Last Friday, I spent my morning working at the children’s orphanage because the women’s center where I’m teaching English is closed on Fridays. The orphanage was challenging, but I’m grateful for the placement I received, as working there this morning was very difficult for me. The room I worked in was large, bright, and immaculate, and had probably 10 or so cribs and a large playpen in the center of the room, where two of the bigger boys were situated. Initially, I assumed that the children were toddlers, maybe the oldest 5 or 6, but once I started feeding them, I saw that they all had their permanent teeth (they were all fed some formula, but the bigger two in the playpen, who were spoon-fed milk-soaked bread. I later learned that most were in the pre-teen to young teenager age group, although there were a few that even the workers knew exactly how old they were. I must admit to being a bit surprised when I saw pubic hair on one of the girls whose diaper was being changed next to me. That told me a great deal about their age. Their tiny bodies were contorted, and their limbs were bone-thin. When I picked a few of them up to move them, they were hard to carry, as their bodies didn’t conform to mine as I was used to, but rather were stiff and unyielding. I was also terribly afraid I would hurt them, so I was being overly cautious.
Illegitimate children in Morocco are considered outcasts, non-people or bastards, and given that unmarried sex is illegal in Muslim countries, the stakes are very high for a woman who finds herself pregnant without a father who is willing to marry her and accept the responsibilities. There doesn’t seem to be any repercussion towards the man who gets the woman pregnant, but rather, it is entirely the burden for the woman to carry. Although recent legal reform says that an unmarried woman may register her child to make them available for social programs, with the father’s consent or not, this is not a law that seems to be followed, and women still seem to be paying the price. This is why so many children end up in orphanages, as they are literally the babies who are “thrown away” by the mother to protect herself. The children at this orphanage are totally dependent upon others for their care, and from what I saw, couldn’t do anything on their own short of crying to indicate distress. During my time there, I was able to go up to the 3rd floor, where the youngest babies reside. They were absolutely adorable, and most of them looked healthy and would be considered “adoptable.” The adoption standards are rigid, though, as only a Muslim can adopt a baby in Morocco, and even though they may bring them up as they choose (in a Muslim family), they must promise to keep the baby’s given Arabic name. The whole process can take years, and there’s a reluctance to adapt to families living outside of Morocco, even if they are Moroccan. The children with physical limitations, like the ones I was working with, aren’t considered adoptable, and even if there was someone who wanted to adopt them, the orphanage is reluctant, fearing that the families would not be able to handle the burden and would leave the child once again.
Initially, I wasn’t sure what my role was going to be once all of the kids had been fed (they were
bathed and in clean clothes before we arrived), but it didn’t take long to realize that once their bellies were full, all these kids wanted was some attention and physical touch. A simple caress of a cheek with gentle words or singing was enough to calm them down, and more than once, I was able to get a few smiles or a hand that would reach through the crib bars to touch me. I had to keep reminding myself that they weren’t toddlers, but children, because they fit in a normal-sized crib. There was one girl who tugged at my heart and with whom I spent most of my time. She had beautiful brown curls and huge brown eyes and was so contorted that her little body barely took up half of the space in the crib. She was wearing a child-sized, red “ROCK THE BAND” tee shirt that made mention of a music festival in Buffalo, NY. My reaction vacillated between sad, as it seemed to make her appear even more vulnerable than she already was, and happiness, simply because of the irony of it. That being said, I did tell her several times that she rocked the shirt, and for some reason, that became a connecting thread for us, even though she, of course, had no idea what I was saying. My tone, however, I’m sure she understood.
As much as I’ve enjoyed learning about the history of Morocco and the traditions of its people (Muslim lessons will begin later this week), I’m finding that I know a great deal about a culture through observing how its most vulnerable are treated. I saw this at Mother Theresa’s in Perú and again at the orphanage in Rabat. Because of medical issues, which I’m sure are a result of poor prenatal care coupled with difficult births, most likely without medical assistance, most of these children will have a significantly shortened life span. It was genuinely touching to see the women at the orphanage work tirelessly and with such love to ensure that these children have the best life possible. All of their cribs were made up with colorful bedding and had at least one stuffed animal propped up where it was visible to the child. The clothes they wore were clean and gender-specific (which was a good thing, as I was having a hard time determining the gender of a few of them). I was deeply touched by the love I saw in that room. When I went upstairs to peek in the baby’s room, I had to wonder about the ones that may not ever get adopted and will end up spending their entire life in the orphanage, and what they could become if raised in the protective embrace of a loving family. The staff does the best it can, but there are not enough employees or volunteers to give these children the attention and the touch that they are so hungry for. Given the time I’ve had to process this initial visit, I’m sure my time at the orphanage this Friday will be a bit easier, but that’s not to say it won’t come with a tear or two. Gratitude. For so much. I can’t begin to express….
There are no photos allowed inside the orphanage to protect the children, but I did manage to take a picture of myself outside the building, complete with the jacket they like us to wear to protect our clothing.