It’s a land of tundra and toil; sacrifice and secrecy; fallacy and fight. They say Russia is a cold place in more ways than one. It’s no wonder given its tumultuous history. Maybe the cold is a means of survival because, sometimes, being numb is the only way to go on. No one remains unscathed by the sharpness of this world, but some can persevere when they can’t feel their own pain. Maybe that’s why I’ve come to love the cold. In its embrace, there lies peace, an escape from the pain of being ripped away from all I knew.

Many long to numb their pain, to withdraw into blankness, to surrender to an abyss of nothingness. Papa wandered into a welcome oblivion every time he opened a bottle. I swore against alcohol the moment he hit Mama for the first time.

I was born into the mess that was post-Soviet Russia. My name was Anastasia Snezhanova. The name Anastasia means “resurrection.” My surname means “snow.” I like to think of myself as resurrected from the snow.

For the first few years of my life, I found comfort around me. I had Mama, who sought to give me the love Papa couldn’t. But her love alone wasn’t enough to raise me. Our family fell into hardship again and again which forced Mama to bring me to an orphanage.

The first time we went was in winter—February, I think. Behind the snow-covered trees, the yellow building shone brightly, as if to welcome me out of the cold. We were greeted by a woman named Sasha who gave us a tour of the orphanage. Eventually, she led us to an office. I was left to sit in the corridor. I stared curiously at finger paintings on the walls while the adults spoke about the terms of my stay.

“Are the artists of these paintings going to be my friends?” I thought.

Eventually, Mama and Sasha emerged, nodding to each other politely. My fate was sealed. Mama took my hand, bent down in front of me, and said, “I promise I’ll be back for you soon.”

She squeezed me tightly, stood up, and turned away.

“Mama!”

I ran to her, clinging to her thigh. She reached down and cradled my head for a moment before peeling me off her. With clenched fists, I screamed. It echoed through the hall. Neither Mama nor Sasha even blinked. I screamed again and, still, I felt voiceless.

Mama looked at Sasha and sighed. Sasha smiled softly and stepped towards me. I backed away against the wall. My breathing grew heavy. I began to shake. The tears welled up in my eyes until no dam in the world could hold them back.

I sobbed in silence, then, wailed loudly, crying out “no” again and again.

“Asya,” Mama said with a quiet sadness in her voice.

“Mama,” I said. I knew she didn’t want to do this. Four-year-old me couldn’t understand why she was doing it anyways.

I wasn’t worried about being left alone. I could tell I wouldn’t be alone. I heard the muffled voices of children in a room downstairs. Instead, I was worried about Mama. She would return home where Papa would stumble home from the bar and unleash his anger on her day after day. And I wouldn’t be there. She would be alone.

“Asya, please,” she pleaded. “We talked about this. I’ll be back soon, moya snezhinka.”

“Moya snezhinka,” she called me. “My snowflake.”

In a low voice, she uttered the words, “I promise.”

I wiped my tears away and reached for her once more. She hugged me again and kissed my forehead.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you too, Mama.”

Then, she nodded to Sasha and said good-bye. Without another word, she walked down the stairs. I followed behind her and stopped at the bottom. She continued down the corridor to the entrance of the building. Still sobbing uncontrollably, I watched her open the door, step out, and disappear from view.

The days went by. I made friends. I stayed busy.

At the orphanage, my friends and I were given quite a lot of freedom and we took even more. We thought of ourselves as wild and wily rebels even though our escapades were innocent enough. On many nights, we snuck down to the kitchen and ate spoonfuls of honey. It felt right to share childhood. I hadn’t had a brother or sister at home. The orphanage blurred the line between friends and family.

The days turned into weeks. The weeks turned into months.

One early spring day, I was playing out in the yard when I saw her. She looked exactly the same except for her belly which was big and round.

“Asya!”

I ran out of the fenced-in yard and fell into her arms.

“Oh, my goodness! You’re all grown up, moya snezhinka!”

“Mama, why is your belly so big?”

