Farewell To My Four Year Old Teacher

This morning I received an email from a friend in Viet Nam, Dr. Thuy Pham Thi,  pediatrician of Peace Village. She wrote to let me know that in early July a viral infection caused many of the children to become very ill. Several of them were taken to a special children's hospital in Saigon for intensive care. One little girl was not strong enough to fight the illness and she quietly transitioned from this realm.

Her name is Ngoc Houng and she was four.

This news leaves me very sad, but also with a deep desire to share what I remember about Houng.  I want to bring her out of Peace Village and into your heart, so you can know her and love her with me. I want her life to matter, because inside her broken little body lived a most amazing spirit!

Houng had an enlarged head due to hydrocephalus, webbed fingers and toes, and a weakened heart caused by ancestral exposure to Agent Orange. Her family was from an area of Viet Nam where large amounts of the toxin had been blanketed on the land and its people sometime between 1961 - 1971.  They were very poor and when she was born "different" they knew they would be unable to provide the care she'd need, so they left her at the orphanage as a newborn. Her trip to the hospital in early July was the first and final time she had ever been outside.

When I met Houng in 2012 she was just beginning to take her first steps using a walker, despite Drs. predictions that she was not capable of learning to walk.  When I returned in 2013, we enjoyed many strolls down the long corridor together. I would stand just behind her and she'd wrap both of her little webbed hands tightly around my fingers. With complete presence and focus we would set out together on our walking meditation. She set the pace, each step another silent success. Houng wasn't able to speak, yet her spirit communicated volumes about the joy she felt at her accomplishments.

Houng loved being out of her crib and often sat in the doorway of room 2 lining up the nurses shoes which were left just outside the door. Although she wasn't always confident enough to join in, she enjoyed watching the hallway action from the sidelines. It was easy to recognize that she was a child at peace.

I found myself very drawn to her, and she became a teacher for me. I was in awe of her gentle presence, quiet fortitude and fierce grace. She helped me to see that when we continue to move forward from our internal core source of strength, one step or one breath at a time, we can accomplish the unthinkable.

Very appropriately, the shirt she's wearing in the picture below says SUPERHERO!  I took it on my last day at Peace Village, just before saying goodbye.

So farewell, my four year old teacher, you will always be my superhero!

Warriors of Peace

It's been about 4 months since I tearfully bid farewell to the children of Peace Village, and not a day has gone by when I haven't thought of those bright spirits. Some times they are as much a part of me as my own breath and other times the veil thickens and I'm faced with the reality that details fade with time as naturally as the Earth turns. Still, these children who were robbed by a war which ended long before their conception remain my teachers each and every day.



This past weekend I met 14 new teachers during a Warrior Songs Creative Arts Retreat for veterans.  at a wonderful Quaker retreat center near Philadelphia called Pendle Hill. Men and women, representing many wars, and all branches of service risked stepping outside their well crafted bunkers of isolation and pain, several for the first time in years. Some arrived cautiously, not trusting and some came wearing extra armor to protect their broken hearts. Others arrived more sure footed and eager to take their next step in healing.



Together they created a beautiful, community of unconditional presence and love, strong enough to hold an ocean of memories. Rooted in truth and trust, the bond was tough enough to withstand reenactments of battles - both public and private, yet tender enough to hold tidal waves of tears, and at times even intoxicating laughter. Authentic and raw, stories were heard, held and honored, as a backdrop to friendships being born.



These veterans of war and the children of Peace Village may not seem to have much in common. But for me they do. They are stuck yet determined, vulnerable yet strong, tender yet fierce, tired yet resilient. They are warriors of peace whose bones know what war does. They are courageous. They are my teachers.

Reflections From Home

Our cultural perspectives become so much a part of who we are that trying to detect or separate from them is like attempting to dissect water. It's as if we've been raised wearing a pair of prescribed lenses, specific to our surroundings which brings all of life into focus. Although we usually have no idea we're even wearing these lenses, we use them to size up and navigate our way through almost every situation we encounter.

