When hearing the word orphanage, most people think of Annie. But actually seeing one, the preconceived notion dissipates into a faint memory. This week we had the pleasure of working with a variety of children in Palestine. We had volunteered at schools, and today, for the first time, a type of orphanage or group home for young children. The experience is one that surely shook my foundation and broadened my views on foreign education systems.
Much to my delight, it seems that all the schools we visited really value children so much. They strive to see the individual and foster creativity rather than stick to rigid curriculum standards. They encourage exploration and freedom, letting children do as they please instead of constantly reprimanding them. There is a sense of ease within the classroom, completely contrasting that of the country’s political situation; school is a safe and happy place that shelters children with walls of knowledge. And you know what they say, “Knowledge is power,” power, perhaps, strong enough to fight oppression. The Palestinian people believe the minds of the future need to be intellectual and educated if they are to ever overcome the country’s occupation. They hold hope that when their freedom comes, these young people will be highly influential in rebuilding an independent nation. This view has been consistent in each school we visited, and it is clear education is valued in this society, one in which many children are forced to drop out to help support their families. When they children are in the comfort of the classroom, they seem like regular, ever day kids. It is almost as though their innocence has been preserved to some extent that they can still get excited about things; their knowledge of the political conflict falls to the backburner, as they instead focus on the book their teacher reads to them, or another classroom task. They are also quite accepting, not wondering what nationality or religion we were, but instead embracing us as a friend. If only the Israelis and Palestinians could follow their example. Sometimes children teach us more about society, and ourselves, than we realize.
At the orphanage today, I worked with a class of three year olds. The children can reside there from birth to age six, when they will be forced to move on to another facility or back with family, if they have any. The orphanage allows children to be dropped off by their parents for preschool each day and then picked up, or to be permanent residents. Residential children are those with no family to take care of them, of single mothers who gave them up (which is common because there is a stigma attached to single motherhood here), or for those whose families could not afford to care for them. There is no such thing as adoption in Palestine, so for many this is their only hope. Most children come from extreme situations of abuse, neglect, or in hiding for other reasons (which is why the name of the institution nor pictures of the children are disclosed in this post). The idea of being an orphan alone is heartbreaking, whatever the reason, but the school strives to provide children with stable caregivers and attention. My class only had one residential child, who was the shiest and most misbehaving of the bunch. He threw things at me when he did not get his way, and ran away from me when I tried to help him. The other children climbed on my back, played with my hair, eager to be with me, but not him. I decided I was not going to force myself on him, but let him come to me. And that is exactly what I did. And that is exactly what happened.
As the hours passed, his behavior continued. He cried often and did not get along well with the other children. At lunch, he refused to eat most of his meal, and as I was busy helping the other children, I noticed his hand outstretched. I paused, taken aback, and put out mine. He motioned for me to sit next to him, and took my hand in his. Smiling for one of the first times, he closely examined my fingers, spreading them apart, crunching them up, feeling their texture. “He likes your nail polish,” his teacher said. He grinned as if he understood her English and reached his arms up as if to be held. Before I knew it, I had been holding him in my arms and showing him various things around the room for minutes. The teacher said it was time for his nap and told me I could accompany him to his room- it is in a separate room for only the residential children. Leading me to his bed, I pulled back the blanket and gently covered him with it. He motioned for me to sit down with him, grabbing my arm. After sitting for a while, I was told our volunteer shift had ended and I needed to leave…but he still had not fallen asleep. He kept opening his eyes, making sure I was there, but this time I actually did need to go. I blew him kisses and rubbed his had, whispering, “Al salama” or good-bye in Arabic. He shot up, arms outstretched for me with a face drooped in sadness; all I could do was look back and wave. I could not help but wonder who would be there for him tomorrow. The children all attached to me so easily, but he was different. How many other people were going to be able to understand that? Understand him? How many more times would he be able to endure attaching to someone only to have them ripped out of his life? What will become of him when he turns six and has to leave? Maybe this facility did not seem anything like Annie, but it sounds to me that he surely has “A hard knock life.”
