peregriNation: The Innocents

Orphans. The mere mention of the word tugs at heartstrings. We’re talking about children who have lost the very core of who they are, their stability in a crazy world: their families. We can’t seem to think about it for very long because it’s too distressing, and we can’t even begin to imagine life without ours, flawed as they may be. But these children have no choice. Life has dealt them a blow and they must soldier on, there is no other way. The best they can hope is that they land in a place where people love them. Really love them. But how often do you run across people who will love another person’s child, much less thirty of them, or a hundred?

One afternoon as a part of our cross culture, CCS took us to NEEMA Orphanage to spend time with the children. We drove an hour up into the foothills of Kilimanjaro, and went through a huge metal gate, to find forty tiny children running down the hill towards us. The Catholic Church runs NEEMA, with nuns and volunteers as the caregivers. The facilities were large and striking by African standards with three buildings, one for the infants, one for toddlers, and the last for older children. Progress was being made on a fourth building with the goal of caring for the children until they were eighteen years old. We played at the gate, hugging and holding as many children as we could possibly fit into our arms. Eventually the nuns said it was potty time.

We herded the children up the hill to their dorm. At the building, the volunteers pulled off the children’s little shorts (no undies), and threw them in a pile as they went inside the door; their rubber sandals went into another pile. Lined up against the wall was a row of ten small plastic training potties. The first set of children took a seat to do their business. From there they moved onto another station where their shirts were removed and they were given a stand-up bath in plastic tub. Afterwards, they went to sit on a table where lotion was applied to their arms and legs. (many Africans constantly battle dry skin) A new set of clothing awaited them, which they would wear for the next several days. At the door the children slipped their feet into the top two shoes on the pile, matching or not, and took off again to play. It was an amazingly efficient system they had created, and at every station, the caregivers spoke lovingly to each child while they tended to them. The children went through the routine mindlessly as though they had done it a hundred times before. It seemed a little like growing up in a summer camp. All of their needs were taken care of, and they were loved, but a handful of adults for 80 children meant undivided attention was nearly impossible.

Children end up in the Orphanages for different reasons. They may have lost both parents, due to AIDS, or other circumstances. The AIDS epidemic alone has orphaned children at astonishing rates. Even if a child has lost only one parent he could be orphaned. If his father dies, his mother cannot earn money and feed the children, so they go to an orphanage. If she remarries, the new husband often will not accept her children, and they are sent away because she must live. If the mother dies the father does not know how to care for a child, and must work to earn money, so the children are left on their own or sent to an orphanage. The children are screwed either way. Sometimes the children may actually have family, but the parents are too sick, destitute, or don’t want to care for them. Sometimes a parent may be trying to get them out of a bad situation. Many children have been abused or molested and orphanage workers must keep careful watch to make sure they don’t abuse each other, because that is all they know. The ideal situation is to keep them in their own home, with a relative, or at least in their village, but this does not always happen. The Tanzanian government doesn’t fund or run orphanages for this reason. They say the relatives and villages should take care of their own. The orphans are left to the good will of the private sector.

Tuleeni Orphanage is full of good will, even from the children themselves. Tuleeni has a relationship with CCS, so several of my fellow volunteers were placed there for work. They told me that the older girls, who are teenagers, take turns doing the cooking. They will leave class early on their day, make the porridge, serve it and clean up. Everyone has specific jobs at this small, dilapidated orphanage, run by a mother who began “inheriting” children. The young boys clean, and chop wood (with an axe!) The girl’s clean, cook and do laundry. Older children look after the younger ones, and everyone takes care of each other. They sleep in small rooms with bunk beds, several children to a mattress, until they no longer fit.

       We were invited over on Christmas Eve to watch a performance by the children. We piled into two vans, and stopped at a grocery store on the way to buy gifts to take with us. Bags of rice, beans, oil, towels, notebooks and pencils were loaded into carts. One volunteer held in his hands, a soccer ball and bags upon bags of candy,
   “What?! They’re kids. It’s Christmas for crying out loud.”
   The performances were adorable and afterward we played and hugged. At one point Seri was looking for a particular little boy and she found him in the bunk room. He owned one cardboard box of possessions, and he was folding his clothes neatly and storing them in the box. Seri got a lump in her throat. Being with the children was a beautiful way to celebrate the holiday.

A friend of mine came to town and we went to Tuleeni again to play with the kids over the holiday. We played Ring Around the Rosie, and Duck-Duck-Goose, which to them was Chui-Chui-Simba. Leopard Leopard Lion. At one point I sat to feed baby Jonathon his porridge, and was bumped by a running child, spilling some of the porridge. A young girl appeared with a rag (filthy), wiped the porridge off Jonathon, off me, then off the dirt floor of the courtyard. I got choked up at the thought of her wiping porridge off the dirt, and wondered what was the point. Then I realized this was her home. I moved across the courtyard where my friend was at a table reading books to the kids. A small girl named Irene climbed up onto the picnic table behind my friend. She bunched her tattered sleeve into her hand, took off his cap, and wiped the sweat from his brow.

NEEMA Orphanage