his transition and provided practical assistance during difficult times. The sense of abandonment was compounded by watching those he once considered friends thrive while he struggled. 'It's strange to think that those I once helped and supported sided with the system, putting my future at risk; now, they no longer seem to know me—how time alters people's perceptions,' he reflected.
He speculated on additional reasons for this disconnect: the stigma and class divide. ‘Another reason they prefer not to stay in touch with me is their desire to keep their past identity hidden from their current society, he explained.
The absence of support during his most difficult periods left a lasting impression: 'I didn't find anyone from the home to support me when I was struggling like mad. There is a proverb: Many friendships are made in good times, but in hard times, you find out who your true friends are.' He confirmed that he has no connection or contact with anyone from the children's home or its parent organisation.
Giving Despite Having Little
Despite his own struggles, Hossain has shown generosity toward others in similar circumstances. He mentioned that he once helped a fellow care leaver in getting to Saudi Arabia, let him to stay at his house, and helped him make connections. However, once that boy left, he never even called to say thank you. ‘Allah knows what I did,’ Hossain said quietly.
His willingness to help others, despite his limited resources, speaks to the lasting impact of the values instilled during his time in the children's home. Despite the bitterness he might justifiably feel about his expulsion, he continues to embody the principles of community support and compassion that were modelled there.
Reflections on Care Experience: Gratitude Alongside Regret
When asked about his children's home life experiences, Hossain showed remarkable maturity in his assessment: 'Sir, even though you expelled me from the home, I shouldn't be ungrateful. I must tell the truth. Who I am today is due to that place. The system, the process, and the practice helped me become as honest, ethical, and good a human being as I can be.' He specifically highlighted the importance of spiritual and educational guidance: 'Religious education and regular prayers, combined with other forms of learning, were the highlights of my life. I have benefited from these experiences and practices throughout my life.'
The emotional impact of his time in care remains powerful two decades later. ‘The brotherly relationships I formed with other boys and girls, the parental connections with teachers and staff, the discipline, food, and community activities create good memories for me,’ he added tearfully. Yet he laments lost potential: ‘If I could have stayed there until completing my studies, my life would have been very different, much like those of others who have excelled in their careers and lives.’
The Incident Revisited: The Truth Behind the Expulsion
Twenty years later, I again asked Hossain about the incident with the home's principal—the confrontation that led to their expulsion. He replied honestly, ‘I swear to God, there’s no reason to lie now; I have nothing to lose, and I don’t expect anything from you.’ He continued, ‘We didn’t physically touch the principal, but there was a heated argument during which we angrily threatened to beat him.’ It all began when Hossain awoke to the news of Rubel’s impending punishment. Rallying a group, he stormed into the office. ‘The principal tried to reason with us, but we felt he would hurt Rubel. At one point, he lost his temper, which escalated our argument, and we took Rubel from him, damaging his pride. While we did not physically assault him, our aggression crossed a line,’ he explained.
A Plea for Forgiveness and Understanding
Hossain’s story is a powerful plea for forgiveness and understanding. He acknowledges that their actions were completely unacceptable and unjustifiable, yet he believes that the decision to expel them was overly harsh. His questions were emotionally charged and thought-provoking: 'What would you do if we were your own sons? Would you have thrown us out as you did? We came from the para (brothel), a filthy place where we learned nothing. We had our issues; the para was unsuitable for our growth and development—this is why you rescued us from that situation in the first place. So, why did you cast us out when we made mistakes during a pivotal time in our lives, leaving us stranded with no place—neither in the children's home nor back at the brothel?'
He continued with a powerful indictment: 'By evicting us, you have ruined our lives. You could have disciplined us for our mistakes and given us another chance with conditions for improvement. Instead, you prioritised your principles over our lives. Ultimately, you seem to have failed us more than we have failed ourselves. I acknowledge that our mistake was serious, but even Allah forgives sinners. Why can't those in positions of power extend the same forgiveness to us to help save our lives from ruin?'
The Mixed Emotions of Witnessing Others' Success
Hossain expressed complex feelings about seeing his former homemates thrive: 'Seeing my friends excel fills me with both joy and sorrow. I'm happy because the home has transformed their lives, helping them overcome their pasts and establish new identities as contributing members of society. I feel sad because, if I had received the same kindness, I could have also erased my past identity, becoming a contributor rather than a struggler.'
This bittersweet reflection captures the essence of the divergent paths—while celebrating the success of those who benefited from consistent care, he naturally wonders what might have been had he received the same ongoing support.
