Forever Young

Last week, a boy age 21 showed up to the shelter. He struck me immediately. He is thin and wiry but on the taller side. He has a stunted mustache that gives him character. His eyes light up with curiosity when you talk to him. Any stranger could tell that this kid brings happiness to others with his energetic smile because on a face that young, those smile creases mean he's been eating up life.

Waiting for my Vietnamese lesson with Cha, I came over to him to welcome him. I admit, I was curious about him, because I've been conditioned to identify the new folks as the fearful looking ones who look at me like I'm another life form because I open my mouth and English flows out. We had a brisk but meaningful 10 minute conversation as I welcomed him to the shelter. There was something about him that I couldn't quite put my finger on, but I took an instant liking to him.

A couple hours later in the darkness enveloping our shelter, I walked out to the asphalt area to take in some evening air to think about my long, tiring, fulfilling day. After a few minutes, a cell phone light went off a few feet next to me and I realized I hadn't seen Hung, the young man, chilling out next to me. He smiled his infectious smile and handed me a can of Mr. Coffee and a pack of cigarettes from 7-eleven. In the darkness, as he handed me these items, I realized two thing. One, his hand was injured, missing 4 fingers. The large swollen area on his palm was from a skin graft. The doctor was luckily able to use skin from Hung's thigh to cover the area where a faulty machine had obliterated his hand. I hadn't noticed the injury earlier, because his shining personality had made it hard to notice anything else. The other epiphany which had stumped me earlier was that Hung reminded me of my own 21 year old brother, his demeanor, his smile, his zest for life...but mostly, his big heart. For the first time in Taiwan, I truly, deeply missed home -- the home that isn't a place, rather, the home that's made special by the people who fill your heart with laughter and fuzzy memories. I missed my family.and felt the distance of the oceans between us.

I asked Hung why he was giving me those items and he replied that one, I looked tired, and two, I could probably use a cigarette, a whole pack. In my mind I kept hearing, "But I just met you and you shouldn't be spending money on me." Instead, I insisted he should use the items for himself. He was adamant, "Don't worry about it. Money is money. One day you have it, the next day you don't. I see how much you help people here and I want to do something nice for you."

It was decided. It would have been crushing for him had I not accepted his gesture. I opened the Mr. Coffee and took in a generous gift from a boy I had known for only two hours, but I insisted that we smoke the pack together over the next week. He might have seen me tearing up, and I'm ok with that. We're all - here and overseas - suffering in some way. Feeling is part of the human condition, right? For some it's emotional. For this boy it's also physical, yet, in the midst of the chaos of my day this young man stepped into my life to remind me that the fountain of goodness, the well of caring in humans is inextinguishable. For that evening we were a couple of folks sharing our stories that brought us to Taiwan, missing our families, by the faint light of two cigarettes.

*Hung is a fictional name to protect confidentiality.
*Permission was given by man in photo for me to post it.
*Neither this writer nor VietACT endorse the use of cigarettes.

Made by Hand with Love

Dear Readers,

I apologize sincerely that it has been 21 days since my last post. The month started off with a program that staff and myself labored heavily on for Tet Trung Thu (Full Moon Autumn Festival, a Vietnamese holiday focused on children). There are many Vietnamese brides -- VNese women who marry TWese men usually to escape poverty or make money through the marriage and send the money to their needy families back in VN. In short, these women have sold themselves into some form of slavery or bondage in hopes for a better life. The prep involved two weeks of intensive planning, labor to make the many intricate star lanterns, and adhesive, lots and lots of adhesive. I just remember having sticky fingers, chasing down glue in the office, taping this, sticking something to that for days. I cannot emphasize enough that over 50 lanterns were made by hand with nothing more than poles of bamboo fresh out the ground, butcher knives, wire, and cellophane. One has to ask, with such clever, creative, industrious people, how severe living conditions must be in Vietnam that they are unable to survive and instead become entrenched in a system of compelled work overseas?

Over all, it was a hugely successful program and the first of its kind at the shelter. The TWese government, recognizing all the amazing work we do at the VWMBO, helped fund the program. It was a pleasure to help on a project that hopefully is helping the VNese brides retain some of their culture for their children and assist in community building among VNese in TW.

After working 8 days straight, I took a well deserved mini-break with my co-worker in Thailand, which is another reason you haven't heard from me for a bit. The very day we got back, we prepped for the next day's work in the detention center. Split between my activities in the DC and the VMWBO office, I haven't had time to sit and process, to write. I talked it over with myself and made a plan for carving out time to chronicle what has been going down over here. Much has happened. Thanks for sticking with me. I'll be in touch soon.

A mini preview: Thai adventures, teaching hip hop routines in the detention center, case of 5 women receiving big media attention at the shelter, typhoons, 12 new beds at the shelter, therapeutic discoveries, and unexpected goodbyes.

Eye Contact

A very kind man with a deformed hand at the shelter showed me a 5 minute video from inside the very factory where his hand was mangled in a metal working machine. The real live version in comparison with dramatization videos on human trafficking is, unfortunately, bleaker and more sobering. These women and men in this factory work in near dark conditions, save the dull glow of a light bulb at the station they are at as they make computer parts for shipments sent to the U.S., Hong Kong, the U.K. This man makes parts for inside air conditioners and other household appliances. The parts in this factory are mass produced on old machines, many of which are malfunctioning or broken, but the work must be done. And done around the clock to make a profit. This man was working 16 hours a day and due to exhaustion, failed remove his hand quickly enough to avoid it being processed by the machine. After the video, I looked at pictures of his hand. It looked as if a bomb has exploded inside of his hand. The doctors were able to graft skin from his thigh onto the missing section to join pieces of his remaining hand. His photo documentary of the entire process was startling. I forced myself to look at the graphic images because as I struggle to understand the ugliness of human nature, I need to stand face to face with it. This poem emerged from my two intact hands as I type...pensive, lost in thought.

