Six of us sit at the picnic style tables outside the kitchen of the hostel. The smell of guacamole and tortillas fills the air as we discuss our plans for the day. Large plates of brightly colored fruits and perfectly wrapped burritos are placed in front of us. The room becomes filled with the sound of forks scrapping across plates and a faint sound of music in the background. A complaint of unsweetened juice escapes a young girl‘s mouth and cuts through the contentment. An attitude opposite of gratitude lines the air. I question it, silently, wondering if she failed to remember that the breakfast is free.





We proceed, finishing the meal and never allowing the complaint to cross our minds again. With full bellies, we begin the walk.
We walk in a wolf-pack formation headed up by Starla and Daniel. Two of us girls share the burden of an oversized duffle bag possessing children’s clothing, books, and school supplies. Shaun trails behind with the large red suitcase packed full of similar contents being wheeled down the cobblestone streets. Upon entering the large yellow church, we are greeted with the lonely, hurt eyes of each and every ill individual patiently awaiting a doctor as they sit in the church lobby turned make shift hospital. People appear to be piled on top of more people. Everyone somber, yet patient as if to say they have no where else to be.
The eye contact is painful. It comes with overwhelming wonder if the large and mysterious bags we carry are somehow meant for each of the faces staring at our own.
Continuing down the hallway, toward the sunlight that makes itself known through a courtyard-like opening in the ceiling. Just through the gate, we find ourselves in front of a large life-size bible scene. I look around only to find more scenes… and a life-size, but very short, Jesus. We continue straight through the courtyard and into a dark, dreary room. A sudden stench of milk and tears enters my nostrils. No noise. High Ceilings. White walls decorated by two paintings - one on each end of the room. The gym-sized room is lined with metal cribs so close to each other, I wonder if they are potentially all connected.



Only three of the cold metal cribs contain children. Others are found in two lines of wheelchairs. Like a train. Some of the children are so still and lifeless, they have no choice but to be covered with netting to keep the bugs off their skin. They await.. there, in their lines, to be taken and wheeled outside. They are waiting to be shown some kind of attention.




Looking into their eyes, I wonder if they can see through my fake smile and withheld tears. Can they see my fear? I wonder if there is any cognitive though - if they even know my eyes are not the same ones they last met with their own. My heart breaks and I ask myself if any of it really matters. Do the few smiles I offer these special children make any difference in their day? Or perhaps their lives?
I can give them attention. I can push their wheelchair out into the sunshine. I can sit and blow bubbles with them . I can even hold them and offer a loving touch. But, is it really enough?
They know nothing more than simplicity in smiles. They deserve to have bubbles float around them every minute of their lives. They deserve to pick flowers and have never ending wheelchair races. They deserve to never know the feeling of a lost smile. Regardless of what they deserve, they wont get it.
These children know no wrong. They cant comprehend the world outside their orphanage where people don’t constantly give to others, where human kind is an oxymoron. These lucky children see human nature as good. I am not convinced they are missing out on anything. In fact, maybe they have it right. There is no hatred inside the orphanage walls. No bitterness. No hurt. And best of all, no complaints.
As we walked out of the church I found my mind wrapped around the complaint I had heard that morning. I asked myself if those deserving children would have complained? If the complainer deserved anything better than the unsweetened juice.



-Tasha Cortesi