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