Helenita, 39, fundraises for CNCF. She has two sons, Thomas, 23, and Georgie, 5, and lives in Dublin.
HELENITA: Christina was never allowed to be a child. When her mother died, she became mother to her younger brother and sisters against a backdrop of quite indescribable poverty. The greatest tragedy that informs everything she's ever done is that she was only 10 and she couldn't save them. I believe every time she helps a child, she's still trying to mend Philomena, Kathy, Andy, Michael and Sean. She's a born mother in a raw, almost animalistic sense. What kept her going all those years was the idea that one day she'd gather her siblings together and give them a home.
With her mother gone, Christina was regularly abused by a relative as her three-year-old sister lay next to her. In the orphanage she was abused again. Her brother Sean was stripped and beaten so often by the monks who were supposed to care for him that, as an adult, he can bear no touch beyond a handshake. But Christina had this rebellious streak: they'd take her body, but she would not let them destroy her soul. That ability to detach from reality enabled her to go on and do what she's done.
The foundation is all about restoring children's dignity and mending their souls, and that has everything to do with Christina's own experiences. As a child on the streets, she was so hungry she ate cardboard, leaves and candle wax. At no time, ever, did any adult show her love or kindness. It's painful for me to face the kind of things she's been through, but I take myself outside of it and say: "Because of that suffering, she's gone on to change the lives of nearly 200,000 street children and their families."
One of the things that confused me was why my mum and dad stayed together for so long — nearly 14 years. Now I'm older, I understand. He was a lost boy from a Greek island, she was a lost girl from another island, and they thought they could help each other. But they were both so damaged, neither had the mechanism to cope. They were like two kids having their own kids.
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Christina was oppressed by my father. He beat her and behaved atrociously towards her, and she shrank in his presence. But when he left the house, she'd be up singing rock'n'roll songs and dancing round the kitchen. They stuck together because of the love they had for their children. He brought violence; she brought pain. Neither had the tools to sort it out. But what they did give us was a huge amount of love, albeit separately, and they taught us to be open, driven, passionate. It wasn't an easy childhood, but in many ways it was magical.
Christina gives to the point where she exhausts herself, and yet never asks for anything back. For her, that is the mark of real love. As a child, everyone she met wanted something. If someone gave you a cuddle, there was an agenda.
They wanted to abuse you or manipulate you. Consequently she's a bundle of contradictions. She's incredibly trusting, which can drive us bananas, yet she can be guarded when she doesn't need to be.
She has huge energy, which never lets up, whether she's in Sainsbury's with her grandchildren or setting up a women's work project in Mongolia. She's unstructured to the point of chaos. But if she was calmer and more sensible, I don't think she could go to the other side of the world with no money and 12 weeks later have a project set up. Christina has no sense of fear. To reach such a depth of pain and humiliation, to be stripped of your dignity as a young child, either destroys you or gives you the strength to take on the world.
Mum's health is worrying. She drives herself past the point of exhaustion and doesn't feed herself properly. But there's no point in trying to get her to slow down. By caring for all these children, really loving them and giving them a proper childhood, she's looking after herself in the only way she knows how.
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CHRISTINA: It's half past seven on a Friday evening. I'm seven years old and I'm looking through a dingy window, out of a kitchen which is just a piece of concrete, and watching my ma walking up towards the flats with two bags of shopping which she'd spent all her wages on. I had this terrible, gnawing feeling that she might die.
My childhood went beyond poverty: there was complete deprivation of love. The only physical contact I remember is when my mother wrapped a warm towel around me after a bath in front of the fire. My da couldn't love, partly because he was drinking, and my ma didn't have time because she had to go out to work, even though she had TB. She died on the day she was taken into hospital. I remember thinking: "If I could make her some porridge, maybe she'd get better." I looked in the cupboard, but the only thing there was a box of Atora suet.
I wanted my own children to know I loved them and I'd do whatever I could to help them fulfil their dreams. I liked there to be a nice smell of dinner when they came into the house, and for the fridge to be full — all things I never had. And flowers. There had to be colour, because there was no colour in my life when I was a child. I used to tell them stories and sing with them. We'd dance instead of walk down the street.
I was beaten so much as a child, I didn't care much for discipline. I remember Helen breaking eggs on the floor when she was about two — just for the fun of it. But I loved the fact we had enough food for it not to matter. My only rule was that home was safe and they could tell me anything. Helen got pregnant with Thomas when she was 15. I remember the doctor telling me she should have an abortion. I said to her: "Helen, this is your life." And so we brought him up, all of us together. He's 6ft 4in now and he's gorgeous.
I had no love myself, sure, but you know what a child needs. All I wanted was for someone to listen. I kept asking myself: "Why don't they hear my pain, my loneliness?" I wanted to say: "Look at me. I'm human. Help me." But instead of help I got abuse. You might think someone was feeling for you, but all they wanted to do was abuse your body. In that situation, you live on instinct, and when even your instincts fail you, you cut everyone out, except for the moon and the stars and the songs in your head. And that's what it is to be a street child.
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There's a lot in my life I'd like never to have experienced, but without those times, would I have had the courage to do what I've done? The nights I've lain awake sweating, thinking: "How can I get the money? How can I finish what I've started?" You see these kids' faces, you know it's up to you to save them.
Helen has been involved in the charity since 1996, and since I've had breast cancer, she's taken on a lot of the fundraising. If I'm Mama Tina, she's the big sister. The idea was, she'd come out to Vietnam for a short time and help with a music project. So she came for a month and stayed for two years. She's set up two choirs and a guitar group and a piano group for the girls. Helen is great with kids who are on drugs, the ones who are very sad and very lost. She's seen a lot of poverty, a lot of pain, and it's tough.
Some men think they can do what they like to children with impunity. In Ho Chi Minh City, you see western men taking little girls of four or five into hotels and, God help me, I want to kill them with my bare hands. We talk and listen to each other, Helen and I, and that helps.
When I was in the hospital recently, I said to myself: if I die now, the greatest sadness would be to leave my family and my extended family, because it's myself as a mother I'm most proud of. I'm Mum to my own kids, I'm Mama Tina to thousands of others, and I think of my son Thomas, who was taken from me, every day. He's not part of my life, sure, but he's part of my internal world.
Some of my street kids have grown up and they've got jobs, or they're running businesses. They're confident. When love is given to you unconditionally, without imposing a cultural or religious framework, it's total freedom. My kids, other people's kids, I love them all. Helen and I, we're from the same mould. We have a passion and a love for children.