Birthdays are often marked by celebrations, gifts, and laughter, but the day I turned twenty-six, I decided to celebrate my birthday by spending the day at a children’s orphanage. That decision, though simple, changed me in ways I had never expected. What began as a simple act of kindness became one of the most transformative experiences of my life.
That afternoon, I stood under the shade of a large oak tree, waiting for the children to return from school. The air was heavy and warm, but what hung most heavily was the silence. They finally arrived in a neat line, dressed in uniforms that were oversized and worn out. Others had shoes that clearly did not fit their feet. Their school bags, many torn and tattered, hung loosely on their tired shoulders.
Inside, the children neatly placed their bags in a row before sitting down for lunch. It was then that I noticed what was missing. There was no mother waiting with a smile, no father asking, “How was school today, are you tired?” There was no glass of water offered to cool their thirst after walking under the scorching sun. The absence of those everyday moments filled with love hung around the room like an invisible weight. My eyes blurred with tears as I realised that this was not an exception; it was their daily reality.
I had once read in a report that over 10,000 children in my country live in institutional care. Like a wave, the realisation washed over me that those numbers only seen in a report were not abstract. They were sitting right before me.
Before they could eat, the warden instructed them to sing a welcome song and give a speech. I could see their hunger battling their obedience, their hollow eyes shifted between duty and hunger. I could not bear it. Gently, I requested that the formalities be skipped so the children could eat in peace. Only then did they begin to dig into their meal.
For dessert, I had brought chocolates. A small, ordinary treat for many, but extraordinary to them. Their eyes lit up with joy as they clutched the chocolates, gobbling down their food in eager anticipation. That moment pierced my heart: something so simple, so easily available outside, was a rare luxury for them.
That day transformed me. No child should grow up without a hug after school, without someone to ask how their day was, without the warmth of belonging. These children were growing up in a world where survival came before affection, where routine replaced intimacy, and where their needs were reduced to schedules and statistics.
On that day, I made a quiet but unshakable promise to myself: These children did not need to grow up in institutions deprived of love and affection. They needed homes, families, and the chance to be embraced with dignity. That was the day I decided I would dedicate myself to working on a deinstitutionalisation project. Because no child deserves just a bed in an institution. They deserve a loving home.