“You’re going to have a little sister, Asya. Papa and I want you home with us.”

I stayed home all summer. Papa didn’t drink as much. He was often agitated but he had work that kept him busy. When he wasn’t home, Mama was at her happiest. She glowed with each day that passed. She told me about all the things we would do together—my little sister, Mama, and I.

A week before my fifth birthday, Mama said, “Asya, for your birthday, you can choose your new sister’s name.”

I thought of a graceful figure skater named Yelena. At the orphanage, my friends and I used to crowd around the TV to admire her.

“Yelena!” I exclaimed.

“Mmm… It means ‘sun,’” she explained. “Moya snezhinka and moye solntse!”

Two weeks after my birthday, Mama and Papa went to the hospital. I was left with an old lady in our building. The next evening, they returned. Papa said nothing when he picked me up. With a vacant look, he brought me upstairs to our apartment.

I couldn’t wait to meet Yelena. I burst through the door, tripping over the threshold in my excitement. I fell down hard and began to cry. Papa lifted me up and patted me on the head. It was a rare display of affection. Soon, I stopped crying and looked around eagerly.

Inside, it was dark. I could barely see Mama sitting on our old sofa in the corner. She said nothing. She didn’t even look at me. I ran to her.

“Mama! Where is Yelena? Where is my sister?”

I ran into the bedroom. No one was there.

“Where is she? Mama!”

“She’s not here, Anastasia,” Papa said without a trace of emotion.

“Where is she? When is she coming here?”

“She’s not coming,” he said.

“Why not?”

He never answered. He walked to a cabinet from which he retrieved a large bottle. He removed the cap, took a swig, and went into the bedroom, slamming the door.

Mama remained silent. I went to her. I climbed onto the sofa and towards her lap. She pushed me to the floor. I tried again. This time, she stood up and went into the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

I sat on the floor next to the door. I heard her crying. I cried too.

For hours, I sat alone in the living room until I fell asleep.

The next day, I woke up in my little bed. I slept in the living room, under the window. Mama and Papa were nowhere to be seen. Their bedroom door was closed.

I waited all morning. At last, the front door opened and Papa stumbled in, carrying a large bottle in each hand and another under his right arm. He brought home and emptied three bottles each day for the next month. He didn’t hit Mama anymore. Instead, he fell on the floor and went to sleep before he had the chance to hurt her.

Once a week, he brought something sweet for me. This was new. Before then, Mama had repeatedly said we didn’t have the money for such things. Somehow, Papa found a way. Maybe he felt bad for his behavior.

The sweets did little to lift my spirits. I found myself missing my friends. At home, I felt more alone than ever. Mama still said nothing. She spent most of the day in her room. Many times, I heard her crying.

The next winter came and Papa was without work. He stopped bringing sweets. Instead of three bottles, he brought only one. It wasn’t enough to make him sleep. He started to hit Mama. They sent me to the old lady downstairs more often.

Over the next two years, I was brought to the orphanage five times. The last time was in September, 1999.

As she had done every other time before, Mama said, “I’ll be back soon.”

She never came back.

As the days grew colder, so did I. My tears stopped flowing. They remained frozen. Perhaps I even wanted time itself to freeze as it was forcing me farther from Mama with each passing day. Somehow, I knew she wasn’t coming back.

A week before Christmas, Sasha, the woman from the orphanage, brought me to her office where there were three strangers. One of them—a pretty lady—began to speak. I didn’t recognize her words. There was a man holding her hand who had bronze skin with dark hair and eyes.

Beaming, Sasha said, “These are your new parents, Asya!”

The third person, a pale lady with raven black hair, stepped forward.

“Hello, Asya! I’m Tatyana. Your new parents don’t speak Russian. I’m here to help. They’ve come to take you to America!”

“Where is that?”

“It’s far away from here. You’ll have to fly in an airplane to get there!”

“Okay…” I said, hesitantly. “When will I come back?”

Sasha sighed and said, “Asya, you’re going to live there. You’re going to have a new family and new friends.”