So entering the Vietnamese culture felt a bit like arriving on a planet where the lens prescription was very different then the one I'd grown accustomed to. I saw things being done that seemed confusing and at first didn't make sense. I caught myself flirting with the natural tendency to judge, assuming that I knew the more practical, healthy or efficient way to proceed. When in reality, the Vietnamese people have evolved and adapted in beautiful ways, efficient and well suited to their particular needs, customs and circumstances.

Speaking very little Vietnamese created a sense of isolation during my time at Peace Village. Opportunities to ask questions, receive in depth information or explain myself were rare and involved the investment of much time and energy.

Understanding very little of what was being said around me provided fertile ground to exercise introspection and self reflection, and to discover that there are many ways to listen. I developed a deeper trust in my own intuition and learned to read cues that came in the moment by moment unfolding of events around me. And when fear showed up and an inner voice whispered "I shouldn't be here" I answered "Of course I should be here because this is exactly where I am."

While at Peace Village, I often needed to remind myself to remove my Western world lenses and let go of the familiar. But I also became aware of several changes on administrative and staff levels that occurred during the past year which have a significant impact on the children in ways that continue to weigh on my heart.

So I'm home now, but very mindful that my journey continues, as I sort out the degree to which my cultural perspective may be blurring my vision, and wrestle with what my role will be in using my voice and experience to advocate on the children's behalf.

While I have great respect for cultural differences, there are some things that remain universal...and in my own heart and mind the care and treatment of children is one that knows no boundaries.

I'd also like to mention that I'm deeply grateful for the amazing generosity of those who continue to give to the children's surgery project, which will continue throughout the year. Thank you so much!

Letter to the Children of Peace Village

Even though they share almost everything, it doesn't take long to spot the very unique personalities of each child living in Peace Village. Who they are as individuals sparkles through the predominate feature of conformity like rays from the sun outshine the clouds. If it were possible, I'd write a letter to each child sharing who I've come to know them to be. But in the letter below, I share my general reflections on them as a whole.

This will be my final post from Viet Nam. I want to express my deep appreciation for your support throughout this journey. Your presence along the way has helped deepen my experience over and over again! Thank you for reading the posts, responding with emails and comments and especially for caring about the children.
With Love, from Viet Nam! Paula

To the children of Peace Village,

Your creativity never ceases to surprise me as you entertain yourselves and each other having races and making up games with no toys or props. You've taught me a pair of socks easily becomes a ball, and how to make a human caterpillar. While some of you are the planners and instigators, and others of you the bystanders and cheerleaders, collectively you have extraordinarily developed imaginations. Your communal laughter literally sounds like an orchestra!

I also recognize the glaze of disappointment wash over you as unfair outcomes unfold. You seem to have a fine tuned awareness of the difference between the things you can and cannot change, knowing intimately the gift of "letting go" and moving on. You are a resilient bunch!

It's heartwarming seeing some of you take on parental responsibilities of checking in and caring for younger ones. I love watching Hip, in the role of father, lining many of you up on plastic chairs in the hallway several times a day, yelling the names of the no shows, until he's sure everyone is accounted for. You are clearly a family!

When there are disagreements and when wrestling matches get out of hand and someone gets hurt, you are quick to forgive, forget and move on. You seem to have figured out that carrying a grudge only makes your own load heavier.

Your fierce determination to overcome obstacles and break through barriers of physical limitations is beyond comprehension. You walk when they said you'd never stand on your own, scream at the top of your lungs when life needs to be screamed about, and untie intricate knots with your toes to set yourselves free! You restore my hope in the natural life force that lies at the core of each of us.

And to those of you who spend day in and day out unable to move and totally reliant on the care of others, I wish there was a way to let you know that I recognize and honor you first and foremost as a human being. But I also see your suffering. Looking into your eyes, I feel heartbroken and helpless, like the greatest burden of war has somehow landed squarely on your shoulders. I feel small, humbled and in awe of your endurance. You live moment by moment, breath by breath. I bow to you.

And to all of you.....Even though I catch myself from time to time dreaming about who you might have been had dioxin not radically disrupted your life trajectory, mostly I simply marvel at who you are.

I love each and every one of you.....