Warfare
One day, there will be compassion in spaces
filled with the hollow sound of machines
grinding
to a steady rhythm of weary soldiers.

Weaponless soldiers armed only with an undeniable sense of duty.

One day, there will be laughter rolling through tall grasses,
off the back of water buffalo,
when families long separated are reunited.
Chopsticks clinking gently against rice bowls, of people together again.

No richer, maybe even sicker, but together again.

That day is not today.

Today my heart thuds heavily, but steadily...fiercely.
Today I am haunted by lost limbs, listless stares, weak smiles.
Today I have to chase Joy
Hound it like a wild dog
Bite into it to capture my prey, this Joy.
Fake it into being.
Today I simply have to believe.
Make Believe.

because On Some Days, belief seems like
a silly fairytale within a work of nonfiction.
On Some Days, Joy is a fleeting, wounded soldier in a field of wavering shadows.

*Photo by Steve McCurry

Bản đồ Việt Nam
Maps of Vietnam

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Creators of an Alternate Universe

Watching survivors create works of art that are solely theirs is a joy beyond words. The most unlikely individuals have emerged as genius artists. During art class about 10 of the 40 people here quietly get into the zone and before I know it I'm staring at an intricate dragon, a tree with delicate carvings and detail, a colorful animated monkey, a blooming flower breathing life and color onto a blank paper, a vibrant map of Vietnam. It's unbelievable to me that folks walk around with these images in their heads, this ability in their hands. How is it that they have been deemed by employers here as only good for hard manual labor or servitude? No, these folks are Creativity Warriors...graphic designers, artists, architects, computer engineers, geographers, writers, cartographers, creators.

Fate, destiny make such seemingly random choices for how our lives pan out.

I hope my excitement, enthusiasm, and pure joy is felt by my students through my yelps of surprise, ooing, aahing, and facial gestures mixed with the 3 descriptive Vietnamese phrases I know: extremely beautiful, very good, this is excellent and interesting.

Painting done by a man who is blind in one eye due to an accident that lacerated him clear across his hairline and wounded one of his legs severely. He says that because the bones in his calf didn't heal properly, when it rains outside he feels intense pain in that leg.

ART GALLERY UPDATE

Photos of shelter folks' art have been stacking up.
I promise myself that I will have them up at least by the end of the month.
Where does the time go?

* Survivor's painting of a pond with fish and lotus.

We Make a Way

What I love most about TW is the time I spend with the survivors at the shelter. Everyday I have many unique, beautiful, and inspiring moments with them. For most, I don't know the particulars of their stories. They are the keepers and owners of their stories, and if and when they want to share them with me they can. Decision-making and exercising choice are learned behaviors. What do we do? We spend time together. It's simple, yet infinitely meaningful. We cook together; do nails; they teach me about various plants and herbs; I show them how to dance to Lil Wayne. I find it unbelievably random how the various experiences I've had in the past 25 years collide with their worlds in the most meant-to-be ways.

For example, I was fortunate enough to have piano lessons in my childhood. I haven't played in years, but one of the survivors pulled me aside the other night. She is learning how to play. As I flipped through the sheet music, I was in disbelief that the Beatles song Oh Bla Di Oh Bla Da caught my eye. It was simple enough that I taught her how to play it. A few weeks ago, I had downloaded this very song to my computer. We listened to it so she could know how it should sound. Here she was with very little English, and me, with little Vietnamese, both belting out "Desmond has a barrow in the market place, Sally is a singer in the band!" Words cannot describe the joy within that moment of my life. Life is so random.

Last night, I went with two male survivors to A-Mart, a mini-mall/grocery store of sorts. One man lost his entire right leg in a factory that processed pig meat, the other lost the lower part of his leg in a factory producing steel and metalworks. Durian, the most magical tasting, pungent smelling fruit on the planet, is their favorite, so the three of us chilled outside the store eating one. It was work to devour this thing. It had so many packets of fruit inside it. I might actually be part durian now. The man without a leg has been in TW 7 years now. He has a wife and daughter in TW too, who visit him on the weekends at the shelter. He bought a bag of limes to give her this weekend when she visits. All these years, so much struggle and they still have romance. This man is a good man.

One of the female survivors approached me recently and said (in Vietnamese): "I want to help you with your Vietnamese. I remember what it was like to come to TW and know no Chinese. My employer yelled at us and none of us workers knew what he was saying. It was a frightening and confusing time. Later, I found I could ask other workers who knew Chinese to teach me a few things and little by little I finally know a lot of Chinese. Now I want to help you because I know how hard it is to be in that situation. Don't worry. We will help each other. Just come find me whenever you don't understand something." If this woman only knew how she changed my life in those 3 minutes. Where there appears to be no way, we find a way. We make a way.

It's no secret that my Vietnamese language fluency is limited. It's usually the first thing I say to any Vietnamese person I meet at home and abroad. For the first couple weeks I struggled and I continue to struggle, but with a little creativity and a desire to connect anything is possible. That's what language is, a tool to communicate and connect. There are plenty of people who speak the same language and fail to understand one another. Life here is teaching me how to communicate with people beyond any spoken language. I am full of gratitude.

*Photo: Sunset at beach in Danshuei, TW