A national government that has acted negligently in intercountry adoptions must do more than prevent new abuses. For example, by supporting adoptees financially in their search for information.
I was born twice. I don't remember anything about my first trip through the birth canal, but I still vividly remember the second time. My sister and I were dressed up: we wore short white dresses with brown trim and black shoes with low heels. For example, we flew from Seoul to Amsterdam together with a number of other children. Overjoyed to be there, our new parents looked into our eyes and stroked our hair as they spoke softly to us. Although we had no idea what they said, we let them be, because even with a second birth you have little choice. As a child, your fate is in the hands of adults.
This was in 1979. In the years that followed I adapted as best I could, although my environment regularly reminded me that I came from somewhere else. In addition, I had not only arrived at Schiphol with my sister, but also with memories of the village and the house we lived in, the aunt who took care of us, our father who came to visit, the children's home in which we lived. All this raised questions, but since answers were not forthcoming, I kept them to myself for a long time.
As an adoptee, you miss out on a lot of information that most people take for granted because you can't tap into the collective memory of your biological family. Because your family in the Netherlands knows nothing about the culture from which you are cut off. Because you don't have the options to look for information or don't know where to start. Because your native language is gone from your memory and it takes years to learn it again.
For example, it was not until 2005 that I saw two pieces of paper with the names and dates of birth of my Korean parents and the context in which my adoption took place. At that moment, some of many missing puzzle pieces fell into place.
