live here?”
“Come on, sweetie. We have to find the owner.”
I should have moved, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the kids.
“This school is capped for the number of kids they could take,” Dad explained. “In fact, the pesantren owner was able to take only one-third of the tsunami orphans who wanted to come here from the refugee camps in Aceh.”
I cringed as another black cat, this one carrying a dried-up bone in his teeth, slinked against my leg. His body was so thin and scrawny. Didn’t anyone feed him?
Dumb question that I didn’t even bother asking out loud.
If nobody was feeding the street kids, why wouldn’t the cats be on their own too?
That’s when a man about Dad’s age, but shorter and wearing a black cap on the crown of his head, walked down the path to greet us.
“Welcome!” he said, arms outstretched. “Thank you for coming, doctors.” He spoke in thick-accented English. “How were the logistics of your trip?”
“Excellent, thank you,” Dad said, extending his hand for a shake. Excellent was a bit of an exaggeration, I thought as they exchanged pleasantries and introductions.
And then the owner said, “Now we go meet the orphans. They have prepared a special evening ceremony to greet our welcomed guests.”
“What time is it?” I asked Dad.
“We landed around five p.m. It’s about seven p.m.,” he said. “That reminds me.” He fiddled with his watch, resetting it to Indonesian time.
I followed Team Hope and the pesantren owner down a muddy path past dozens of white-paint-chipped out-buildings decorated with blue accents. Peeking through many open windows, I saw empty rooms, with kids’ clothes draped over scrappy-looking bunk beds.
On the overgrown lawn, a lone goat was tied to a palm tree with a fraying rope. The same tree held one end of a ripped volleyball net. Besides the mews of the starving cats, the place was silent. Ghost town silent. Like a summer camp might feel like if you stumbled on it years after it was shut down.
The owner walked with purpose, his feet solidly pounding the ground, speaking to my father in a polite but assertive tone until we came to a long rectangular building, also white with blue trim but with double doors etched in elaborate Indonesian designs.
It was the center of the door that caught my attention. Two carvings shaped like the flower bulbs Oma planted in the winter and waited patiently for spring to bloom.
“You ready, kid?” Tom asked quietly.
I had no idea what I was supposed to be ready for, but when the pesantren owner opened the creaky door, it became clear what he meant.
A sea of faces stared back at me. At us. Dressed in black and white, some of the younger children squirmed on the tile floor until they noticed the pesantren owner. Then they sat immediately at attention: backs straight with legs tucked underneath.
I flashed on a school assembly at home in El Angel Miguel. Principal Sanchez couldn’t get us to shut up for ten seconds. But this tiny, stern-faced man in wire-rimmed glasses could quiet them with one look? That’s power.
Scanning the crowd more carefully, I noticed the boys were wearing white long-sleeved dress shirts tucked into black pants with small black hats, like the one the owner wore, on the crowns of their dark heads. The girls dressed in the same colors but with flowing jilbabs covering their heads, necks and shoulders. Most of the girls wore skirts instead of pants.
I was really glad I hadn’t shown up in a tank top and shorts.
“All the orphans are gathered for our honored guests,” the owner explained.
The room looked split by gender, with the girls on the left and the boys on the right, the younger kids kneeling in front.
“The two hundred children of the tsunami from Aceh are in the center of the room,” he said in a not-so-subtle voice.
My eyes darted to the group he was talking about; I recognized some of the kids from the DVD. When I saw their faces, I heard their voices,
“Come on, sweetie. We have to find the owner.”
I should have moved, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the kids.
“This school is capped for the number of kids they could take,” Dad explained. “In fact, the pesantren owner was able to take only one-third of the tsunami orphans who wanted to come here from the refugee camps in Aceh.”
I cringed as another black cat, this one carrying a dried-up bone in his teeth, slinked against my leg. His body was so thin and scrawny. Didn’t anyone feed him?
Dumb question that I didn’t even bother asking out loud.
If nobody was feeding the street kids, why wouldn’t the cats be on their own too?
That’s when a man about Dad’s age, but shorter and wearing a black cap on the crown of his head, walked down the path to greet us.
“Welcome!” he said, arms outstretched. “Thank you for coming, doctors.” He spoke in thick-accented English. “How were the logistics of your trip?”
“Excellent, thank you,” Dad said, extending his hand for a shake. Excellent was a bit of an exaggeration, I thought as they exchanged pleasantries and introductions.
And then the owner said, “Now we go meet the orphans. They have prepared a special evening ceremony to greet our welcomed guests.”
“What time is it?” I asked Dad.
“We landed around five p.m. It’s about seven p.m.,” he said. “That reminds me.” He fiddled with his watch, resetting it to Indonesian time.
I followed Team Hope and the pesantren owner down a muddy path past dozens of white-paint-chipped out-buildings decorated with blue accents. Peeking through many open windows, I saw empty rooms, with kids’ clothes draped over scrappy-looking bunk beds.
On the overgrown lawn, a lone goat was tied to a palm tree with a fraying rope. The same tree held one end of a ripped volleyball net. Besides the mews of the starving cats, the place was silent. Ghost town silent. Like a summer camp might feel like if you stumbled on it years after it was shut down.
The owner walked with purpose, his feet solidly pounding the ground, speaking to my father in a polite but assertive tone until we came to a long rectangular building, also white with blue trim but with double doors etched in elaborate Indonesian designs.
It was the center of the door that caught my attention. Two carvings shaped like the flower bulbs Oma planted in the winter and waited patiently for spring to bloom.
“You ready, kid?” Tom asked quietly.
I had no idea what I was supposed to be ready for, but when the pesantren owner opened the creaky door, it became clear what he meant.
A sea of faces stared back at me. At us. Dressed in black and white, some of the younger children squirmed on the tile floor until they noticed the pesantren owner. Then they sat immediately at attention: backs straight with legs tucked underneath.
I flashed on a school assembly at home in El Angel Miguel. Principal Sanchez couldn’t get us to shut up for ten seconds. But this tiny, stern-faced man in wire-rimmed glasses could quiet them with one look? That’s power.
Scanning the crowd more carefully, I noticed the boys were wearing white long-sleeved dress shirts tucked into black pants with small black hats, like the one the owner wore, on the crowns of their dark heads. The girls dressed in the same colors but with flowing jilbabs covering their heads, necks and shoulders. Most of the girls wore skirts instead of pants.
I was really glad I hadn’t shown up in a tank top and shorts.
“All the orphans are gathered for our honored guests,” the owner explained.
The room looked split by gender, with the girls on the left and the boys on the right, the younger kids kneeling in front.
“The two hundred children of the tsunami from Aceh are in the center of the room,” he said in a not-so-subtle voice.
My eyes darted to the group he was talking about; I recognized some of the kids from the DVD. When I saw their faces, I heard their voices,
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