His commitment to breaking the cycle is evident in his efforts to secure a better future for his own children. He shared that he had asked two of his friends, who currently work in the head office of the children's home's parent organisation, to inquire whether the children's home would consider admitting his two sons. His hope was that they might one day have the opportunities he lost—proper education, guidance, and support. However, he expressed deep disappointment that his friends did not seem to pursue the matter with sufficient urgency.
Learning from Past Mistakes: Policy Changes in Residential Care
Hossain's story acted as a catalyst for important policy changes within the organisation. During my time with this organisation and the children's home, senior officials reviewed the incident, learned from it, and implemented significant modifications to their approach. One crucial decision was to ensure that children admitted to the home would never face expulsion again.
The organisation was committed to taking every possible measure to support children in difficult situations, whether through correction, counselling, treatment, alternative accommodation, skill training, or short-term placements. They would remain under our care until they had successfully settled, even when they made serious mistakes. This policy change directly addressed Hossain's poignant question: 'What would you do if we were your own sons and daughters?'
It is important to emphasise that the children's home never aimed to expel or ostracise these young people. Instead, the goal was always to support their growth, development, and overall well-being. The incident with Hossain and his peers prompted a valuable reassessment of how to manage challenging behaviour while maintaining the supportive environment all children deserve.
Residential Care: More Than Shelter
Hossain's story provides compelling evidence of the vital role residential care plays in supporting vulnerable children. His trajectory diverged dramatically from that of his peers who remained in care, illustrating the profound impact of consistent support compared to premature removal from a nurturing environment or missed opportunities for those who didn’t receive them.
In a world where countless children like Hossain face abandonment, abuse, and neglect- those exposed to exploitation, those lacking positive role models, and those in need of residential care can find a vital support system. Institutions like these offer millions of children essential resources, along with stability, community, and hope for their future. They foster a structured environment with educational opportunities, moral and spiritual guidance, positive relationships, and consistent support to help navigate transitions that many families cannot provide.
While critics portray residential care as a ‘last resort’ or even as unnecessary and harmful, Hossain’s story proves its power—not just to house, but to heal. His experience demonstrates that for many children, it represents their best chance at breaking cycles of poverty, exploitation, and limited opportunity. The contrast between his struggle and the success of his peers who remained in care until proper transition powerfully underscores this point. Hossain’s struggle highlights why such care is vital: without it, potential withers, and society suffers.
The children’s home where Hossain spent six years served as a lifeline. If Hossain had received the ongoing support that his peers did, he might have matched or even surpassed their achievements, considering his natural leadership abilities and willingness to take risks. Instead, his potential was significantly constrained by the abrupt termination of support during a crucial developmental phase.
Beyond One-Size-Fits-All Approaches
Critics of residential care should consider Hossain's situation—a man currently struggling due to ‘missed opportunities’ at the children's home. Like Hossain, millions of children worldwide require care and protection to succeed in life. His story demonstrates both the profound positive impact of residential care and the devastating consequences when that support is withdrawn prematurely.
Deinstitutionalisation(!) should not be a one-size-fits-all policy exported from the West to places with very different contexts. Children’s homes like the one Hossain lived in often work where state and foster systems fail to reach. Instead of advocating a one-size-fits-all approach to child welfare, it is essential that we collaborate to prioritise the best interests of children and youth. This means honouring local cultures, values, and religions while providing the consistent support and structure that enables vulnerable young people to thrive despite tremendous challenges. Hossain’s life reminds us that losing that option can mean losing a child forever.
Hossain's changed perspective over two decades—from defiance to profound gratitude for what the children's home provided—speaks volumes about the lasting value of residential care. Even with his expulsion, the values, education, and relationships he experienced there continue to shape his life for the better. One can only imagine what might have been possible had he received the full measure of support through his transition to adulthood.
As Hossain himself noted with simple eloquence: 'If I had not been in the home, I wouldn't be the person I am today.' For millions of vulnerable children worldwide, residential care offers not just a roof and meals but the foundation for becoming the people they have the potential to be.
Closing Thoughts
Hossain’s voice, broken, hopeful, wounded, is a reminder that every child deserves not just one chance, but many. If we had given him that, his story might have mirrored the success of his peers. But we didn’t. And now, we must learn from that.
Because no child should be forgotten. Not in a brothel. Not in a care home. Not in the world beyond.
Let Hossain’s story be a wake-up call. Let it change how we view punishment, mistakes, and second chances.
Above all, let it strengthen our fight to preserve the homes that preserve children’s lives and ensure that no child is left behind.
