"In The Orphanage You Have None"

Kristina loved to pose, and even
saw the potential in this bedspread
she wrapped around herself.

Kristina, 9, collapsed onto her bed in my room, crossed her arms, and pouted like a pro.  Because kids far outnumbered adults on our trip, I’d invited two girls to stay with me.  As our translator Irina explained this to them, Kristina made her disappointment manifest, having hoped to room with Yuliana, not the delayed girl now smiling sheepishly next to her.  But Yuliana already had a family, and sharing a room with waiting kids offered me an opportunity to get to know them better. 

Kristina forgot her grievance as she set to work unpacking the meager contents of her bag. As she held up each item ceremoniously before refolding it and lowering it meticulously into her drawer, I was struck anew at the inverse relationship between number of possessions and the care bestowed on each demonstrated  so commonly by orphans.



This picture of my children helped to break the ice
between the girls and me.



When she was finished, Kristina noticed my computer.  “Note-boohk!” she exclaimed as she charged toward it, caressing its worn patina longingly.  The first day’s meeting is the most awkward part of any trip, but the computer broke the ice splendidly as I showed the girls my screen saver photo of my kids.  As I slowly intoned their names and birth countries, each girl echoed the information in her cute accent.  The unwanted child even gushed over Julia’s beauty when she heard she was Russian.  



Kristina wakes up slowly after laughing late last night.

The first night, the girls kept me awake with incessant giggling and whispering.  Breaking out the glow bracelets the second night, I promised two each when they were lying down and quiet.  Kristina dove for her bed in her clothes, silent.  Once she had bracelets in hand, she slipped under her covers and began to chatter.  I got up, confiscating the bracelets with a weary “Shhh.”  Surprised, Kristina hushed immediately, whereupon I returned the treasures; I did not need to impound them again.

Kristina longs for something the
orphanage can't provide.

Smart and self-confident, Kristina was an actress, posing effortlessly whenever I pointed my camera her direction. She laughed readily, but whined equally easily if she perceived even a minor slight.  So little about her aura seemed orphanesque that the day I interviewed her, I expected her to shine.   Instead, I found her confidence masked a profound yearning.    Shifting uncomfortably as I introduced her, she gazed at Irina for reassurance.  With doleful eyes and a little voice, Kristina confessed she disliked her orphanage, adding she’d been there so long she could not even remember how many years it’d been.  Calling its children “naughty,” she named a boy who was particularly mean.  Her best friend was her classmate Ksusha, a kind and beautiful home child who would frequent the orphanage, though Kristina had visited Ksusha’s home.

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I loved the creativity and resourcefulness Kristina
demonstrated in constucting this tent in our room.

Often during the week Kristina counted and chanted the names of various animals in English, as if to announce she could.  But during the interview, the only English she mustered was “pig” and “cat.” She smiled when she admitted she wanted to be President of Russia, but had a nearly impossible time stating why, finally telling me the President had lots of money.  When I asked what she would do with such a sum, she wanted to share it with her friends, her papa, and the girls at school.  I asked if her papa ever visited her.  “Nyet,” came the reply in a voice so melancholy I felt ashamed at having asked.  She wanted a family, explaining, “In the family you have a mother and a father, and maybe siblings, and in the orphanage you have none.”  I hoped she could have a family. “Da,” she agreed soulfully.

Playing Bingo by herself, Kristina is sure to win.

At trip's end, we stopped at McDonald’s, a treat the kids had been anticipating because of reports returned by previous Lighthouse Project participants.  Everyone was still eating when Kristina's orphanage caretaker phoned Irina, saying she would get the kids in an hour.  Five minutes later she stood beside my table, playing the martyr’s role as her orphans tried feverishly to finish their ice cream.  A minute passed, and annoyed by the wait, she decided to take the children then. 

Kristina, second from left, on the way back to the orphanage

So with barely a goodbye, Kristina and the others from her orphanage were whisked away.  As they crossed the busy street outside the restaurant, it disgusted me that the caretaker did not even hold the hands of the littlest ones.  They’d all walk to the trolleybus, then ride back to their orphanage home.  And at the end of their journey, no mother or father or siblings would meet them, or mark their homecoming with a welcoming hug or kiss or a question about their trip, because in the orphanage, they had none. Watching them disappear, my heart hoped that somewhere in America, a mom and dad were longing for Kristina as much as she was longing for them.

