SAY GOODBYE - LET GO - CONTINUE LOVING

The almost full moon bathes the world around me in a colorful light that no camera or painter can illustrate nor words describe. I don’t need such an illustration, cause I created all this, I know each tree cause most of them I planted myself, and I know each stone, many of them put together to build walls, streets, houses. The peaceful sounds of the night, only the noise of some barking dogs in the neighboring town Udumulla. The contours of the two upper children’s houses shimmer like silver. For 15 years now these two houses – the first we built here in the children’s village Mahagedara – have protected so many children and provided them with a temporary home. I try to remember the first girls in the Greenstar House that was called Sunshine House at that time: Sandamali, Gimsha, Teena, Banti, Piumi… Almost all of them married by now with their own children. Some of them get in touch with us every now and then, others went away and I never heard anything of them again. But I always keep their face and many memories in my mind, memories I can’t share with anybody else.
Caregivers came and went away again, Bandula, with whom I started all this here, was murdered in 2005. During those night-time hours, when my thoughts wander back to a time, that seems to be so far away, I strongly miss talking to him. Our plan was to look down from the mountain to this place for children when we are old, and let old times revive, just like old men use to do. “Do you remember the time, when we hardly had anything but our will to change things, to make a difference?” What I wouldn’t give to have at least his spirit around tonight. But I remain alone with my thoughts.

Exactly here I sat many years ago when for the first time a mother appeared out of nothing reclaiming her daughter. Back then as well as today, I looked down to the house, in which this girl was for the last time sleeping peacefully and protected. Nothing would be the same again, I thought at that moment, because tomorrow this child that had become dear to me, would be with her mother who did not for a moment think about the feelings of her daughter or about what would be good for her. Very rarely parents or relatives, who reclaimed one of the Little Smile children, were thinking about that. And very frequently for these torn away children this meant the end of their childhood. The list of children who had to leave us this way is long and only rarely I won the battle about and for them. I put on a smile when we said goodbye but my heart was always crying.

And often, far too often, fears came true. The 12-year old dancer, who was raped shortly after she had left us with her mother or the 14-year old, who was not returned from her father and became pregnant a few weeks later. It wasn’t always that spectacular, but far too often these children ended up in poverty and violence again. The girls became pregnant much too young, were married against their will and then abandoned again and the boys hung around and took drugs.

And then those, who left us after graduation, full of hope, eagerly anticipating a freedom which behind the protecting walls of Little Smile seemed so tempting but often turned out to be deceptive. Many children visit us years later, although some of them only come to pick up their bank book, which they get when they are 18. So we learn what has happened to them after Little Smile and if the time we spent with them was enough to prepare them for the life outside, make them strong and self-confident. My hopes were not always realized, unfortunately too often my fears were.

Tomorrow another girl will be “picked up”, has to leave us no matter if she wants or not. After eight years her mother returned from Saudi-Arabia – we were told that she was dead at the reception eight years ago. At that time the girl was only six years old, now she is fourteen, a dangerous age for a girl in Sri Lanka. I tried to convince the mother to slowly build up a relation to her daughter and give her the chance to finish school in the meantime. “My baby, my baby”, was the only answer emphasized with theatrical tears. So, when the moon has disappeared behind the mountain and this peaceful night gives way to a new day, this baby, who is no baby at all, will leave with a woman she does not know into a world in which I can no longer protect her.
For sure, children are a gift for a certain time and this time passes very quickly. But didn’t I give away the time that I should have spent with my own children to give it to all these many children? My sons in Germany have grown up, even the little one has a driver’s license now, a fact that is hard to believe, because for me he is still a little boy. I remember us boating on the Altmühl, the small river in my old home – sitting next to a camp fire telling stories to which he was listening excitedly. Over – irretrievably.

15 years! So many children have come and gone – at the end blood is thicker than water. Could it be kind of a comfort to know that I gave many children a lost childhood back – at least for a short time? That they could learn something and experience that they are not anybody’s property but have own rights. The children have developed many tricks how to get some of my time, but whatever I do, in the end it is never enough and one day they leave and we lose track of them.

Why does every farewell hurt, why does it still hurt, even if you give them in the hands of people who will take care of them? As Lokuthaththa, big father for so many children, I have to learn to let them go – again and again. None of these kids will be around when I am sick one day and need help or care. You age and you are always the strong big father, you will always fight with pubescent teenagers and never be able to simply spoil a grandchild.

Well, it is simply not that easy with that willingness to give love without a thought of receiving anything in return. What torments me is the uncertainty, the insecurity to which you are forced to expose children. Some of them forcefully taken away, have returned years later. That happened only last Sunday. The young woman, taken away from her mother four years ago, just sat down next to me, took my hand and let her tears flow. After lots of suffering she made her way back to the only place she ever was happy. At that moment I realized: It is hard to let go, and it hurts to say goodbye, but where true love existed it will always stay even if it were somewhere deep in your soul.

A blast of wind lets the palm leaves above me whisper, pound and murmur. This unique sound brings me back to reality. I look upward and see numerous dark coconuts moving in the bright moon light. I’d rather move on – it would be stupid to be killed by a falling coconut after all I have survived in Sri Lanka. It’s dawning, in a few hours I must say goodbye, let go, continue loving.