The Questions That Never Left

The hardest part of my adoption has never been the move across countries. It has been the silence. What really happened in 1979? Did my Indonesian mother consciously let me go so I could have a better future? Or were there forces at work that I still cannot see?

I was around four or five years old. I remember her. Not in timelines or official documents, but in flashes. Images. Feelings. The way memory carves itself into a child’s body. I remember warmth. Protection. I remember that whenever there was food, she made sure I ate first. From those fragments, I built one certainty: she loved me, and she kept me safe for as long as she could. That is why adoption was so confusing to me.

I had never felt abandoned by her. I had never felt unwanted. So when she told me to go with the Chinese woman, I believed it was temporary. I was sure she would come back. That belief lived in me for years, even after I arrived in the Netherlands. After some time, I created a solution a child could live with: I now had two mothers. One Indonesian, one Dutch. I loved them both. Simple.

As a todler planned my return carefully. I would save money. Clothes. Seeds for the garden. I told my Dutch mother she had to come with me because, by then, I loved her too. Distance meant nothing to me. In Indonesia, I had travelled by bus with my mother; surely there must also be a bus back home. I often felt I should be ready to leave at any moment. Suitcase in my head, always packed.

What I never packed was understanding. Everyone around me seemed certain. The explanation repeated itself endlessly: your mother could not take care of you; adoption was best; you were saved. People meant well. Their intentions were kind. I absorbed the story because I was small and dependent, and what else could I do?

As I grew older, I learned the script society prefers: intercountry adoption is beautiful, generous, a rescue to be thankful for. And almost every time I shared my story, the response was automatic: "You must be so grateful."

What sounds kind can also be conditioning. When one explanation is repeated often enough, especially to a child, it leaves little room for doubt, grief, or alternative truths. The message becomes clear: this is the story, and any feeling that doesn’t fit inside it is inconvenient. People wanted to comfort me, to give meaning to something complex and painful. But good intentions do not prevent harm. They can silence questions. They can teach a child to mistrust her own memories. And slowly, without anyone noticing, gratitude becomes an expectation rather than a feeling.