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Meet Kristina and other older Russian orphans as our welcoming group of American families travels together to her region of Russia July 9-16, 2012. This trip could change your life, and you shouldn't miss it!

Everything

Daniil celebrates his Uno victory.

Daniil, 8, trotted ahead of our group to open the door for us; an older boy had done it the first day, and Daniil wanted to help, too.  He was anxious to please, and took a sweet delight at being acknowledged.

While several kids had to be pried from the TV during the trip, Daniil joined willingly in hands of Uno with Derek, a host dad, reacting with jubilation when he won.   His favorite pastime was playing games, he said.  Svetlana, his orphanage chaperone, echoed this, mentioning he excelled at logic puzzles and learning game rules.  She noted that rather than watching television at the orphanage, Daniil would frequently toil at organizing games and goading all the kids into participating.   

At interview time, I prefaced my questions to him with, “We have a nice little boy to talk to.”  It was evident the moment he understood my compliment because a shy, but pleased, smile brightened his face.   Introducing himself in a whisper, he spoke louder when encouraged.  Though I knew he had been institutionalized at seven months when, because of neglect, his biological mother was deprived of her rights, Daniil knew nothing of how long, or why, he’d languished there.  He wanted a family, while having no guess as to what it such a life would offer. Paradoxically, he liked his orphanage, everything about it.  I probed further, confident there was something he didn’t like; I was wrong.  “I like everything!” he insisted.

Daniil at his orphanage, taken by
one of our adoptive families
during their recent visit

Svetlana labeled him “a mathematician,” ahead of his peers in both math and reading.  Daniil outlined his school day as five or six lessons, all enjoyed, with math favored for the opportunity it presented to draw straight lines with rulers.  After class, he returned hungry to the orphanage for lunch.  Children with families, not orphans, ate at school he said, explaining matter-of-factly, “If we do, we must pay.”  He didn’t seem aggrieved by the inequity as he related an anecdote about Sasha, an orphan I knew from two previous trips, who once had the audacity to enter the lunchroom with the home kids.  The workers gave him a pastry and shooed him out. 

I wondered how Daniil would describe himself, and was surprised when he chose “weak.”  Then he clarified Sasha would beat him up, and he couldn’t “overcome” him. 

Visiting Daniil’s orphanage shortly before our Lighthouse Project trip, a recent adoptive family noticed that, unlike Sasha and the other boys who bounced around hyperactively, Daniil paid exquisite attention to the proceedings between the adults.  Invited to throw a football with the new father, he jumped in, playing respectfully and not emulating Sasha, who threw with vengeance. After departing, our family wrote me promptly with their impression of Daniil as an unusually well-mannered boy.

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Daniil likely shared his bracelet with this precious boy.

Svetlana praised Daniil’s affection and big-heartedness, citing how at New Year’s, when children receive candy from Father Frost, he would share his sweets unsolicited until nothing was left. One morning I presented the two girls staying with me glow bracelets as they woke up.  When Daniil stopped by to say good morning, he saw the girls’ bracelets.  He didn’t ask, but I gave him a red bracelet, which brought a broad smile of appreciation.  That evening, reviewing photos I’d taken throughout the day, I noticed another boy wearing the red bracelet, though the only children I’d yet given bracelets to were the two girls, and Daniil. Initially upset at the other boy for stealing Daniil’s bracelet, I suddenly remembered Svetlana’s accolades, and realized the red band around another’s wrist was more likely a reflection of Daniil’s kindness than the other boy’s treachery.

Daniil nearly always had a smile during our trip.

Noting Daniil’s persistence in seeking help until his needs were met, Svetlana said he needed and liked individual attention immensely, and remembered how as a young boy, he’d “tortured” caretakers with questions.  I esteem Svetlana as an exceptionally attentive caretaker, but her words encapsulated why kids need families, not orphanages.  While most parents would foster such a little boy’s curiosity, to those only paid to care the natural questions young Daniil vocalized were a nuisance to be borne.   And his desire for individual attention was recognized not as a universal need in childhood, but a quirky oddity, warranting comment.

Daniil couldn't stop smiling
at the pool.

At the end of our visit Daniil returned to his orphanage, to Sasha and the other boys who sit entranced before the television.  There he waits, persistently organizing his games, inquiring about his world, and craving acknowledgment. 

Most likely, he’s smiling.  After all, he likes everything.

