The Last Day in Vietnam

This summer I volunteered to take care of mentally disabled children in Vietnam. The experience was unforgettable and I wrote about the feelings before I leave. I published the essay in our school magazine.

(I also designed the layout for this essay.)



The Last Day in Vietnam

At 5:50, the alarm clock rang. I turned off the fan near my bed and got up quietly. Paying attention not to disturb my sleeping roommates, I started my last day of working. I had to spend two hours on extremely crowded buses to Peace Village.

Damn. The water supply was off again. I was forced to use water in my water bottle to brush teeth and wash face, and then I went downstairs to have breakfast. Julie and Sam had already been in the dinning room trying the local fruit Longan. They were astonished when I told them that we called it “Dragon’s Eye” in Chinese. The same scenes were flashing around leaving no room for any sense of the imminent parting. After Yusuke finished his meal, we put on our masks as usual and went out.

To get to the bus station we walked along a long, rough, dusty and dangerous road dominated by hurtling trucks and motorcycles. Our legs became sallow and dirty like a gypsum statue. After a long time I got on the bus that was too crowded to close its door. In a flash I felt familiar. I had never been here, but I could perceive the reflection of my hometown 20 years ago.

It was the mentally disabled children in the Peace Village that made me feel at home most. The Peace Village provides care for over one hundred and ten second and third generation children who are victims of Agent Orange, an herbicide and defoliant used by the U.S. during the Vietnam War. Since on summer holiday no teaching curriculum was ongoing, I took my role to play with the kids to make them happy. I was in the top class, meaning the children were the least mentally disabled ones. Actually they chose me there. On the first day they grabbed my hands and pulled me in before I could react when I was passing by their classroom.  

Neither did they know that seven plus nine equals to nine plus seven nor could they use scissors to cut a plane geometric figure, but they were truly friendly and enthusiastic. They were not like the children taken care of by Shirley, my schoolmate who worked in the Friendship Village, where the kids bit her as if she was a teddy bear.

Today they welcomed me as usual. At first we practiced the dance taught by the local staff yesterday about walking around in the classroom and clapping hands. Then we sat together and did some handcraft. I taught some kids to fold lilies but after five minutes those who couldn’t concentrate left to play games. Tuor sat besides me and was learning earnestly, though we could only exchange gestures to communicate. His finger was always full of slaver and his face distorted when smiling, but he was the most patient. After nearly an hour following my guidance Tuor finished the flower and handed it to me. A gift, I supposed. I put the flower beneath my nose. There was no aromatic smell but of slaver and sweat, but I could smell love inside.

Kaung came to sit on my lap and kissed me. The 14-year-old girl called me mom the first day I arrived. I kissed her back and hugged her. Apparently my daughter didn’t know that her mom would leave the next day.

I began to swell with mawkishness. The walls of forests of buildings have blocked out friendship of people in the modern world. But those mentally disabled children, who are thus abandoned by the society, who couldn’t talk with me due to language barrier, who couldn’t talk with adults due to discrimination, developed close relationship with me in these several days. How could I tell them that I would leave the next day and we might never see each other in the rest of our lives?

In the afternoon I folded many paper love hearts for them. When I gave one to Dau he folded a ring as an exchange and insisted on putting it on my third finger. Wearing the ring I started to walk to the door to go back to the dorm. They crowded to the door and said “tạm biệt”, “thấy bạn vào ngày mai”(see you tomorrow) to me. I felt I was evil that I would probably leave them forever without informing them.

Squeezing on the bus and looking outside the window, I saw the troops of motorcycle rushing home in the crimson setting sun. By schedule I would arrive home in a few hours, but I suddenly felt that I was not going home but leaving. I turned on my camera to watch the video, in which the kids were laughing and making face. Then I realized that they were saying:

“I love you, mama.”