One of the 241 whistleblowers reporting irregularities in their adoption discovered that the woman who illegally smuggled her biological mother across the border later became director of the Flemish Adoption House. She is not the only whistleblower hitting a wall at the Flemish Centre for Adoption today. “The people responsible have since been given even more important positions in Flemish adoption organizations.”
Charlotte* (29) was smuggled across the border from France as a baby. Her adoptive parents made no secret of this.
Her Belgian biological mother had unexpectedly become pregnant as a student in 1996. Because she did not want her parents to find out, she turned to the adoption agency vzw Gewenst Kind - Amok .
For she could prevent her name from appearing on the birth certificate, which she absolutely did not want. Nor could she prevent the court from investigating whether a solution was possible within the family – for example, through the child's grandparents.
The non-profit helped the unwanted pregnant woman, more specifically by first smuggling her abroad – to France – to allow her to give birth there anonymously. A trick that had been devised and perfected by cloistered nuns in the 70s and 80s.
Criticism of Flemish investigation into illegal adoption: “Layoffs would occur in other sectors”
By the 1990s, the illegal practice of smuggling was much less common. However, Gewenst Kind - Amok, a service recognized by Kind en Gezin , still made occasional use of it. Apache was able to view emails in which Jo Labens , the director at the time, admits that there had been “about four situations.” These took place, Labens writes, “entirely via the system of Sister (sic) Geert Van de Visserij.”
Amok placed Charlotte's biological mother at an address on the Belgian coast, away from her parents. As soon as her water broke and contractions began, an employee drove the woman to Clinique Vilette in Dunkirk. There, she gave birth to Charlotte.
Charlotte* sensed that her adoption had come about in a shady manner.
In the meantime, Gewenst Kind - Amok found an adoptive family: a family with two stepchildren and two children with a severe disability, which had been rejected by all other Flemish adoption agencies.
Parents who, in other words, asked few questions about the questionable conduct. And who would pay the hefty bill of 187,750 Belgian francs (4,654 euros) without batting an eye. In a letter containing the settlement, Labens writes: “As it turns out, you are one of our adoptive parents with an adoption that is more expensive than the average, which, as you know, amounts to 160,000 francs (3,966 euros) .”
After ten days in the hospital, her adoptive parents smuggled Charlotte across the border via back roads. There were still border controls at the time. Three months later, a Flemish justice of the peace regularized the child — after a convened “council of friends,” which in reality consisted of the adoptive family.
Charlotte sensed that her adoption had come about in a shady manner.
In late 2023, Hilde Crevits (CD&V), then Flemish Minister of Welfare, launched an appeal: all adoptees who suspect irregularities in their adoption can report this to the Flemish Centre for Adoption (VCA). The VCA would investigate these reports.
Ultimately, 241 people accepted that invitation. Charlotte also decided to file a report in the summer of 2024.
The VCA invited Charlotte for an exploratory meeting. However, the employee told her that there were “too few leads” to investigate her adoption further.
“I thought that was a strange reaction,” she says. “It seemed to me that they did exist. I saw the nuns’ entire script reflected in my adoption.”
The then-director claimed not to know that the method was illegal.
And also: normally, a child born anonymously in France first ends up under the care of the departmental prefect, the highest representative of a province in France, as a pupil d'Etat. Later, the child comes under the care of the French government agency Aide Sociale à l'Enfance.
That didn't happen with Charlotte. “A child's administrative trail simply disappeared.”
In September 2025, Charlotte asked the VCA to view her adoption file. She opened a rudimentary folder, a jumble of typed documents and notes, hastily written on paper from a local plumbing supply store.
In it, she did find a birth certificate, but no ruling by a French judge that the child was allowed to cross the border. Elsewhere in the file, she came across the following passage:
“On Thursday 17/10, Iris rushed to France with X ('biological mother') on the advice of her gynecologist. 2 cm dilation, contractions, blood loss. Contractions stopped in France. Iris went home Thursday night. X maintains daily telephone contact with Iris.”
Excerpt from Charlotte's adoption archive. (© Archives of the Flemish Centre for Adoption)
Apache was able to review the file. The name Iris appears multiple times in the notes. There is no surname included, but that is not necessary. “The VCA employees knew immediately which Iris it was: Iris Vandeborre,” says Charlotte. “The employees seemed to be on friendly terms with her.”
