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On The Other Side of the World

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At last, this final empty room. Narrow as the rest, yet brightly decorated with stuffed animals and tiny toy teapots. We sit on a couch and we wait. From time to time, we can hear the muffled voices of the worker talking to the children in the next room. Occasionally, there is the click of a door shutting and footsteps across the wooden floors several rooms away.

A woman comes through a different door, and the cold air follows her into the room. In her arms there is a giant package of blankets. Slowly and carefully she begins peeling back the blankets, like layers of an onion, and the package grows smaller and smaller. Finally, she pulls off a final layer, and nestled inside is a tiny baby... almost ten months old and yet so small. The woman pulls the baby up and chucks her into my arms as I stand there in shock that this moment has finally arrived. Here is my child.

Suddenly there is the sound of celebration. Several workers have appeared seemingly from nowhere to watch the sight of this foreign woman and this little child. The baby doesn't cry. She looks around with these giant, curious eyes that blink at the flashes as pictures are taken. She watches my husband from the safe distance of my arms but will not let him hold her. She lets me hold her, but won't look into my eyes. We place her on the floor to play, yet she doesn't know the floor and she doesn't feel safe there. She lays back in my arms, puts her fingers in her mouth, and moments after meeting us unceremoniously falls asleep.

Each of our three visits to the baby house begins the same way: a tiptoe through a maze of doors and rooms, waiting silently for a worker with a bundle of blankets. We get to feed the baby her meal of porridge and tea. The tea is sipped from a small tin cup and the porridge swallowed quickly from a giant spoon. The food is neither hot or cold. There is no mess made.

It is our final visit when we see the group of little children again. They are outside in the sunshine and they run to touch our car, zip our coats and take our hands. We cannot take their picture. We can photograph the workers there, but we do not know their names. We cannot see where our baby has slept or where she has played. We do not know which worker cared for her or if that worker will miss her when she's gone. If we stayed awhile, perhaps this place would share its secrets with us. But we are only there a moment and we leave simply and quietly, clutching our treasure and with questions unanswered.