Every single day it’s always ‘I, I, I’ or ‘me, me, me’. I obsess over my work, my looks, my time; my universe is me and others are merely particles floating around my periphery. At the risk of sounding completely egocentric (though I do not deny that I am guilty of this at many junctures), everything I do is for myself and I’m glad doing it.

 

But every once in a while, even I need time off me. So, every fortnight, I volunteer at a children’s shelter in Petaling Jaya, a suburb about half an hour’s drive from mine, with three other extraordinary young women. Together we brainstorm over sessions, delegate tasks and manage logistics, even conducting post-mortems after each session thanks to the meticulous nature of one of the volunteers.

 

My reasons for this are not entirely altruistic. I recently experienced a spiritual epiphany, a culmination of all sorts of signs I have been receiving, that it is my destiny to work with children. I need them to heal me as much as they need the guidance and attention of a quasi-adult such as myself, so together we grow and learn from each other. It is a beautiful relationship nurtured with laughter and an enchanting sense of wonderment that only children have; one that we adults are so quick to quell when it surfaces, at the risk of coming across as juvenile.

 

I look forward to these sessions. We often meet in advance to plan out our allocated 2.5 hours with the children, who range from ages 3 to 11. There are about 14 of them in total at this shelter. I remember clearly the first time I met these children, all from a minority ethnic group here in Malaysia, rushing up to us with large shiny eyes eager to be our friends. I recall the jumble of names, the quick unabashed hugs, them tugging on our arms to get our attention.

 

We do art therapy with the children; sometimes it really is art, at other times it’s just plain old silliness which they enjoy a great deal. We’ve taught them dances they remember the steps to weeks after; calling out for us to watch them as they clumsily trip the steps out with the widest grins on their faces.

 

We teach them basic yoga poses, we talk about our feelings, tell them about our personal life and listen as they slowly reveal more of themselves to us. And each week, we all fall a little more in love with these children, with their luminous eyes and hearts so much bigger than their scrawny bodies.

 

Things are not always sunshine and roses; however. As mere volunteers, it pains us, me, when I see one of the children in distress and know there is naught I can do. At the last session I attended, one of the older girls who was previously very boisterous, was subdued.

She sat quietly, making roses from the block of plasticine we gave her, and gave us many, many hugs when it came for time for us to leave. My heart clenched in pain as I hugged her goodbye, praying she could find it in her heart to confide to someone else if not one of us as to what was troubling her so.

Another girl complained of a pain in her arm, but at the concerned questioning of another volunteer and myself, she fixed a huge grin on her face and told us she was only pulling our legs. After us chiding her, she leapt off to frolic with the other children; but I kept my eye on her and saw that her arm really was causing her discomfort. She never admitted to it hurting, and I did not push her limits. To persist that she was in pain, and demand why would mean that I did not trust her; to simply ignore it would mean I am not being a responsible adult. And with a fragile, ad hoc relationship such as ours, trust is an invaluable thing we build carefully with gentle fingertips and a heart full of love.

 

I think of these children separated from their families because they cannot afford to keep them, or because they are abused by a parent or older relative, and it breaks my heart. Because we are too aware of their backgrounds, we also find it hard saying ‘no’ to them even at times when they severely try our patience.

 

It is the guilt of the conscientious middle-class, I suppose, to feel the shame of having grown up with so much for ourselves in comparison to these children who have to share everything they have. They test our boundaries and we let them, because we are so aware of their lack in comparison to our surplus, and in a way I suppose we further contribute to the chasm—social, ethnic, linguistic-- that lies between us.

 

But to me, my weekends with them is more than me merely feeling sorry for them and wanting to be seen as a noble person, for I am far from this. I too succumb to bad moods, bitchiness, and indulge in gossip, narcissism and materialism—but for these few precious hours I become more than all this. I become someone they look up to and cajole for attention; I am their ‘akak’ (big sister) and I am their friend.

 

These children, who have yet to find out so much about the world around them, have no idea what a valuable lesson they teach me every time I see them. I feel humbled and blessed to be who I am, and to forget my problems for a moment and concentrate on just being.

 

I pray everyone has such an opportunity to find someone, or a cause, to complete them as much as this fulfills me. For I know when I have a child in my lap, gurgling in a language that is as familiar as it is alien, and another presenting me with a drawing ‘for you lah, akak’, I know to them I am so much more than who I really am.

 

It is truly a beautiful experience. And to think, I am blessed enough to experience this little slice of heaven at least once a fortnight.