*****

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Visit Daniil and other adoptable Russian orphans in Russia with our welcoming group of American travelers July 9-16, 2012.  For more information, contact Becky at (616) 245-3216 or becky@lhproject.com.

Russian Orphanage Life: Scene Two

Two of the kids in the orphanage hallway;
the boy put on one of the orphanage's suits,
 hoping to impress us.

I didn’t curse the potholes as we bounced south over pock-marked roads nearing our most far-flung orphanage, since they forced our driver Sergei to stop recklessly passing other traffic. Three death-defying hours after leaving the regional capital, we were in Peter’s city, a town still the region’s fourth largest despite 40 years of declining population.  Founded in 1552, it borrows its name from Russian folklore, after a magic stone with healing properties, though today there is little to suggest healing anywhere.  The road leading to the orphanage was flanked by small frame dwellings; weathered stick fences guarded tiny vegetable gardens. On the road’s shoulder a hunched babushka led a dairy cow on a leash.  Sergei was still irate at my leaping unannounced from his Volga sedan at a stop sign for a photo hours ago, so I bit my tongue as I fingered my camera and looked wistfully out our rear window as the cow and her mistress grew smaller.

There is little to commend Peter's hometown

When we arrived at the orphanage, several kids bolted out the doors to welcome us.  One was Peter, a cheery, animated lad I knew from his recent Lighthouse Project trip to the U.S.  Inside, several others lined the halls to see us.  Nowhere else did kids show such interest, or desperation.  Their rampant desire notwithstanding, I knew there would be precious little hope we could impart here.  But while this orphanage is one of the most deprived we work with, and several adoptees have characterized it as preferable to life on the streets only because three daily meals were served, Peter, now 12, remembers life there in fonder terms. 

He arrived on a bus at about age five from the detsky sod, or baby house orphanage.  Several other orphans were with him, having graduated the sheltered environment of the baby house.  As the newcomers disembarked the bus, older orphans heading to lunch encircled them, gawking at the smallness of the detsky sod kids.  Peter was frightened, but soon found his caretakers kind, unless he disobeyed.

Peter's orphanage

Peter’s new institution was gargantuan, with enough kids to warrant separating them into rooms both by gender and grade. A caretaker awoke each group between 7 and 8 a.m.  Before she was done, Peter’s roommates were already pillow fighting or playing with toys.  The caretaker would remind them to make their beds and brush their teeth; most orphans brush after rising, not eating, and have mouths full of cavities to show for it.   Once everyone was ready, they left for a breakfast of porridge, served inside a neighboring building.  Kids washed their hands before eating, and sat at assigned places where their food awaited them.  When they finished, bigger kids descended on the tables to eat the leftovers. 

Soviet-era safety posters welcome visitors in
the entrance to Peter's orphanage.

After breakfast, the kids queued up for school outside a third building on the orphanage grounds.  As an all-orphan school, the kids were largely spared the condescension of “home kids,” their term for children with families.  Peter spent fourth grade, his final year at the orphanage, studying reading, writing, math, and painting; science and social studies were omitted from the curriculum, leaving kids ignorant of the larger world outside the orphanage.  While some students fussed during class, Peter rued the time wasted as the teacher struggled to calm them.  As part of their lessons, kids sang once per week.  Gym class was Peter’s favorite; depending on the season, they might play soccer, ski, run, or bicycle. School was in session Monday through Friday, not Saturday as many Russian schools were.  When I asked if they wore uniforms, Peter told me they wore their own clothes, proudly adding he had “more than one outfit” to choose from.

The orphanage dining hall

Mid-morning, the kids enjoyed polnik, a snack time of tea and cookies served in the dining hall.  Unlike kids from a nearby orphanage we work with, Peter had a break from school for a soup lunch; he regarded days when borscht was served among his happiest there (Russian Orphanage Life, 1/28/12).  For dinner, bread and an evil-looking white sausage called sausiskii were on the menu. Only adults ever helped with meals.

On Sundays, Peter’s group cleaned their room, a task he considered the bane of orphanage existence.  He had a shelf for his clothes, though older kids sometimes stole from him the things they coveted.  His bed was “good and comfy”; at nighttime, the boys in his room feigned sleep until their caretakers left for the evening, then pillow fights broke out.  One caretaker remained at the orphanage overnight in case of emergency.  Kids caught misbehaving were banished to a dark basement and left to stand there for an hour; Peter learned obedience after a few trips.  Some kids would fight, but Peter avoided it, since he was too little to win. 