Gewenst Kind - Amok was accredited by Kind en Gezin (today the agency Opgroeien, of which the VCA is a part) at the time of Charlotte's birth — something that then-director Jo Labens mentioned in his correspondence with the French hospital, seemingly as a kind of guarantee.
Gewenst Kind - Amok later merged—together with other domestic adoption services—into Adoptiehuis. Today, that is the only remaining domestic adoption service in Flanders.
Who was the director for many years? Iris Vandeborre.
Excerpt from Charlotte's adoption archive. (© Archives of the Flemish Centre for Adoption)
This raises an inevitable question: why exactly does the VCA rule that there are “too few connecting factors” in Charlotte’s file?
Is it a coincidence that this conclusion was reached regarding an adoption involving a service recognized by the VCA? And that the VCA is apparently on good terms with the woman who personally smuggled heavily pregnant women across the border?
Iris Vandenborre, former director of Vlaams Adoptiehuis: “We chose to help the women and break the anonymity with respect to the child.”
Jo Labens can no longer be asked for an explanation. He passed away in 2018. In 2011, he claimed in emails that he did not consider the adoptions via the French smuggling route as (illegal) anonymous adoptions, because Gewenst Kind - Amok kept all the data in the file, “so that both parties (biological mother and adopted child, ed.) can find each other without problems through our service.”
He also claimed not to know that the method was illegal, because he relied on what Sister Geert told him. As soon as he knew it was not legal, Gewenst Kind - Amok stopped.
Vandeborre remained in her post until her retirement in 2018. She admits that in the 1990s she drove to France with “about three pregnant women.” “It was their express wish not to appear on the birth certificate. They did not want their pregnancy to be known, because they expected serious consequences. Some even feared for their lives. They also wanted to safeguard their child’s future.”
According to her, the decision to give birth in France was always discussed in detail, and there was always a two-month reflection period after the birth.
We knew that pregnant women were also traveling to France on their own initiative, referred by organizations or doctors. Those children, who remained in France after an anonymous birth, did not have the opportunity at the time to receive information about their origins.
“We chose to help the women and break the anonymity with respect to the child,” she also says. “That is why we kept all records regarding their identity and circumstances, so that contact could be established later.”
Vandeborre emphasizes that, in her opinion, there is nothing illegal about assisting a woman in need. “I have no insight into the further legal procedure of the adoption, but the court has homologated the adoptions. I have also never brought children to Belgium.”
According to her, accompanying the women to France was always a last resort. “Neither I nor the rest of the team were at all happy with those deliveries. But sometimes there was absolutely no alternative. For the women, it was a stressful journey, especially after a grueling concealed pregnancy.”
She points out that Gewenst Kind campaigned for years in vain for a legal framework for discreet childbirth in Belgium. “A woman whose pregnancy puts her at risk still has no solution.”
Charlotte, adoptee: “When I see the attitude of the VCA staff, I get the impression that everyone is covering for Adoptiehuis.”
Charlotte is not impressed. “I really don’t think it’s okay that Gewenst Kind - Amok grew into the only accredited organization,” she says. “And that the same woman who smuggled pregnant women across the border was able to build up her reputation like this.”
It shows, she believes, how intertwined the interests are. Charlotte would find it more logical for a completely independent organization to investigate these types of cases, separate from the institutions that were themselves in the thick of it for decades.
Something is still bothering Charlotte. Just before her 18th birthday, she received a letter from Gewenst Kind, not long before that organization would merge into Adoptiehuis.
“Someone disappeared from your life 18 years ago,” the letter began. She was invited to meet her biological mother and accepted the invitation.
Later, when reading her file, she saw that Iris Vandeborre was a facilitator of that reunion. “That’s when I realized: by organizing that meeting, Gewenst Kind took a leap forward,” she says. “From the age of 18, I could otherwise have requested my file and opened the Pandora's box.”
Vandeborre disputes that. “Gewenst Kind never brought both parties together on its own initiative,” she says. “The adopted person was able to view the file from a young age.”
The VCA had already appointed an investigator to scrutinize questionable domestic files: Benoît Vermeerbergen. But he also worked as a genealogist and DNA expert for Adoptiehuis when Vandeborre was still in charge there.
