A noble women

Despite enduring years of unimaginable abuse and hardship, it was a pact in Vietnam that dictated the course of Christina Noble’s life. “I shook hands with two girls and I told them I’d come back,” she says, showing Irish Country Living the photo of them, which hangs on the wall of her home in Lucan. “I’ve saved one million children since then.”

It’s immediately apparent to anyone who meets Christina that she is a loving person. She’s kind, funny and caring. She tends to spontaneously break into song. She smokes and swears – not a saint by any means – but promises to give up her bad habits. Most endearing of all, however, is her sincerity.

We’ve barely set foot in the house when we’re greeted with a tight hug. She gives us a blanket midway through our interview in case it’s cold and serves up a bowl of stew she made for the builders working next door.

“I worry about you, you know,” she says, setting a place at the dinner table.

A vivid dream in 1971 left Christina feeling compelled to go to Vietnam, but it was 1989 when she finally travelled to the country. The poverty and injustice she saw there led to the discovery of her vocation and the establishment of the Christina Noble Foundation, which assists children and families through a wide range of programmes.

She also works in Mongolia, where she has braved manholes to save youngsters, and has helped fund greenhouses to grow crops.

Christina is known as Mama Tina to the children, who she calls her “babbies”. They adore her.

“Sometimes the children are so small that you’d put them in your own hand. But we have a great survival rate. I look at them and think: ‘You’re amazing. Just amazing.’ They’re something else,” she says.

“It’s very important that they become their own people and that they will grow up without the cycle of poverty,” adds Christina. “Education is very important. Initially, they may have had little or no schooling. It’s like starting from scratch, but by God they’re smart. They work so hard against the odds. They want the best for themselves.”

Christina tells us that “everybody needs somebody”, perhaps because she was on her own for so long. After her beloved mother died when she was 10, Christina was sent to an industrial school, where she was told her three younger siblings were dead. In fact, Sean, Philomena and Kathy were all alive and each would suffer the same fate, which Christina describes as “the hell of hells”.

They have since been reunited, with the pain of their separation documented in In a House That Ceased To Be, released earlier this year.

“When my brother came for me, they told him I was gone. He was banging on the door and they told him I was dead, to get rid of him. I never grieved, funnily enough. I didn’t grieve for Mammy either. I don’t think I could take it on board, that she was gone. It was easier that way,” she says.

Their mother, who hailed from Leitrim, was buried in a pauper’s grave in Dublin. “She talked about the River Shannon a lot – she loved it. We didn’t know there was a family grave in Carrick-on-Shannon. Otherwise she could have been buried there, with her family and the people she loved,” says Christina.

“She left us with no possessions, but she gave us love and you can’t buy that. She left us with everything that was good.”

Music is one of Christina’s loves and it helped her through tough times in the industrial school, though her singing also landed her in trouble.

“I would sing for the kids on top of tables. I was singing Stupid Cupid one day, and a nun caught me. Singing rock ’n’ roll songs was the same as driving the children to hell, in the eyes of the nuns. The place went dead silent. I was dragged out, and that was the end of school for me. I was put to work in the kitchen,” she says.

“But I still loved to get up on the tables and sing. It was that spirit which kept me going. They beat me until I couldn’t breathe, but I’d never change. I’m glad I was built that way.”

Christina’s resilience would serve her well during the years that followed. Life after the orphanage wasn’t any easier, as Christina slept rough in the Phoenix Park. She also had a son, Thomas, who was taken away from her by an industrial school.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt sorry for myself. I only ever wanted light. There is a sense of safety with light, and I had gotten used to living in the dark on my own. I never felt safe – I always waited for the dawn to break. Seeing light break across the sky was lovely,” she says.

At the age of 18 Christina moved to England. She married and had three children – Helenita, Nicolas and Androula – but the relationship ended after years of domestic abuse. It was during this time that she dreamt about Vietnam.

“My children gave me permission to work in Vietnam. I couldn’t do it without them, and I’ll always be grateful,” she says.

Fundraising

The Christina Noble Children’s Foundation supports children in a myriad of ways, from education to medical care. The charity has offices in Dublin, London and Vietnam,

“It sounds all posh, but it isn’t. People don’t give you money for fancy buildings,” says Christina.

“I can cope with everything, no matter how hard it is or what temperatures I’m in. I can go down the manholes in freezing conditions, I can do all of that. Our work is everything; we give 100%. It’s superb because I’m very strict and we have the best team in the world.

“However, it’s difficult when you have the worry of fundraising. It’s very hard to raise funds. I’m going to do a tour of Ireland, starting in March, and I’d love for any hotels or volunteers to help.”

Vietnam is still a very poor country, says Christina, where the effects of Agent Orange and war can still be felt.

“Social mobility is very slow and there’s shocking poverty. It’s the normal story: the rich get richer and the poorer get poorer,” she adds.

No one understands what the kids are going through more than Christina, who is determined that no one should experience abuse. Despite her tragic past, Christina professes love for all – except those who harm children.

Christina is a born mammy, and she mothers us throughout our visit to her home. She offers to make us a sandwich before we leave and apologises for not having chocolate in the house.

We see her garden, where there is a flourishing rose bush named for her mother. We’re just about to leave when she stops us.

“I want you to know that I’m a happy person. Everything in my life has happened for a reason – it’s not all bad,” she says.

“Now, be careful driving home. You promise you will?”