Language of Friendship

A three story orphanage in the capital of Sri Lanka; riddled with echoing hallways that whisper as you walk; stamped with a sunburnt, aging courtyard and home to over a hundred small, dark, abandoned children. White teeth and white eyes smile up to greet you as you peer through the doors of their classrooms, nurseries, sleeping quarters and open souls. Your presence is one they are proud to accommodate.

Being led through this home for the homeless, I cling to my mother instinctively as Marli, my 4 year old brother, walks boldly ahead. Step skip jump skip slide stamp step. His tiny confident fingers trace patterns of intrigue across the smooth, cold walls; his naive eyes seeing only the adventure of a new place.

Ushered into a larger room, we are told this is the dining hall. Children gathered around an old wooden table are perched up on stools chatting vibrantly in Sinhalese, awaiting the arrival of their lunch. Unable to speak the native tongue, we find ourselves at the “us” and “them” divide - an invisible barrier that defines the extent to which this visit can go. Or so I thought.

In the sea of dark, I see Marli - browned by sun but not black, he places his hand on the table. Immediately his movement is mirrored by the young boy across from him, and without a word shared between the two, the game begins. Bubbles of laughter begin to surface and burst as one by one each child slaps their hand on the table and the game picks up intensity. To an onlooker, the game would have appeared some sort of bizarre percussive experiment; but to these children it was a language - a method of communication - that unlike any summit, sanction or treaty, had managed to transcend the barriers of race, language, colour and class. United in a common desire for enjoyment and challenge, my brother and these young orphans were speaking the universal language of friendship.

I will never forget the day I learnt this lesson. Now carried in my heart wherever I venture, it challenges me to look and feel beyond what the eye can see. Beyond the small Thai lady forcefully selling her poorly crafted wares; to the small hungry son behind her who dreams of planes and trains. Beyond the wood, bricks and mortar that built London, Beijing, New York; to the stories, history and sacrifices that created them. The World is but one body, separated by salty seas and cracks in the ground. Our lives may be starkly different, but we bleed of the same blood and dream of the same dreams.