A bedroom in Peter's orphanage

There was a place in the capital reserved for kids Peter said could not hold their tempers.  Every three months, doctors visited the orphanage, taking an entire day to examine the children and to critique their scholastic progress. About twenty orphans were sent there for three month-stints based on the doctors’ recommendations.  Returning kids brought reports of being locked up, sometimes even tied up for severe infractions, which made every doctor’s review feel harrowing.  Kids sent away there four times stayed permanently, and forfeited any possibility of adoption.

Cigarette smoke clouded the orphanage bathrooms; Peter attributed his frequent illness to the omnipresent fumes. By 6th or 7th grade most orphans smoked, a vice he found "gross.”  Though he had no idea where the money originated, the staff gave kids 50 rubles per month (about $1.70) as allowance, enough to keep the older kids puffing and the restrooms stinking.

Sometimes the environment around the orphanage terrified Peter. Once, at age seven as he walked alone outside, a drunk staggered up and tried to take him home. Finally the drunk’s lady friend intervened and forced him to let Peter go.

The orphans freshened up occasionally in the banya, a Russian sauna with birch twigs and leaves bundled together and hung above a steam source; unlike the bathrooms, the smell was pleasant.  Steam and the resultant perspiration helped loosen the dirt from their bodies; afterward, they took a bath.

Most of the time Peter enjoyed orphanage life, though room cleaning times and mad teachers equaled bad days.  Peter’s happiest memories were of his borscht, and of a caretaker taking him to the store to spend his allowance on candy.  

During the summer, orphans left to live with foster families.  Two boys in the first family Peter stayed with were cruel; in his second foster home, Peter remained with Tota Luda and her husband three months, pulling weeds in a garden overgrown with tomatoes.  He disdained that work, but liked life outside the orphanage, once attending a wedding with Tota Luda.   

Kids at the orphanage

Orphanage kids longed for families, though with no social studies classes and no knowledge of the United States, they had no aspirations of adoption by Americans.  But as he saw others leave, Peter thought them lucky, and wished them happiness.  After his trip to America with the Lighthouse Project, he realized a family wanted him; thus, he began to implore his orphanage director daily, “Director, are they here yet?”   While she reassured him, obstacles which delayed his parents’ coming rendered him disappointed and with dwindling confidence as the wait dragged on.  After all his questions, when his turn to go finally came, Peter thought he noticed the director “was a little glad that I left!” 

In court for his adoption, the judge’s serious appearance when she entered the courtroom intimidated Peter.  He agreed with a simple “Da” when she asked if he wanted to be adopted, then let his nerves silence him further.  He’d made the right decision, he told me, reckoning he was the fifth child from his institution to find a forever family; nonetheless, it was a hard day when his new parents took him back to the orphanage to bid everyone farewell.  As teachers cried, it pained him to leave his friends with nothing but bubblegum for their futures.

Peter's arrival at the airport in the United States overwhelmed him.  But his new cousin waved a sign of welcome, quickly teaching him to high five and give knuckles, and to his profound relief, he found America wasn’t scary for long.  As other kids from his orphanage followed him into local families, Peter relished the chance to reconnect with them.

Kids outside to see us off

I asked Peter what he would tell his friends left behind. “If you want parents from America, that’s a really good choice.  But it is going to be hard to learn the language.  That was the hard part when I came here.”  To help him, his parents worked on his English on the summer afternoons following his homecoming.  Even Uno games provided opportunities for lessons, he noted with a hint of disgust.  But he was delighted when I praised his English. “Thank you!” he gushed.  I had to [learn] because I didn’t have no one to speak to me in Russian!”

Kids waving goodbye at the orphanage

Peter wondered what my plans were for his interview.  I promised I’d post it on our website, to share with others about Russian orphanages and the kids who wait in them.  He brightened when I hoped his story might help some of his old friends.  “Oh, that’s nice! I hope they get adopted.  If you do get adopted, I am really happy for you guys!”

So Peter’s orphanage days are a memory, but my mind’s eye vividly sees him there, the brain-jarring day we left him.  He and his friends spilled out the orphanage doors behind us, aching to seize every moment with us; some of those dear ones, like Vasily, still wait just to be chosen (Solid Gold, 12/1/09). After we’d hugged our goodbyes and collapsed into the Volga, most of the kids filtered back to the orphanage.  But not Peter.  As we drove away, I glanced out the rear window again. He was waving to me.  Smiling and waving.

