THERE are, folded carefully among my memories, snapshots and snippets of conversations with mothers, who have given up their babies to me over the years.

I think of one, or many of them, as I come across familiar faces of children growing up, or as a photo of a child is sent through time and space by email or by phone.

I see many anguished faces of mothers too young to make decisions, the harsh and resolute voices of older adults making decisions for the mothers and babies, hushed tones, a tiny face, usually sleeping, and then, the finality of it all – a warm, small body I scoop up and nestle in the crook of my arm as I turn away from the mothers who birthed them. There is a last kiss on the forehead and a prayer, and then I leave. I know there are sometimes words of comfort for these young mothers from the older parents in the room, but the sobs and soft cries follow and haunt me.

Once in a while, years later, I get a call from a familiar yet hesitant voice, asking to see her child – I have to say, no. I asked you repeatedly, you signed, the parents have said, no. There will be no meeting, no touching, no claims any more that you are the mother. You know in your heart that must be enough for you – at least for 18 years. If the child comes looking for you, then that is the time to speak up and claim your place. I know many children will want to know who their birth parents are as they grow up.

There are also mothers who keep their babies. It is the best scenario, really, but mothers changing their minds at the last minute means me walking away from the hospital with an empty baby carrier and having to tell the adults waiting at the end of my car ride that the mother has changed her mind. I hate those trips alone, even if I’m happy for the baby and mother.

I must remember the baby boxes for new mothers again? A thought for the newborns.

I digress.

There are mothers who negotiate the price of their babies. I leave quickly, without looking back at the mothers or their babies. These mothers must go to jail if found guilty – their babies to be given to loving families. I have no mercy for mothers who sell their babies.

I’ve been chased out of a house, by a man with a machete, my empty Moses basket flying in the wind. “What do I say to my son,” I think. I couldn’t get his sister. But I make haste, leaping into the car like Robin, urging Batman to “step on it”, while the madman is baying for my blood. I have left rooms, crying and praying at the same time, with sick babies up for adoption cradled in my arms as we drive across town to waiting doctors.

I’ve left with three little children, crying, carrying one, holding the hand of another, while urging the third up the stairs. We look for homes and loving families for the child – there are so many babies and children that I’ve lost count!

Of those I’ve adopted, one was old enough to sob and turn and push me away as he screamed for his mother who had walked away, and then cried himself to sleep. Another was 2 months old, too young to remember. A third was 13, hauled up before court, sullen and coming off a “high”, matchbox cars in his pocket and an impatient me, tapping my foot on the worn-out carpet, as the judge granted custody. The mother sat quietly beside me, nodding her head, when the judge asked her if she agreed to give custody to me. What was she to do, but agree? It is custody with me, or he goes to jail as a non-citizen. What a choice! Soon, she would leave on a bus with her younger son to another town, and will never see her son again.

But I didn’t know this then. My mind was elsewhere. We need to leave before noon, to check him into rehab – little did I know then that it was a place where the boy would be strapped down to his bed, injected with meds, so he wouldn’t be in pain during the three long days of withdrawal. There are no rehab programmes for children on drugs, did you know that?

A fourth child was sitting shoulder to shoulder with a man he considered his father, both deep in conversation. This was all wrong – I had no right to adopt him in court, but if a Malaysian Muslim didn’t step in, the boy would go to a welfare home. He wanted a father and a mother, and I didn’t realise this would lead to a two-system home, and different rules and discipline. He finally went to his father. I’ll see him once in a while for now. I don’t know what I’ll say to the judge yet.

The fifth, the sixth, are boys left behind by mothers who couldn’t cope with sickness. They smell me more than know my name or face. One cannot speak or see. I visit and watch.

So many children, so many mothers – lives intertwined and woven into this rich tapestry of adoption life in Malaysia. I imagine similar tapestries elsewhere around the world, and wonder – how many lives are saved and ruined by chance meetings, or a scared hand reaching out for help? What of those who hide in shame? What happens to their babies? I am filled with sadness – and joy, too. There is hope among the bleakness, too.

