A Visit To The Taloqan Orphanage

The staff of the Taloqan orphanage is lined up to greet me as I enter the muddy yard. With the usual Afghan hospitality and melodious greetings from everyone I am ushered into the office through the wool blanket that serves as the door. Inside there is a desk, some wooden benches, and a cupboard with a box of pens and some books. We all sit down and the men smile at me, their weathered faces crinkling. They bring me tea. We might have sat there drinking tea and smiling at each other all day, but I am a typical Westerner, so I get to the point. Mission East has given food to the children of this orphanage, I am here to write the report, and I only have an hour. It’s an impossible task. How do you get across something like this?

So many times these reports are a rush of lists and numbers, how many children, how many bags of rice. The lives of people are assumed, they slip between the numbers. It is easy to forget that each of these children is an entire world, a small history of despair and hope, thoughts and dreams, tears and laughter. You need to take these children into your heart and let their stories seep into you, you need to look in their eyes and not flinch from what you see. I have a camera, a notebook, and a single hour to do them the small justice of making their world known.

The office manager is a man named Abdul Rahman. Under his turban his eyes are especially bright and crinkly. He tells me that the orphanage was started two years ago. There are dorms and classrooms and the children are instructed in Math, Dari, Koran, and English by a small teaching staff. I ask him where these children come from, and he says most of them come from villages, brought by their relatives. None of them have fathers, and most of them have lost their mothers as well. I ask what would happen to them if they did not come here. “They would stay in the village,” he says in a typical Afghan understatement. I press him further.

“What would they do there?”

“They would be working, watching sheep,” he says, “the girls would clean and take care for the small children.”

“They would do this for their relatives?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “They would be …” he searches for the right word. “They would do for some man in the village, they would work and sleep there.” He finds the word. “Like slaves. For all life.”

A teacher named Nuruddin speaks up. He has a big beard and a soft voice. He tells me there are many children in this situation, but the orphanage has not been able to take more than 80, even though it has room for 150. “There are not enough clothes,” he says simply, “And not enough food.” He gives me a little what-can-we-do? smile. Or maybe it’s a what-can-you-do? smile. Abdul Rahman tells me that the government has given enough food, blankets, and clothing for only 20 children. The rest have come from other organizations like Mission East, but it’s still not enough and they have to turn children away.

I know that teachers get paid a pittance here and I start to wonder why they continue with so little support, when a little girl comes into the office to ask for a pen, and in a way, she answers my question.

Her name is Rowaida. She is twelve years old. She tells me that her father was killed three years ago, which probably means he was killed fighting the Taliban. She has 3 sisters at home and one brother who is 13 and not in school. He works at a mechanic’s shop. I ask her where she would be if she were not here.

“I would be at home. I would not be learning how to write. Like my brother, I would not know how.”

I ask her if she is happy to be at the orphanage. She looks at me like I’m a bit slow. She tells me that learning is important, and here she is learning. I ask her what she wants to do when she grows up.

“I want to be a teacher,” she says right away, “I want to be a teacher here.”

I tell Rowaida that I am writing what she says in my notebook so that people in Europe can read it. I ask her if there’s anything she wants to tell them. Her answer is quick; she doesn’t even stop to think. “Tell them to bring us blankets and food,” she says. “And bring dresses for girls.”

After Rowaida leaves, they take me on a little tour of the rooms so that I can get my pictures. When I enter the classrooms, the students stand up in rows like pawns on a chessboard. They whisper while I fiddle with my camera. Each class has two or three books, and a pen to share. They sit on the floor. Their dorm rooms are stacked two deep with beds, and there is one blanket for every two bodies. I step over a pile of little plastic boots and sandals at the door as I leave.

There is so little for warmth, comfort, or brightness here, but the rooms are filled with small, hopeful lives. “Bring dresses for girls,” Rowaida says, and I understand. I know why the staff is here. I know why Mission East donated food. I know why I’m writing this. There is a chance for some beauty, some spark of life here, and these children have set their hearts on it. For now, all they need are dresses and food and they’ll do the rest. Surely they are worth at least that.