In a public webinar, Vermeerbergen explained exactly how he intends to conduct the research. To Charlotte, who was following along, that sounded particularly defensive.
“He said: ‘I don’t look at the psychological, I don’t look at the legal. I just do an administrative check: are the right papers included?’ While the investigation was sold to us as an investigation into malpractices. For us, as adoptees, it goes much broader. It is those malpractices that have affected our lives,” says Charlotte.
She ultimately decided not to have her case investigated further. “When I see the attitude of the VCA employees, I get the impression that everyone is covering for Adoptiehuis.”
The VCA was supposed to scrutinize all those adoptions in the 1990s. Which they never did. Afterwards, the people responsible were given even more important positions in Flemish adoption organizations. It would be a double admission of guilt if they were to allow my adoption to be labeled as problematic or illegal.
Not voluntarily surrendered
Mamino** (33) from Brussels also hit a wall after she filed a report with the VCA. She was born in India in 1993 and came to Belgium in 1995. After her training in investigative journalism, she looked into her own adoption story.
She requested her file from her adoptive parents and discovered that the documents had ended up at Ray of Hope after the dissolution of the adoption agency De Vreugdezaaiers. With the collected material, she traveled to India.
The orphanage lied to her about that, she knows now. She had enlisted the help of the NGO Against Child Trafficking, and they were able to tell her that her family had never voluntarily given her up for adoption.
The adoptees describe contact with VCA as frustrating and often contradictory.
Her file does contain a declaration of relinquishment, signed with a thumbprint. But her father could neither read nor write and had “not the faintest clue” what was going on, she tells Apache.
“My birth parents worked in agriculture. As a two-year-old baby, I couldn't walk, which made it difficult for them to care for me. My family thought I was going to be cared for temporarily, not that they were giving me away.”
Her father visited her weekly at the orphanage until she suddenly disappeared. Because her father could not read or write, he could not search for his daughter. “The orphanage told him that they had sent me to school. And later that I had died.” A DNA test removed all doubt. For her, it is certain: her adoption was arranged illegally.
Criminal offenses not reported
Just like Charlotte, Mamina reported to the VCA after Crevits' appeal. Not to find her family; she had already found them herself.
“My file was riddled with contradictions,” she says. “I wanted to be at least an extra number in the statistics. And I hoped that those responsible for my adoption would be held accountable.”
She describes her contact with VCA as frustrating, a series of conflicting messages. “I continuously received different signals from the same team. One says: we have clear leads to conduct an investigation. The other: we don't need to find your family anymore, because you have already found them yourself.”
Mamina, adopted: “As an adopted person, you have questions about your identity from a young age. After filing a report with the authorities, you are once again not treated correctly.”
Staff changes didn't make things any better. “First I'm in contact with one person, then a few months later suddenly with someone else. If I have questions, suddenly it's a third person. And they all say different things. It's a mess.”
A government agency aware of criminal offenses that have not yet expired must report this to the Public Prosecutor's Office. This is also stated on the VCA's frequently asked questions page . In practice, this did not happen at Mamina.
“They know that my adoption was illegal, but they aren't doing anything about it. Those people literally told me: you have already done your own research, so you can go to court yourself. But in the meantime, my investigation is still with them. So what are they going to do with it? Nothing.”
One examination for all of India
Mamina also points out a blind spot specifically related to India. “I absolutely feel that the VCA does not know what it is doing,” she says.
They have appointed only one researcher for India. But that country is huge: every city has its own culture and language, and lower castes ( India has a unique class society where people often remain stuck in low or high classes for generations, ed .) are easy victims of such systems. You cannot treat that like an adoption from France to Belgium.
“As an adopted person, you have questions about your identity from a young age,” says Mamina. “Now you file a report with the government and are once again not treated correctly. That is extremely discouraging.”
She believes the VCA should not be responsible for such an investigation. “It is a case of cronyism. After all, the people from the adoption services, who were responsible for our illegal files, now work for the VCA. Surely that is not right?”
“I once asked one of the people I spoke to there that. The reaction: 'Yes, but they are on the other side of the hallway.'”
Pseudonym, real name known to the editors.
** Full name known to the editors.