The Philippines

By Mary Lou Eshelman, Philippines Program Coordinator

I imagine my life if I had been born poor and hopeless in a Manila slum. We are riding past the contradictions that make up that never-ending city - the squatters' shacks, the hotel with an indoor waterfall, the street beggars, the five-story malls, the lives of plenty and the lives of poverty. My comfortable home in Massachusetts seems to recede somewhere in the distant past as I am enveloped in the present reality of life in this humid, exotic, and intense country.

Why was it Analyn, not me, who was born to impoverished parents who could not adequately care for her eyes after corneal transplants, so that she became blind from infections? Her lovely, new children's home cannot possibly make up to her for the loss of her sight, or her lack of parents. We admire the facilities, but even more her spirit, as she says, "I may be blind, but I can still hear".

I have lost count of the number of orphanages we have visited during this trip. Was it 16 or 18? Through all the traffic, we make our way from one to another, trying to find out at each one what it is the children need, what we can do to help, how we can bridge the differences between our lives of comfort and security and the lives of these children who are growing up too fast and whose needs are urgent today, not tomorrow, not next year.

We admire those who care for the children. On a day to day basis, they have the monumental job of not giving up hope. Sometimes with only minimal material resources, they must be the caregivers, the ones who maintain in these children a spark of encouragement - that they will someday go home to their birth parents, that they will find an adoptive home, or that they will be loved until adulthood in the institution in which they live. In the meantime, all they can do is care.

I close my eyes and can still see the faces of the children. Leonora, with the wild, beautiful hair, whose dancing eyes are the very antithesis of hopelessness. Sheila, with the foster mother who so clearly would do anything for her. Arjay, with the mischievous grin and a housemother who hugs him close. Maritress, who follows us everywhere and never stops smiling. Even when I am home again, some part of my heart is still with them.

In charge of the future of some of these children is the government of the Philippines, represented by the Intercountry Adoption Board. A remarkable group of people, they are concerned, able, and real partners in planning. Amazingly open, willing to discuss the hard topics, the Board truly cares in a very personal way what happens to the children of the Philippines.

Because of their caring, every two years WHFC attends a Global Consultation on Child Welfare, this year held in early October with agencies from all over the world. We met again with those whose lives intersect the children's — those who have the ability to make a difference. It is good to reaffirm our common beliefs in a child's need for a family — and a future without fear, poverty, or neglect. That future life is sometimes impossible though; children may get "too old" to place or are perceived as having too many medical or emotional problems. But none of us at the conference wants to give up hope for any of them. We unite in our desire to try, to at least try.

I am at home again. The heat is turned up to just the right level for comfort. My grandson plays amid his loving relatives and doting parents. Our food is delicious and plentiful. Why am I here, and those children there? How can my life be a part of theirs? What is the nature of our connection to each other? Although the answers may never be completely clear, asking the questions continues the journey of commitment to these children who belong to all of us.

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