I’m sure my face looked puzzled.

The pretty lady bent down, looked directly into my eyes, and spoke.

“We know it sounds a bit scary, Asya,” Tatyana echoed her in Russian. “But we want to give you the very best life. We want you to be happy. And we will do everything we can to make that happen.”

Looking back into the pretty lady’s eyes, I felt an instinct—a need—to trust her. I made up my mind to give in and I’ve never regretted that decision. Not when I nervously boarded an airplane for the first time in my life. Not when I watched my homeland shrink below as we flew high into the sky. Not when I stepped off the airplane and heard every language except my own.

The day I arrived was a white Christmas Eve. I knew only three words in English: “hello” and “thank you.”

My new parents led me into a house and upstairs where I met many people who hugged me and smiled.

A few minutes later, the pretty lady grabbed my hand and said, “We have a surprise.”

“‘Syurpriz’?” I repeated. She nodded happily.

At that moment, everyone turned to look at the stairs. I heard voices coming closer. A little girl with sun-kissed hair appeared.

When she saw the pretty lady, the little girl cried, “Mommy!”

She took one step forward before tripping and falling on the floor. At once, she began crying and the man with the bronze skin ran to sweep her up in his arms. He put her down in front of me.

“Ana,” he said to me, “This is your sister, Laura.”

Seeing her up close, my heart nearly stopped. Then, she smiled and I cried.

The sun shone and the snowflake thawed.

UNICEF defines an orphan as “a child who has lost one or both parents” (UNICEF Orphans). By this definition, UNICEF estimates that over 132 million children are orphans in sub-Saharan Africa, Asia, Latin America, and the Caribbean, not to mention the number of children in Western countries who can be encompassed with that broad definition. This definition is necessarily broad because to lose even one parent renders a child vulnerable to poverty, and educational and social neglect.

Of these many millions, roughly 13 million children are without both parents due to abandonment or death. Many of these children live with a grandparent or other family member who may be in need of support in order to care for the child or children. A portion of this 13 million are without extended family support and are served in orphanages, group homes, children’s villages, and in some communities, foster families. Some of these children are permanently integrated into the life of an unrelated family, but many are left to their own devices on the street.

What is our responsibility to orphans? As do other holy scriptures, the Qur’an makes it clear that these children are everyone’s responsibility, directly or indirectly. What is necessary and just to provide for our own children should not be denied to someone else’s child. It is not the will of God that they remain neglected or are pushed aside in society. We need to remember the numerous injunctions in the Qur’an and the teachings of the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, to care for orphans, to provide for their needs, and to treat them with justice.

In Chapter An-Nisa’ (Women), the rights of orphans are specifically protected. “[…] you must be assiduous in observing the rights of orphans. Whatever good you do, surely God has full knowledge of it” (4:127). In Chapter Al-Ma’un, caring for orphans and others in need is required of us, pointing out that the ritual of our prayers are empty without service to humanity and that this does not go unnoticed in the Last Days.

“Have you ever considered one who denies the Last Judgment? That is he who repels the orphan, and does not urge the feeding of the destitute. And woe to those worshippers (denying the Judgment), those who are unmindful in their Prayers, those who want to be seen and noted (for their acts of worship), yet deny all assistance (to their fellowmen).” (107:1-7)

The Qur’an leaves no doubt that caring for vulnerable children is a vital component of a faithful life. The rights of orphans should be carefully guarded and the impact on those who violate those rights is spiritually devastating. Additionally, orphan care is also part of how we are instructed to worship. Worship of the Creator is a broad and life encompassing experience. Our actions and the way in which we conduct our lives is a form of worship. In verse 4:36 of the Qur’an, worship is linked to how we treat people who are in need, including orphans:

“And worship God and do not associate anything as a partner with Him; and do good to your parents in the best way possible, and to the relatives, orphans, the destitute, the neighbor who is near (in kinship, location, faith), the neighbor who is distant (in kinship and faith), the companion by your side (on the way, in the family, in the workplace, etc.), the wayfarer, and those who are in your service…” (4:36).

