Tag: Adoption Page 18 of 23

Yesterday I went to visit Mama S again.  It had been almost three weeks since my last visit, and despite trying to call or text her, I hadn’t heard anything from her. 

Got to the office, waited outside.  There was no place to sit, so I plopped myself down on the concrete floor with my Kindle.  I’ve seen other women do this (well, not with a Kindle), so I figured it was culturally appropriate, but I still got some strange looks.  However, I always get strange looks there.  I’m always the only white person.

After a while I realized that no one was going in or out of the office, even though I knew there were people inside.  I realized there was a sign on the door.  I couldn’t translate all of it, but I got the gist that the social workers were now only seeing people on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays.  Wednesdays were for meetings and Thursdays….well, I couldn’t understand that part, except the word “kuandika.”  To write.  That was encouraging.  Maybe they were allowing themselves Thursdays to write reports.

I peeked in the office anyway; there were a bunch of staff in there.  I made eye contact with Mama S, which satisfied me, since really this was only a “nagging” visit anyway…I didn’t really have anything to say to her.  But at least she knew I had been there.  I sent her a text message….again.  And didn’t expect much. 

That evening, I got a message back from her.  The report has been written.  It will be mailed tomorrow. 

And there was much rejoicing in the Medina household. 

The social welfare office for the Kinondoni district is in a large, warehouse-type building.  Cement floors, high ceilings with windows around the edges.  The windows are unscreened and always open, allowing birds to fly back and forth among the rafters.  Six large ceiling fans dangle, and provide the only means of airflow, at least when the power is on.  The room is filled with rows of cubicles, which may or may not contain a computer and always have stacks and stacks of files crammed along the walls.

The cubicle of Mama S is down the first row, all the way to end on the left.  I love Mama S; I really do.  I’ve worked with a dozen or so social workers through my adoptions and she is definitely my favorite.  A tiny, middle-aged woman with short hair and a gentle smile, I really get the impression that she cares about what she does.  She is always nice, always patient.  Way back in July, when she was doing our home study and interviewing our references, she was also more thorough than any other social worker has been.  And she got through them faster than any other social worker.  I was excited.  This will be our smoothest adoption yet!  I thought.  She told me it would take her two months to write the report.  I thought that was a long time, but I begrudgingly smiled and agreed, since she had been so nice.  So I waited until the end of September before I asked her about it again.

No report in September.

No report in October.

Or November.

Or December. 

I kept calling, and sending text messages, and coming up with reasons to go visit her.  She was always nice, always polite, just as sweet as ever.  But the report just never gets done.  I’m positive she doesn’t want a bribe.  After our home study, she wouldn’t even take the taxi money we offered her.  I’m positive she’s not pulling a power play on us, lording it over us that she has the power to postpone our adoption.  (That has happened before with others.)  I think she’s just busy.  And it’s hard to get mad at someone who is busy.  Helping with adoptions are only one of many tasks she has to do.  

I went to visit her again yesterday.  I counted:  There were 17 people waiting outside her office.  It’s always an interesting experience, waiting outside of Mama S’s office.  It’s usually mostly women waiting, some with babies strapped to them.  One of the babies was restless and whiny until the mama rustled around in her shirt, pulled out a breast, and stuffed it in the child’s mouth.  A man came out of the office, seemingly crumpled on the ground, pulling himself along with flip-flops on his hands.  A polio victim, most likely.  Yet he had on a button-down shirt and dress shoes on his useless feet.  I’m pretty sure he works there. 

No one seemed as impatient as I felt; a lot of the women had their eyes closed.  I sat on the narrow bench in the hallway for an hour, wishing I had my Kindle, and then remembered that there is no “line” to get in to see the social workers, and if I ever expected to get in there, I’d better stand.  So I positioned myself right by the door, and jumped in as soon as the next person came out.  That’s how you do it in Africa, and it’s not considered rude. 

Mama S looked sheepish this time.  She apologized for not doing the report, and acknowledged that we had been waiting a long time.  She said she would work on it this week.  She’s said that before, so that still doesn’t give me a lot of hope.  If she hasn’t found time to work on it in the last five months, when will she find time to work on it? 

As always, adoption is a miracle–just like birth.  When it happens, God will get the glory. 

About a month ago, a reporter from The Citizen Newspaper (Tanzania’s largest English newspaper) contacted us.  Our lawyer had given him our contact information because he was doing an article on adoption.  After we ensured that this would be a positive article, we agreed to answer his questions and send him some pictures.  The article came out yesterday, and what we didn’t realize was that out of the four families he interviewed, we were the only ones who sent pictures!  So, lo and behold, we found our faces all over the paper.

Here’s the front page, with Gil and Josiah on the bottom right hand corner.

This is the first page of the section where the article was placed.

And this is the center-fold spread!  Right next to the article titled “Mega meat portions at Coral Ridge Spur.”

Unfortunately the paper is too big for me to scan, and so far I haven’t been able to find the article on-line, even though the paper has a website.  So you won’t be able to read it.  But the reporter did a good job of talking about the cultural issues that keep Tanzanians from adopting, as well as explaining the red tape that makes the process difficult.  A side bar goes through the process that a family would have to go through if they wanted to adopt.  He talks about how there are millions of orphans in Tanzania, and so few families will adopt, yet he quotes me and another family on how much of a blessing it is. 

