Virtual Book Tour: The Weight of Silence

By Shelley Seale

MyWorkButterfly member and supporter, Shelley Seale, has just released a book called The Weight of Silence: Invisible Children of India. The book is a non-fiction narrative that follows her journeys throughout India over several years, befriending and telling the stories of many children whose lives are the reality behind the movie Slumdog Millionaire. Currently there are 25 million children living without parents or homes of their own in India, on the streets or in orphanages or trafficked. They are the true faces and stories of those shown in the movie, and their everyday is all too real.

As part of her book tour, Shelley talks to MyWorkButterfly today about how such children affect her as a mother, and what it was like to incorporate motherhood with writing this book.

Q: You tell the stories of many children in The Weight of Silence, kids who have been orphaned or abandoned or trafficked. When you were with these children in India, how did it feel as a mother of your own child, safely back at home?

A: Everytime I looked at these children, I could see my own daughter’s eyes staring back at me. I think it affected me in an even more profound way, being a mother, because I often thought about how it would feel to be unable to feed her, how either of us would bear it if I had to let her go because I lacked the bare necessities required to put a roof over her head and a meal in her stomach. Many of the kids I’ve known in India were not orphaned because their parents had died; they were orphaned due to poverty, because their parents were simply didn’t have enough money to feed them. I wondered how my daughter would possibly survive if that were the case for her, and she was left by herself on the streets in India or in Austin, anywhere. I simply could not imagine it, but I knew that millions of children were doing just that at the very moment.


Q: What do you hope readers take away from your book, and what can we do to affect change for these invisible children of India?

A: I would like readers to know that even though this topic is serious and the stories often heartbreaking, it is NOT a depressing book or subject! These kids, and their stories, are incredible and awe-inspiring, hopeful and inspirational. Their hope and resilience amazed me time and time again; the ability of their spirits to overcome crippling challenges inspired me. Even in the most deprived circumstances they are still kids – they laugh and play, they develop strong bonds and relationships to create family where none exists; and most of all they have an enormous amount of love to give. The issues are tough, what has happened to a lot of these kids makes you want to cry – but the bottom line of their stories is a very strong, hopeful voice.

There is a lot that even the smallest actions can accomplish to improve the lives and futures of children in these circumstances. We can’t all abandon our current lives to go work in the trenches, so to speak, but we can all take action – and we must, because the world is really a very small place. We can no longer say that what happens on the other side of the world doesn’t affect us here. Children the world over are all of our futures, and it’s all our obligation to uphold their rights. You can do something as small as sign a petition against child labor or to increase educational and health care funding; you can be a conscious shopper who is aware of where goods are coming from and if they’re made with child labor; you can make a donation or volunteer for a cause. I have provided some resources to get you started. The point is, the smallest thing can make a bigger difference than you can ever imagine, if enough of us do that one tiny step.

Q: Do you have any advice for women who want to engage their children in efforts to raise awareness about important issues?

A: Well, it really depends on a child’s age. With really young children, say under ten years old, it’s best to do it on a very small scale and in a simple, relatable way. For example, when my daughter was small we used to go to the giving tree or angel tree at the mall and select a girl who was Chandler’s age to buy gifts for. Chandler got to pick out the presents and she was really excited that she got to do the shopping, and they were going to a little girl who otherwise wouldn’t be getting anything for the holidays.

For adolescents and teenagers, the last thing that ever works is lecturing! I remember as a kid getting the whole “there are starving children in Cambodia” speech – and nothing about it ever really registered with me. I think kids relate to something another kid their age might be going through in another part of the world. Maybe sponsoring a child that is their age, and letting your son or daughter exchange letters with another kid halfway around the world is really educational and enlightening. Travel is always one of the best ways, if you can make it happen. And you don’t have to go to India! As we discussed before, there is plenty of need in our own backyard – try volunteering with your child building a Habitat for Humanity house one weekend, or serve at the local homeless shelter on Thanksgiving day. Making it personal and real is the key.