Russian Orphanage Life

She lives with guilt. At 14, she’s a recent adoptee relishing new life with a mother and father; meanwhile, kids she holds dear languish in an orphanage she knows better than she’d like to.  In charming, and surprisingly understandable, English, she spills her heart on the phone to me for over 90 minutes. While her former orphanage is the best of several we work with, her depiction of life there is grim and excruciating.

She arrived scared at age nine, wearing a little necklace her mother had made. Overwhelmed and unable to answer when another orphan asked her about it, the pint-sized bully tore it off her. Our girl, who we’ll call Oksana, was devastated, and remembers no one cared.  She didn’t know how she could live in such a place.  All the kids were together, and no mother or father was there to help her. She was confused, a word she uses often in our conversation. “What will happen to me? How will I get out of here?” were questions tormenting her then. Workers apprised her of the most important rules, but the rest she learned by trial and error, or by emulating veteran orphans. 

To her distress, she awoke her first morning and remembered she was an orphan when a teacher flipped on the lights with a barked, “Wake up!” She couldn’t believe she really was in an orphanage, and she certainly did not want to be there. She was positive the day was hopeless; they were planning to send her to school, and her shoes were worn. She looked like an orphan. Other students were sure to giggle.  

Oksana was assigned to a living group of about 12 girls, though that number fluctuated as kids came and went. When there were as many as 15 girls, there weren’t enough beds, so they took turns sleeping with another group. For frigid winter nights, Oksana had two blankets, and slept in two pairs each of pants, sweatshirts, and socks. Bedtime was 9:30 p.m.; once in bed, kids were not to get up, even for the bathroom. During the early days, she didn’t dare talk, or breathe; snoring at night might be rewarded with a smack from the monitor.

Meals were eaten together. Supper consisted of soup, rice, meat, and bread; she could have a drink only if she finished her food. If she was tardy, someone else might already have helped themselves to her food. No second helpings were served, even when she was still hungry. 

Kids took showers once or, sometimes, twice per month; hot water was never guaranteed. When Oksana’s hair got too greasy, she would run water over it in the sink. The group shared a blow dryer; if one wasn’t quick to grab it, she would have to go to school with wet hair. Without boots, Oksana’s feet were chilled throughout winter. Clothes were changed once weekly. Many of the girls had matching jeans and coats, which made things confusing, but being conspicuous at school in their orphan “uniforms” was even worse. 

Inequity at school between kids with families, called “home” kids by another orphan I spoke with, and kids without, was rampant. Home kids ate lunch at school. Orphans had only a snack, like an apple and beverage, and waited to eat lunch until they returned to the orphanage around 3 p.m. Oksana was a conscientious student, but hunger sometimes made concentration challenging. Home kids had textbooks, but there were seldom enough for the orphans. She would look around in class, seeking someone willing to share theirs with her.

After school, an orphanage bus drove kids home. The orphans harassed anyone late for the bus; they were hungry, and clamoring for their belated lunch. Eating was followed by outdoor activity for precisely an hour, then 2.5 hours of homework. One staffer per group assisted with schoolwork, though if several girls had questions, she might not have time to help them all. Kids sat at the table, whether or not they had homework. Evenings included chores, rotated on a weekly basis. Sundays were seldom restful; sometimes, they worked at chores most of the day.

Riding the bus precluded kids from being able to participate in after-school activities. When home kids stayed late to have cake for a holiday, the orphans got nothing, except their ride. When school friends invited her to their homes, she had to decline, though they could visit her. Home kids in home economics supplied their own food ingredients, but the orphanage did not have fancy cooking supplies to donate. Activities requiring money were never an option.

Some students reviled the orphans. A hooligan once pushed Oksana into a snowpile, demanding, “Why are you in the orphanage?” When she wouldn’t tell him, everyone teased her. Even some school teachers participated; one was particularly hard on orphans because a specific child annoyed her. “You don’t have a dad?” she taunted him, lambasting all orphans as troublemakers. “Not all of us are doing bad things!” Oksana thought.

