A smile can save a life

Tags

cleft, fundraiser, operation smile, sponsorship

Every 3 minutes a child is born with a cleft, leaving them unable to eat, speak, socialize or smile. Cleft lips and palates occur in approximately 1 in 500-700 births. While today they cannot yet be prevented, a 45-minute surgery can repair the lip or palate and change the child’s life in the most profound of ways.

I was born with a unilateral cleft lip.

It took me 33 years to write this down.

When I heard about Operation Smile, I started reading more about the affliction that had haunted me my whole life. I received surgery when I was just 3 months old, and again when I was about 9. The first surgery enabled me to eat, speak and smile. The second surgery enabled me to socialize and later in life, to kiss.

Having had no lack of friends or any of the luxuries provided by middle class parents in the west, I never experienced the inhumane suffering many third world children have to endure: malnutrition, parental abandonment and societal rejection due to the cleft. For me the few occasions where kids would point, adults would question and mean teen girls would laugh and jeer were bad enough to not want to face my face.

And so I didn’t. For a long time. Until Operation Smile made cleft lips and palates something that could be discussed publicly, supported by celebs, and nurtured by one of the best medical, humanitarian organizations for children in the world. Reading through the patient stories, the volunteer blogs and donor accounts helped me accept myself and gave me the strength to write this. That and my dear husband, who loves me just as I am and tells me I am beautiful every day.

It also made me think: how can I help? Not a great fund raiser, nor a musician or marathon runner, I can still do something. So I started to run. I haven’t ran since high school and even then I did so reluctantly. But I started to run. 18 minutes at first, 22 today. My goal is to be able to run 5km by the end of this summer.

And so, my dear friends and family, here is my one and only ever monetary appeal to you: would you, if I make it, donate any amount you wish to contribute to sponsor a single child’s life-changing cleft lip or palate surgery? I would like to be able to sponsor one child ($240), but maybe, if I run well and you all feel generous at the awe of me running, we may even be able to sponsor a complete operating table (the dream).

So here’s the deal, I will practice and on Saturday 1 September, come rain or shine, I will attempt to run 5km in one go. If you are interested, come and cheer, maybe some of you may even want to join the run? To sponsor, either give your donations to me to pool for one big donation, or donate directly to Operation Smile.

Let me know if you want to be part of what will be a life-changing experience for me, and hopefully soon will be a life-changing surgery for a third world nation child.

The ethnic conundrum

What defines our identity to others may not be what we experience as our own identity. Like us mixed-race babies, who can tell for us what our identity is? Hearing blacks say Obama isn’t black, angers me as much as whites not wanting a black guy in the white house.

Growing up of mixed race and mixed culture can be a challenge only recognized later in life. Our parents never told us that much about our heritage – either one. So we pieced together our lives and identities from the few books we read about the Emerald Archipelago, and observing Flemish life around us. It took us ages to understand what our grandma meant when she inquired whether our friends in Jakarta were Chinese.

In fact, this remained such a (unintentional) mystery that we only in recent years have unearthed details about the history of our families and understood better where we come from. But the more we learn, the more we feel connected. My best friend even commented on the fact that I’ve become so much more in touch with my Asian side lately.

My dad told me about my family’s plight during the failed communist coup by the 30 September movement – perhaps orchestrated by the CIA; the ensuing killings of half a million alleged communists (many Indonesian-born Chinese); the discriminatory anti-Chinese laws; our family’s  forced name change; and ongoing ethnic violence and discrimination against ethnic Chinese – of which there are about 7 million in Indonesia – notably during the May 1998 riots.

In view of all that, it’s no wonder, that our grandmother, who lived through two world wars, and many anti-Chinese riots, wanted to make sure her granddaughters were with people who wouldn’t turn against them for their ethnicity and religion. And it’s then also no wonder that our cousins who did grow up in entirely Chinese-Indonesian families, look upon us weird when we tell them we’d like to learn more about the indigenous Indonesians. But why should we not, when our brother is half Indonesian?

Ultimately, finding our own identity, one that gives us peace with all the pieces of our history, is worth knowing as much as we can, about whichever ethnic group, the good parts of history and the bad.

I am

This post picks up on another post I wrote on a blog I share with my best friend: Postcards Between Us, and her great piece about her experience being a Belgian abroad.

For my second Master thesis I constructed a complex, academic rather obnoxious piece on the European identity. Does it exist, and if so, what does it imply? You can ask the same question for pretty much every nationality or ethnic group one may or may not feel a part of. And while I have trouble now understanding my own thesis as it’s full of academic drivel, I’m still intrigued by the premise of the question.

With the Belgian political crisis well beyond the absurd, non-Belgians must wonder why it’s so hard to form a government in so small a country. Answers can be reduced to historical linguistic issues or socio-economic concerns, but these surely only skim the surface of feelings that have been running through the veins of Belgians for decades. Belgium is a marriage of fundamentally different partners, compatible only through a shared love of good food and beer, who now feel the other has spent more of the household budget than is right and are considering separation, if not divorce.

While dividing the assets and the kid (the capital) may prove too cumbersome for a true divorce, this split or no debacle reveals many Belgians don’t identify themselves as Belgian. One might wonder what makes one a true Belgian? Is it the title on your ID? Do you have to be born here to qualify? Do you have to like waffles, chocolate and Jacques Brel? Do you have to speak Dutch, French and German or be fanatical about just one?

Similarly, what would make one European or American or Asian? When people complain that Obama isn’t really black, what in their minds makes one black or white? And why should he be less of either when he is clearly both? So what of mixed race babies? Because we are not one of the other,  can we therefore never fit in? In the sixties, we were quietly left on orphanage doorsteps what with being an embarrassment for both races. Now we are awkwardly accepted and often welcomed with imposing questions.

What ultimately defines a nation, a peoples, a cultural group? And when are we so different that we feel rejection of the Other is justified? I can’t even answer the question “Where are you from?, let alone “what cultural/racial group do you feel part of?” Identity is fluid. It can be flexible. It can be whatever you make of it.

I’ve always found I did not fit in, while also feeling at home everywhere. Every year I understand more about the culture and history of my families. And the more I discover about my background, the more I learn to feel like me. I feel more comfortable in my body, with my face, my crazy ass skin color (seriously, what color is it?), my abilities and disposition. Every year I appreciate those parts of me that were previously unknown and unaccepted. And as the world around me becomes increasingly intolerant of those who don’t fit, I become increasingly accepting and proud of that which makes me stand out.

I am.

And that’s just fine.