We’re excited!  Anything that may get Tanzanians interested in adoption is a good thing.  We pray this will help! 

Tomorrow they may wrap fishes in it, but I was a star for one whole minute!  (Anyone?  Anyone?)

“Is that your child?”

I hear this asked in Swahili quite often.  Always with an air of incredulity. 

Usually, I smile, look the person straight in the eye, and give a determined, “Yes!”

And if there is time and opportunity, I try to explain.  It’s hard.  There is no word in Swahili for adoption, except for a legal term that most people don’t know.  So I say something that roughly translates as, “I have taken these children to be my own, kabisa (totally, absolutely)!”

Sometimes the person looks confused.  Sometimes she looks amused.  Sometimes the person says, “That’s wonderful!  God will bless you for that!” To which I respond, “God has already blessed me with these children!”

But Tanzanians, in general, don’t “get” it.  Why is adoption such a foreign concept here?  Why won’t even women who have undergone the pain of infertility or multiple miscarriages consider it?  Why do our social workers often seem so reluctant to help us, when there are so many babies in orphanages?  So, over the years, Gil and I have asked these questions of our Tanzanian friends, especially the ones who understand both American and Tanzanian culture.

It’s very interesting.  One friend said recently, “It’s like adoption is already assumed in the culture among families.”  Very true.  There really is no such thing as the immediate family in Tanzania.  For example, there is no word in Swahili for “cousin.”  Tanzanians call their cousins “brothers” and “sisters.”  You don’t have uncles….you have your “Daddy,” your “Big Daddy,” and your “Younger Daddy.”  Your “Big Daddy” (oldest paternal uncle) actually has more authority over you and your life than your own father does.  And this extended family is extremely important to your identity.  Your family’s tribe and clan defines who you are–far more than we can understand in the West. 

So if a mother dies or is unable to care for her child, traditionally, that child is simply enveloped into the extended family.  Rarely does a legal adoption process take place.  The system has worked well for generations.  That is, until AIDS entered the continent of Africa and took over 10% of the population.  Then there were too many orphans for the extended family to care for.  Of course, there are other reasons too, but that is a big one. 

As a result, orphanages have sprung up all over sub-Saharan Africa.  The vast majority of these children have living family members, possibly even a father or mother.   But for some reason, their family can’t care for them.  However, those family ties are still the most important aspect of that child’s identity.  So the family would rather have the child live his whole life in an orphanage than put the child up for adoption.  The idea of cutting those family ties and essentially “giving” the child to someone else is just unheard of.  The child is the possession of the extended family.  And that child’s sense of self is bound up in that family.  In theory, anyway.  It’s more important than the child’s education, or standard of living, or whether or not that child grows up feeling loving and wanted.

There is, however, one group of children that the culture does not account for:  The Abandoned Ones.  Our lawyer estimates that there are about 500 children abandoned (who survive) every year in Tanzania.  Left in fields or churches or outhouse pits.  Their families cannot be traced.  They have no family, no hope, no future, no nothing.  And every time we ask a Tanzanian friend about what the culture says to do with these children, there is no answer.  

All of this raises interesting issues, of course.  And it’s not just Tanzanians who don’t understand adoption–especially transracial adoption.  I know that many African-Americans frown upon transracial adoption.  The adoption laws in Tanzania recently got much, much stricter–and will limit the number of foreigners who can adopt here (as if there were that many in the first place!).  And the person who pushed for this new adoption bill?  Apparently it was a Swiss UN worker who believes that adoption is not the answer for these children (especially adoption by foreigners). 

It’s an important question to consider.  It’s very true that even though my children are growing up in Tanzania and we are trying to help them learn Swahili and Tanzanian culture, they will never be totally Tanzanian.  They will grow up with dual citizenship, and despite our best efforts, may end up feeling most comfortable in American culture.  And so I must ask myself:  Have I stolen something invaluable from my children?  Will they hate me for it?  Will they never feel as if they belong anywhere?  Have I stolen something from Tanzania?

I have wrestled with these questions.  And honestly, though I can make arguments on how familial love and connection is more important than cultural identity, ultimately, my answers lie in the Gospel. 

1.  God loves adoption.  We were born children of Satan; He has bought us back to be adopted into His family.  Each one of us who is part of His family has been adopted.

2.  We all started out as part of the same race.  We are all human.  God loves culture, but not one culture over another.  One culture is not inherently better than another culture.  Thus, a child born into one culture will not suffer by being raised in another.

3.  Our spiritual identity is more important than our ethnicity, our culture, or our family.  First and foremost, I hope and pray that one day my children see themselves as children of God.  That should be the basis of everything else.

4.  The immediate family can and should be a microcosm of the Family of God–the Church–accepting and loving and joining with people from every tribe and tongue and nation.

My children will inevitably struggle with their identity.  But so does almost every student we work with at HOPAC who is being brought up between worlds.  And we will tell our own children the same thing we tell our students:  “Yes, you will struggle with where you belong.  But you have a unique view of the world, a unique understanding of multiple cultures that cannot be gained any other way.  And that is a precious gift that God can use to bring His glory in His world.”

YES, they are Tanzanian.  and YES, they are totally and absolutely my children.  Kabisa!  To God be the Glory.

For a fantastic article on this subject, go here.