Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve always been an empathetic person. Not the kind that pities others–the kind who wishes she could do something, anything to help. I promised myself that I would always find a way to be kind, whether it meant smiling at a stranger or putting my Eidi money into the donations box at the Masjid. But I never imagined I would be blessed with the opportunity to visit an orphanage, especially one in my own country.
Givelight is a wonderful organization, led by a woman I deeply admire. So when my mom asked me if I’d like to visit a Givelight orphanage in Multan, with Khala Dian, I said yes immediately.
The weeks before the trip, my sister and I fundraised by selling cookies and handing out QR codes after community iftars at our local Masjid. It was intimidating, going up to strangers and asking for donations. But whenever I got nervous, I would picture the children and all of the things I wanted to give them. That gave me courage.
From a young age I’ve always been a girly-girl. I loved dresses, dolls, anything and everything pink. But I also enjoyed playing football or cars with my cousins. So when my mom asked me what we should buy for the children, I was thrilled. I wanted to give these kids everything that I had loved, and more.
When we arrived at the orphanage, I didn’t expect anything big. To my surprise, however, we were greeted with flowers, necklaces and warm smiles. The kids threw flower petals on us as if we were celebrities. Tiny hands shook ours, with animated ‘Salam’s, excitedly introducing themselves. It was overwhelmingly beautiful, and I will never forget that moment.
My experience with the kids was better than I could have ever imagined. Their laughter was contagious, their energy infectious, and their hearts generous. We did all sorts of things, from water balloon fights to making cards to sharing stories. But the most beautiful part wasn’t in the gifts or the games–it was in the way they cherished every little thing, and even more in how they shared it. I remember handing out chocolates, expecting them to fight and argue over flavours. But instead, small hands tugged on my kurta, offering me a bite out of their chocolate. In that simple moment, I realized that kindness isn’t measured by how much you give, but by the heart with which it’s given. I had gone in there hoping to make their day, but in truth, they made mine.
Leaving the kids was one of the hardest things I’d ever had to do. They clung to my hands, asking me why I had to leave and when I would come back. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to stay and forget about school, deadlines, and everything else waiting for me back home. But I knew I couldn’t. As I climbed into the car, tears in my eyes, I promised myself I would never forget them. Not their faces, not their laughter, and not the incredible women who cared for them with so much love.
Rania Asim
GL Intern 2025