A year after my first visit to India I returned, with my fifteen-year-old daughter, Chandler. The children were enthralled with her, much more interested in this teenager close to their own ages than the adults. Chandler, for her part, already knew many of them on sight from the photos that lined our walls at home, and the many stories I had told her from my previous trip. The amazement on her face as she was engulfed by children who swarmed over her to hold her hands and cling to her arms made her look even younger than her fifteen years.

We had arrived during the Indian holiday of Holi, the festival of colors. Originally a celebration of the fertility of the land and good harvests, Holi is commemorated with folk songs and dances, and colored powders or water which everyone throws all over each other. As we left our hotel to drive to the orphanage, the streets were already filled with music and dancing, and crowds covered with the colored powders. Shops were closed, and many groups carried shrines as they marched with abandon.

The older boys met us in the courtyard, bouncing around to a pop song blaring from loudspeakers. They were off school for the holiday and full of energy. Some faces were already covered in yellow or purple paint. We were swept into the current of jumping bodies to where a tent made of colorful sarees and decorations had been erected. Babu, the orphanage director's son, greeted us with a bowl of yellow powder.

"Happy Holi!" he exclaimed as he pressed a smudge of yellow on each of our foreheads.

Some of the younger girls drew Chandler away from the dancing boys, to the playground to swing with them. I watched for a moment, Chandler flying high into the air with Mami and Sumi screaming from her lap as Daina and Sibani called, “Didi, look! Didi!” from the slide and monkey bars. Damodar Sahoo, the “Papa” of the home and these children, reached up and grabbed the bell rope, clanging the brass bell loudly to start the program. The adults were seated in orange plastic chairs while the children sat on the ground in front of us, under the tent. A table in the far corner of the tent held the radio system and a microphone, as well as a few instruments. A male staff member took up a drum and another played a small accordion while Papa led the singing. Between each song he explained its meaning for the benefit of his guests.

When the singing was over a group of boys put on a play. With their make-up and fake mustaches I couldn’t tell who was who from my seat. It was funny, even without understanding the words. It was about an incorrigible schoolboy who refused to mind the rules; one young actor wore a flesh-colored plastic “bald” cap on his head, with gray hair puffing out below it, playing the elder. He entered the stage bent over and hobbling, over-acting like crazy to play every move for a laugh.

Next on the program were traditional dance performances by six of the teenage girls. Their costumes, jewelry and face paint were spectacular and the choreography complex and lovely. As the third routine began, the “elder” from the play shuffled out with the girls and tried to dance with them, eliciting gales of laughter and threatening to throw the dancers off. They didn’t falter one bit, and completed their routine in spite of his antics and the crowd’s amusement at the distraction.

Once the performances were over, Holi was played in earnest. Four neighborhood men came into the courtyard, covered head to toe in deep magenta and holding plastic bags filled with the powder. Coming to each of us in turn, they smeared the dark powder on our cheeks and noses; one endowed Chandler with a fuchsia mustache.

The children took this marking of us as permission to attack. Handfuls of yellow, green, orange and pink powders were grabbed from bowls set along the courtyard and color flew everywhere, no holds barred. We chased each other down, smearing color on faces and in hair. Papa even got in on the action, slapping one older boy on the head with green powder as he tried to squirm out of Papa’s grasp. Some of the kids produced water guns, shooting colored water at us – a clearly unfair advantage. All the while the speakers blared a favorite song: "Just Chill!" But the kids were nowhere near chilling.

Within fifteen minutes we were all covered, pointing and laughing at each other. Even Papa was smeared with yellow and orange. With the powders gone, everyone lined up to be handed small paper bags of sweets and slices of juicy watermelon. The fruit’s sweetness exploded in my mouth with a ripeness richer than I had ever tasted in the melon before. It even tasted pink. Soon a hundred yellow and purple and green people sat in the courtyard, slurping watermelon as it dripped between their fingers.

I glanced over at Chandler as she sat amongst a group of about twenty other kids, all devouring their watermelon and covered with paint. India was hers now – and she had become India’s.

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