If we do not “do good” to vulnerable children, we are neglecting an explicit component of worship, according to the verse above.

The UNICEF definition of an orphan as given in the beginning is largely in line with the historical definition within mainstream Islamic jurisprudence. The Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, himself lost his father before he was born and lived with a foster family (a common practice at the time, not necessarily due to one’s status as an orphan) as an infant until both his mother and foster parents deemed it wise for him to stay with his mother. At age six, he then lost his mother to illness. Imagine the constant transition, loss, social insecurity, and sorrow, all by age six. He suffered in the same manner as countless children do today. The tribe had the responsibility to provide for the needs of orphaned children, but handling such loss was a trial then as it is now – a challenge requiring spiritual as well as material care.

The experience of the Prophet is a vital and divine example clearly expressed in the Qur’an to elicit emotion and commitment, directed to both Muhammad, peace be upon him, and to all humanity. The Qur’an makes an example of God’s Messenger and his experience as an orphan in Chapter Ad-duha (The Forenoon):

“Did He not find you an orphan and give shelter (to you)? And find you unguided and guide you? And find you in want and make you self-sufficient? Therefore, do not oppress the orphan; nor chide and drive away the petitioner.” (93:6-10)

The Prophet also praised the ones who take care of orphans: “I and the person who looks after an orphan and provides for him, will be in Paradise like this,” putting his index and middle fingers together (Bukhari).

Adoption and kafala

The full reality of adoption laws and practice interact with a web of issues including children’s rights, human psychology, local culture, international and national laws, family and cultural identity, religious concerns, and even property and inheritance rights. When circumstance denies a relationship with a biological family, only culture prevents many children from being embraced by the deepest friendship of care and protection in a family setting, regardless of birth. Islam itself does not prevent this.

What Islam does is to protect the rights of orphans to know their origins and protects them against manipulation for the gain of those caring for them. All their needs are to be provided for with dignity, mercy, and justice.

One of the primary difficulties faced in conversations about “adoption” between parties in the West and traditionally Muslim communities is simply how we define the term “adoption.” In the West, the term “adoption” (or equivalent word in varying languages) carries different meanings depending on the circumstances of a particular family. It can range from a situation shrouded in secrecy where a child is never told that he or she is adopted to a situation in which there is ongoing personal contact with the biological family of the child who are, for one reason or another, unable or unwilling to care for the child themselves. Legal adoption, at least in the United States, does mean that the child will automatically inherit from the adoptive parents (and not from the biological parents) in the event of their death, and it is increasingly rare for there to be no acknowledgement of the child’s heritage. Of course, a will written by either the biological or adoptive family would allocate the distribution of inheritance in any way that the parents desire, overriding an automatic distribution. These are relatively small details that have straightforward solutions if they are in conflict with Islamic ethics.

A primary concern about “adoption” according to the Muslim community is that it erases the biological family. This is not necessarily so as practiced in the United States. Adoption is a legal construct that provides permanency in a child’s living situation and cultural experience. It allows for a consistent and potentially deeply bonded emotional and social experience that an orphanage or foster care does not provide. The outcome for children who grow up in a family which is committed to their care is significantly more positive than for those who grow up in institutional care. Statistics supporting this assertion began to be widely publicized in the United States beginning in the early twentieth century. None of this precludes ongoing contact with the child’s heritage.

Many of the stipulations regarding family care of an orphan in traditional Islamic family law are very similar to what is known as “open” adoption in the West, an arrangement in which full disclosure about identity is required and in some cases even allows for ongoing interaction between the adopted child and their family of origin. Experience has shown that some level of openness provides a better outcome over time for the well being of the child. The other side of the coin is “closed” adoption in which all ties to the child’s biological family are severed, even to the point of not informing them that they are adopted. This is what is forbidden in Islamic law and in practice is more traumatizing for the child than open adoption.

