A closer look at China’s orphanages
Approaching my arrival at Shepherd’s Field, I wasn’t sure what to expect. The website advertised the orphanage as a ‘children’s village,’ but, naturally cynical, I imagined the grey, drab buildings that dominate Beijing’s uniform residential suburbs. The campus may only be as far as Tianjin, but could not feel further removed from the capital’s claustrophobic cityscape. It was far from the dilapidated orphanages scattered throughout China’s provinces; I remember feeling almost confused about why I had come — here, they seemed to need very little help.
Upon entering the iron gates, I faced a courtyard bordered by little houses. Bright graffiti — an unexpected sight on Chinese tiles — stroked up the buildings, brilliant brush strokes forming a bird taking flight. Dogs padded freely around the place; a rabbit lazily peeked at me through the grass; crickets chirped around the bushes and trees. An empty playground occupied the space beyond the courtyard, with an empty pagoda at its centre.
‘Village,’ the website claimed, and ‘village’ it felt like indeed, sheltered from the neighbouring dirt-paths and battered convenience stores. But this children’s village was entirely empty and quiet other than the sound of crickets. All the children had left.
A government law was passed in the summer of 2018 declaring that all orphans must be relocated to their original provinces and orphanages. These were the very orphanages that had been unable to gather the financial and educational resources to raise their children, hence Shepherd’s Field had offered them a new home. That summer, in a moment equally traumatic for staff and children, the children’s village lost all its orphans — truly members of a village — and saw them returned to their faraway provinces.
I had long known of the political changes stirring in China, and the increasingly strong hold of the CCP over all social and economic issues. These changes felt far removed from my reality; they were changes that were shrouded in crypticism to someone like me, living far away in the UK and sheltered from what was happening in my home country. Now, I found myself facing the immediate consequences of government decree. The people who worked here were more than just ‘workers;’ they had raised these children from the moment they entered through the campus gate, and then were forced to watch them leave — likely forever — through that very gate. A year later, I could feel the aftershock of a law that was issued and carried out with relentless efficiency.
This law is discussed very little in international press; what is covered, and offers a perverse echo of this, is the event in 2016: Xinjiang’s CCP Secretary ordered local officials to place orphans into institutions by 2020, aiming to ‘concentrate’ orphans who had been scattered throughout the region and improve their living standards. Yet the dangerously broad definition of ‘orphan’ in this policy signals a darker agenda: children of Xinjiang’s political detainees — mostly Turkic Muslims — are included in those to be relocated into state orphanages.
These state orphanages are likely to be where the children of Shepherd’s Field have been ‘channelled.’ Indeed, some of the living standards may be far improved from the original orphanages these children once came from. Yet the more concerning matter is this: the children of Shepherd’s Field are children with disabilities or medical conditions, necessitating their stay at Shepherd’s Field because no other orphanage is able to fund their medical expenses. One girl, Molly, underwent a kidney transplant last year. She will remain here likely for the rest of her life, because Shepherd’s Field’s sponsors — mostly companies within China, and also many foreign donors — have the means to fund her immunosuppressant medication, a financial burden which most orphanages would be unable to shoulder.
Beyond the financial difficulties of managing a disability, there lies a concern in some more deep-rooted social issues. China’s society has been often labelled ‘ableist’ in its treatment towards those with disabilities. Many infants with disabilities are abandoned at birth. This issue is not being entirely neglected, however, evident through the gradual changes to legislation. In 2008, in preparation to host the Olympics and Paralympics in Beijing, China had been a major supporter of the UN Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities (CRPD). The government modified legislation, improving laws regarding rehabilitation, employment and social security. Still, it was only in 2015 that a regulation was passed to ensure that disabled students can take the gaokao, the exam necessary to enter higher education, with wheel-chair accessible exam venues and exam papers printed in Braille or larger font.
The legal changes reveal a thread of improvement. Yet in society, these changes have gained little ground within day-to-day human interaction. It is also difficult for minorities to be vocal in demanding change, with the possible threat of suspended financial aid. Within the walls of Shepherd’s Field, this is entirely different.
Most of the orphans left with last year’s law, but there are still a few individuals. Speaking to them, I came to understand just how special a place like this is. One girl I met was a sixteen year old named Tracy. She came to the orphanage in 2014, a teenager, scarred with serious burns since she was a baby. Shepherd’s Field gathered financial aid to fund surgery for Tracy’s face; doctors reconstructed her nose and performed several skin grafts. Our first conversation began a little stiffly, but after I light-heartedly babbled about a range of topics — Tracy looking at me with an almost amused expression — she started to share her own experiences. Once she started, the stories were endless. She described Shepherd’s Field as a place where she was ‘surrounded by love’ and protected from the prolonged stares she often encountered outside the campus gates. She demonstrated a compassion and warmth that stunned me; her physical scars were just that — purely physical. They had not penetrated her character and optimism — she carried no darkness or bitterness, but she laughed, smiled, happily showed me photos from her past and her favourite dog videos.
The second time I came over, we sat in her room talking for hours — on comically tiny, child-sized furniture — as she swiftly cross-stitched a pair of brightly decorative insoles — a present for a friend, she explained. The accident when she was a baby had fused her fingers together, but the surgery had separated and reconstructed them. She told me all this casually as I sat there, suddenly conscious my own two hands idly folded on my lap. She spoke about her parents, her tone changing to one of grave seriousness, fiercely protecting them from any preconceptions I may form. She explained that they worked very hard to care for her, but could never afford the medical bills that were necessary for surgery; her defensiveness was one I recognised in myself — a determination to defend the ones you love. The staff and carers here have become her extended family, even helping her find employment so that she can work and live near her biological parents.
At sixteen, Tracy is now facing emerging opportunities within the world of work, with the growing possibility of being reunited with her family. But China’s strict laws make many cases more difficult. The law prohibits orphans to be adopted once they reach the age of fourteen; from then, they have ‘aged out’ — to borrow the language used by the staff here.
Recently, a girl of thirteen was registered to be adopted by an American family. The paperwork was all finalised. All parties settled down for an expected successful outcome, yet one issue was flagged up: the host family’s home inspection had occurred a year prior, and was therefore considered outdated. The adoption was put on hold until the family could obtain another social services inspection. This should not have been a hugely significant issue, if it were not for one fact: the girl’s fourteenth birthday was rapidly approaching, and only two weeks away. Given the arduous process of organising an inspection, the family had no way of updating their paperwork before she aged out, and the adoption was terminated. At fourteen, she would never be adopted; she would go on to face a world where higher education and the work opportunities it unlocked were essentially unattainable for her. Whether or not her orphanage would continue to support her until adulthood is equally questionable.
The government’s power is very much a real force reshaping the lives of China’s orphans. What were once just distant decrees from a faraway home have now taken physical form in my reality. Shepherd’s Field is moving to co-evolve its campus with the shifting legislation. Collaborating with the Tianjin local government, the staff have found a way to adapt their resources to the law in China. The campus is being renovated to house orphans aged fourteen and upwards, acting as a rehabilitation centre to integrate these children within wider society. The aim is to help place them within China’s workforce and higher education. In the midst of the turmoil, Shepherd’s Field’s organisation’s mission statement has seen some minor alterations, but their commitment to China’s orphans remains the same, even if shifting policy has demanded that to be more restricted towards aged-out orphans. For everyone here at Shepherd’s Field, the outlook is thankfully, a hopeful one. Yet beyond these campus walls, the future holds far greater uncertainty; I can only urge everyone to have a hand in shaping it.