Many help fight a system, old and archaic, threadbare and out of place. There is little protection and support for many children. I see my small part in this adoption tapestry, and am determined to help better the system for adoption and the welfare process for sick children. I have, after all, a big mouth and a loud voice. We all should help. No, we must help! No parent should be forced to give up their babies because they are poor or sick. No mother should be forced to give up her baby in shame. Or kill them or sell them or leave them!

I say all this now as I wait for another child to be born, uncertain of what lies ahead for her. The mother says no to her unborn baby now, but she may change her mind. The adoptive parents must wait for two more months.

Another mother is only three months’ pregnant, uncertain of whether to abort or keep. She’s 16 years old, in school. A runaway. She refuses to tell me more. So, I wait and sit with her every week. Both babies are due in 2018, so I take this opportunity to reflect more.

I say this also because last week was physically and mentally debilitating. So many babies! One died from TB meningitis – avoidable had the baby been inoculated. But, he was born at home to migrant parents too poor and scared to seek help early, and too late to save him despite funds raised. We buried him a week ago, today.

This is a health issue, I digress again. But don’t all children deserve basic healthcare? To avoid cases like the one I mentioned?

Back to adoption.

One baby is safe and loved, but the authorities changed the process of adoption, again, without telling us. And, I forgot to check whether the bio mum had stamped her declaration of consent without the Commissioner of Oath stamp. It wasn’t! I blame it on carelessness and tiredness on my part. I could kick myself, and I do. I’m so sorry.

Another had her baby snatched from her yesterday, when she was waiting for me to take her to safety. I don’t know her fate, the baby’s, or where the father has taken the child. I just wait. And wait, and wait!

I’m too numb and weary to comfort the mother. She just apologises. All I can say is, you need to decide. And be responsible! You left this child sleeping on the floor! If it were my child… but she’s not, so I cannot do any more, but wait!

There will be more children and babies in trouble – when will there be no more baby dumping, no more snatching of children and babies, no more hurting, killing or dismissing what children have to say? When, I ask. You say not today, and not tomorrow. I know this. So do my friends – we know this. We pray that the relevant agencies understand the need to review the adoption law again, to protect children. We pray that the parents, teachers and adults involved look at the bigger picture. I pray that stateless children get their deserved citizenship when the Federal Court convenes on October 25.

Soon cannot come fast enough for the abysmal state we leave children in!

I don’t know how denying their rights is ever an option for children. I don’t know how anyone plays politics with children’s lives. No access to education for votes? Allow children to get married because you won’t do anything to offend some, or you think it’ll take time? So please, be patient. For how long? Really? Why? Why is it more important to disregard the needs of a child because you’re afraid to offend adults, and are protecting a system that does not put the best interest of the child above all else?

There is change, and there is hope. I know one deputy minister now who I trust with any child’s life because she is committed to making things better for children. But she is one. Where are the rest of the cabinet? You’re too slow, too distracted, and easily swayed by pettiness and bad advice. We must be more vigilant, work smarter. And, we must push and beg and fight. No compromise! It is not an option to give up trying, pushing, pleading and demanding. Do not play God with a child’s life, please?

For the sake of our children, now and the ones unborn, I beg you, please let us work harder and better, together. Don’t pit us against one another, don’t favour, it isn’t about you and me, but the children.

Someone told me, you just need a kernel or a mustard seed of faith to sow hope. I do, most days, believe this! But we need help! Do we or do we not love children? Enough to protect, care and uphold their rights?

If you will help, when and how? Don’t say, soon. Soon isn’t good enough any more! The time is now! – October 11, 2018.

* Hartini Zainudin reads The Malaysian Insight.

* This is the opinion of the writer or publication and does not necessarily represent the views of The Malaysian Insight. Article may be edited for brevity and clarity.