Children’s Home: Where You’re Not Supposed to Leave Your Heart
One day, I saw her squatting at the flower garden in front of the entrance and gazing intently at a tiny sprout.
“Do you want to grow a plant?” I asked her.
“Yes!” she replied without a moment’s hesitation, her eyes sparkling.
At home, I kept several spider plants that had grown in number from propagation. I decided to bring one for Arshleen the following week.
Setting the tiny potted plant before her desk, she adored it. At this, Sakura pouted, “Why only for Arshleen?”
Not wanting to leave them out, I brought the same plant for Sakura and Sumire as well, but both girls let theirs wither. Only Arshleen tended hers carefully, and soon a tiny new shoot appeared. She was special.
Whether she knew it or not, she became sulky when I missed a visit for my own reasons.
Also Read: Children’s Home: Where You’re Not Supposed to Leave Your Heart (Part 1)
“Why didn’t you come last week?”
“I had a friend’s piano recital.”
“You don’t have to go.”
“Why not? He’s my friend.”
“He? Not she? I don’t like that…things like that.”
She knew she had no right to pry, so her protests were always subdued. I brushed them off lightly. That was the shape our relationship had taken.
After leaving the bundle of drawings and papers with Tsubaki-san, I left the Home. The children were still at school. The building stood just inside the path leading from the Shinmon gate of Chion-in, a famous Buddhist temple which holds Important Cultural Properties.
To get there, usually I would take the bus from home and get off at the stop near the Shinmon gate, but that route was also the children’s path to school. So, to avoid running into them on their way back, I headed in the opposite direction.
I climbed the slope, ascended the stone steps, and passed through the Sanmon gate, which is designated a National Treasure as one of the largest wooden two-story gates in Japan. Passing beneath it, I walked slowly toward Mieido, the main hall.
That day, I wandered through the temple grounds crowded with tourists, exited through the Nanmon gate into the adjacent Maruyama Park with its splendid Japanese garden, passed through Yasaka Jinja, a shrine with a thousand-year history, and walked home—over an hour on foot. In this part of Kyoto, every street is thick with visitors, Japanese and foreign alike.
Later, I shared this experience with a friend of mine. I told him everything—the sudden disappearance of the two children, the silence of the staff, and my regret at not saying goodbye— the fear of feeling that same regret about Arshleen.
He works at a rehabilitation facility, looking after people who have completed their prison terms and are transitioning back into society. Hearing my story, he said, “That’s sad,” and then added quietly, “Maybe children’s homes are places where you’re not supposed to leave your heart.”
His words unraveled everything.
When I began volunteering, the Director had said, “This is the children’s home.” I had taken the phrase at face value. But I was wrong. It was not a home. It was a holding place. A place to leave as soon as possible. A place one must never return to. A place that must never be romanticised with nostalgia. That was why deep bonds were forbidden. Attachment was dangerous.
Read More: A Truth of Japan’s Foster Care (1): The Girl in the Home
Yet, in reality, some children live there for years. And for me, a year and two months was more than enough time for deep attachment to take root. What effect does that have on their growing self, their hearts, and their minds?
According to the Director, due to a severe shortage of facilities, fewer than ten percent of the children reported to child welfare authorities for abuse or neglect are actually placed in children’s homes for protective custody. This means that being “rescued” is a grim privilege reserved only for the most extreme, heartbreaking cases.
What kind of future is left for that remaining ninety percent? Could it possibly be any better than this? Just recently, the media was saturated with the tragic news of a father in Kyoto who strangled his son and abandoned the body in the mountains. Even Arshleen had brought it up.
Also Read: A Truth of Japan’s Foster Care (2): As If It Simply Didn’t Exist
The children live in a remarkable location—surrounded by National Treasures and Important Cultural Properties visited by people from around the world. Yet almost no one, not even the locals, knows that the inconspicuous concrete building tucked away there is a children’s home. I myself had not known until I stepped inside. It stands quietly, as if erasing all signs of life.
I find myself shadowed by questions that have no easy answers. How many more years will Arshleen be left to live there? Will her mother or relatives from abroad ever come to claim her? In a society like Japan, where adoption is rare—especially for children on the cusp of their teenage years—the likelihood of her ever being welcomed into a family feels vanishingly small.
Also Read: A Truth of Japan’s Foster Care (3): As If It Simply Didn’t Exist
And then it strikes me: Does she even hold Japanese citizenship? If not, does she at least have permanent residency? Who will ever explain the reality of these legalities to her, and at what stage in her life? These uncertainties drift endlessly through my mind.
Aside from her katakana surname, nothing distinguishes her from any other Japanese child. Meanwhile, under the banner of “Japanese First,” our society is shifting in a direction that makes life increasingly difficult for non-Japanese residents. In such a climate, she will, without a doubt, return to me again and again in the years to come, wondering where she is now and what her life is like.
Image Courtesy: Chion-in, AI
Mayumi Yamamoto is a writer and academic based in Kyoto, Japan. Her poems have appeared in Literary Yard, and some opinions in Indian Periodical. She authored several published books in the Japanese language.