Birthdays were giftless, nearly joyless affairs; she would receive an apple, one chocolate, a cookie, and tea. Kids and the staff wished her happy birthday, but never sang her a song. Being first to say “Happy birthday!” became a competition; in her enthusiasm, Oksana sometimes won by waking the birthday child up. Still, her own birthday almost made her feel worse, since everyone knew home kids really celebrated theirs.

Despite the shortage of essentials, almost every orphan over the age of nine possessed a cell phone. Oksana explained orphanage graduates sometimes bought the devices for their younger siblings and kept them replenished with minutes, or teachers might buy for a favorite child. Other kids did odd jobs at summer foster homes to earn money for theirs. At bedtime, phones were surrendered; the head of the orphanage checked them for inappropriate games and music, punishing infractions by keeping the phone several days.
 
As Oksana aged, the orphanage stayed scary. Once a drunk wandered onto orphanage property and blocked the fire escape until the police chased him away. Another orphan had a mentally unstable mother who visited, spreading a pungent malodor which lingered longer than she did. Eyeing the children as they ate, she would demand their food.

A forest surrounded the orphanage, and kids told tales of nighttime horrors happening there; some may have been true. It terrified Oksana to go out alone after dark to empty the trash. Older, meaner kids threatened the younger with evils better left unspoken, to commandeer more desirable beds, or steal candy, or get their way. Reporting mistreatment to a teacher assured retribution; many times orphans told us their best friends were the kids who protected them. There were few truly safe places for possessions in the orphanage. When Oksana returned from her Lighthouse Project trips, she unpacked her gifts while everyone else was outside. Otherwise, stronger kids would menace, “I want that,” until she relinquished her treasures. 

The orphanage leader was a helpful lady Oksana complimented as “good” and “nice.” Though hamstrung by limited resources, she tried to make the kids as comfortable as possible, once having Oksana’s group’s room repainted. As work progressed, the girls slept on mattresses in the gym a few weeks, snuggling together for warmth. Oksana was mortified when some of the older boys seized the opportunity to leer at them there, when they were not decently dressed. They had a long walk to use the bathroom, and the same boys smirked and made rude remarks each time a girl left the gym. 

But the kids found makeshift pleasures in things like sliding down hills on trash bags. Young children shared several bicycles with perpetually flat or missing tires. Older kids loved riding the single bike designated for their use, though Oksana got only one ride the entire time she lived there. In spring and fall, the orphans swam in a public pool twice monthly, wearing threadbare swimsuits either too big or small. The garments looked “very, very old,” and sometimes fell down. Summers were a relief, wading knee deep in a creek behind the orphanage without the burden of humiliating swimwear.

Oksana’s best memories were of her group spending time with her teachers during holidays.  They played in the snow, had scavenger hunts, held contests making things, or went ice skating.  When an elderly babushka needed help, they might oblige. She enjoyed art classes in the orphanage’s craft room, and tending the orphanage’s houseplants. Ironically, even the deprivation of the orphanage afforded more opportunity to experience things than she could have with her biological family. Orphans went to camp for several weeks in summer, or stayed with foster families. But not all who fostered were kind; those who disliked a child might return her to the orphanage early.

Her animation in sharing the better times made me wonder if she liked the orphanage, or some elements of it. But she said she was never truly happy, explaining, “Almost all kids want a mother and father for a family, but the orphanage doesn’t give you that. And sometimes you want a family.”

Several preschool children idolized Oksana for her kindness; as she left the orphanage on her final day there, her new mom saw one small boy embrace her tightly, before they all parted with teary eyes. And though she is safe with her forever family, Oksana now worries for those left behind.  When she readied a care package for an extra special friend, her mom wanted to send a swimsuit. Oksana refused, judging it better to suffer a saggy suit in company, than sport a new suit alone, inviting ridicule, theft, or a fight to keep it. She desperately wants the orphans to fit in, but doesn’t want her friend courting the abuse she knows accompanies good fortune.

I asked her about orphan dreams. “Everybody in orphanage—all of them—kids want to have family and they want to be with father and mother. They wait so somebody can adopt them from orphanage. If some family adopt somebody, they were so happy to have father and mother,” she told me.

Oksana’s memories make her sad, but she selflessly shares them anyway. She yearns to help the kids still there, and it’s something she can do. Perhaps, she reasons, if families know the truth, if they know what it’s like to live in an orphanage, they’ll realize they have to help.

Have to.

Her friends are waiting.

*****

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