The traditional form of “adoption” in Islamic jurisprudence is called kafala. Kafala is very similar to open adoption or legal guardianship in that a child’s identity is always maintained and respected. It is a form of guardianship which resembles foster-parenting, but is more stable. It is defined as, “The commitment to voluntarily take care of the maintenance, of the education, and of the protection of a minor, in the same way a parent would do for a child,” but maintains recognition of the child’s family background, including automatic inheritance rights (Shura Council). Even in a fully legal adoption in the Western context, if the arrangements are “open,” there is no mystery as to the child’s origins.

Both open adoption and kafala provide care for children in a stable manner that is ongoing and provides the network and knowledge of family life that we require in order to fully function throughout our lives.

An additional difference between adoption in the West and kafala is that Western adoption views adopted children as unmarriageable to members of the adoptive family. Any relationship between adopted children and members of the adopting family would be considered incest. This is not technically so under the kafala system. Non-related children raised in one’s home are technically considered “marriageable” (non-mahram), though it is important to realize that this does not mean such a marriage should take place or will. This is perhaps one of the greatest barriers for families who might otherwise decide to raise orphans in their home.

Concern over issues of privacy can inhibit families from caring for orphans long-term in their homes. I have encountered this concern as a reason to not take in orphans despite there being no actual discouragement from doing so in Islamic jurisprudence. In the abstract, without an actual child in front of you, it is easy to worry about privacy for individuals who are non-mahram and the desire to be relaxed within one’s own home. A place to start in approaching this issue is to keep in mind the strong injunction to provide for the needs of orphans and the well-documented observation that children are cared best when they have an experience of family-life that they feel entitled to and caregivers who are uniquely committed to their welfare. Concern about privacy does not cancel out this necessity and people should draw a balance between responding to this need while maintaining their privacy.

There are many cultural dynamics that are intermingled with religious practice in relation to matters of privacy, dress code, and behavior in a family. Many cases of sexual abuse are a result of psychiatric disorders and social ties are as important as blood ties. The Qur’an clearly encourages treating orphans as brothers and sisters when interacting with orphans. A sudden segregation of an adopted child at puberty may cause severe damage to the child and other members of the household. Yet, it is necessary to be cautious and observe prescriptions that relate to intermixing within the family to avoid privacy violations. Thus, it is important to develop a very finely tuned relationship in the case of adoption where transition to adulthood may cause sensitive zones to arise among the household. Parents should be extremely careful during such times and never compromise from sincere affection to the adopted kid.

Each individual situation requires wisdom and a sincere desire to meet the needs of adopted children and other household members. We all have a responsibility to contribute directly or indirectly to orphan care. We need to deeply consider adoption alternatives in the care of children so that they have a safe haven within the community. The ability of communities to care for their most vulnerable is an indicator of spiritual health. Flexibility and faith in the All-Merciful while trying to understand the meanings of our scriptures are vital in practicing a religion. If our cultural practices place barriers between us and fulfilling the ordinances of the scripture, we need to re-evaluate our cultural practices with courage and immediacy.

Bibliography

• Bukhari. (n.d.). Retrieved 08 08, 2013, from Bukhari Collection Volume 8, Book 73, Number 34: http://www.searchtruth.com/book_display.php?book=73translator=1start=0number=34
• McCabe, J. (1983). FBD Marriage: Further Support for the Westermarck Hypothesis of the Incest Taboo? American Anthropologist , 85, 50-69.
• Shepher, J. (1983). Incest: A Biosocial View.
• Shura Council, M. W. (n.d.). Adoption and the Care of Orphan Children: Islam and the Best Interests of the Child. Retrieved 08 08, 2013, from wisemuslimwomen.org: http://www.wisemuslimwomen.org/images/activism/Adoption_(August_2011)_Final.pdf
• Unal, A. (2006). The Qur’an with Annotated Interpretation in Modern English. New Jersey: Light.
• UNICEF, Orphans. (n.d.). Orphans. Retrieved 08 08, 2013, from Unicef: http://www.unicef.org/media/media_45279.html