Offering Hope

A second, and separate project I'm involved with here is funding reconstructive surgeries for children born with physical abnormalities through a very reputable organization called Vietnam Association for Victims of Agent Orange.

Last year when the project began the cost of a surgery was $500. Many of you generously contributed and during the course of 2012 we funded surgeries for 13  children.

The generosity continues to flow, and last week we delivered another $2,500.

During a recent meeting with officials from VAVA I learned that the cost per surgery has risen to between $1,200 - $1,600. The increase is due to several factors. First, the cost for surgery has indeed risen, and secondly VAVA has found it important to add the cost of post surgery rehabilitation to the amount. Follow up therapy is crucial for maximizing strength and increasing long term success.

The children are from very poor families who live in remote areas outside of Ho Chi Minh City. Some must travel quite a distance by bus to receive the surgery. Costs to house and feed family members so that they can remain near the child throughout the process is also now included in the price per surgery, as incomes for most of these families covers only day to day survival.

The goal of the surgery project is to help each child become as independent and self reliant as possible so that they can grow up to lead productive, independent lives.

Today I had the privilege of meeting 16 children and their families for whom VAVA hopes to provide surgeries in 2013. They ranged in age from 4 to 21. Surgeries will repair feet, hands, ears, eyes and improve breathing.

I was asked to address the gathering and standing before the children and their parents, looking into their eyes I saw suffering. I shared my awareness of their concern, and heartbreak. Through tears, I offered a public apology for my country's choice to spray dioxin on their people and land, eventually effecting each person in that room in a very personal and significant way. Heads nodded and facial expressions visibly softened hearing those words. I then explained that the money for surgery comes from many US citizens who deeply care and want to offer hope and reparation.

If you'd like to contribute toward the goal of 20 surgeries in 2013, there are several ways to do that. You can send a check made out to me, Paula Griffin, with "Children's Surgery" in the memo, to 1437 Dean St. Niskayuna, NY 12309. It will be deposited into a special account and a wire transfer will be made directly to the VAVA surgery account. Or if you'd like a tax deductible letter, you can make the check payable to CORE Viet Nam, with "Children's Surgery" in the memo and mail to John Fisher at 4303 Old Kings Hwy, Murrells Inlet, SC 29576 and John will send you a tax deduction letter of receipt from CORE, his new non profit organization.

Either way, you will receive a receipt and certificate of appreciation from VAVA after your gift has been processed.

Thank you for caring about these children and there families!

War is Not the Answer

There is no medication or surgery or miracle that will ever allow these children to have what most of us imagine to be a "normal" life. There will be no softness of a parent's touch, no milestones celebrated, no choices made, no personal space or belongings, no variation in food or surroundings. Many never have or ever will see the sky or feel the wind.

These wounds of war will never heal.

Being in the midst of such suffering can bring on what feels like an ocean of sadness. It's in our nature to flinch, to turn away and to replace feelings with thoughts. We often find ourselves using words to sooth ourselves through rationalizations, rather then risk feeling too much and loosing our footing to the undertow.

A paradox perhaps, but in surrendering and allowing ourselves to be carried to the depths, we just may find the place that holds our deepest healing.

Maybe peace comes when we are able to accept that there are far more questions here then there will ever be answers. Maybe when we realize that while these children manifest the physical wounds of war, the spiritual wounds are imprinted on each and every one of us, as members of the human family.

And when we dive deep enough to recognize the gifts that lie within the distorted DNA that makes these children uniquely who they are, we see that they are messengers of hope. They teach us forgiveness, resilience, presence and unconditional love.

And they remind us that war is never the answer.

Grateful for another day in Room 1

My work day begins at 7:30 AM as I climb the wide and winding stairway to the 3rd floor of the TuDu Hospital. Nearing the top, familiar sounds and smells remind me where I am, and why I've come. I smile, grateful for the gift of another day in Room 1, home to 8 children ranging in age from 3-7.

A portable table tub is rolled into the room and each body is bathed, every head of hair lathered and rinsed, teeth are brushed, beds are stripped, disinfected and remade. Fresh towels, clothes and diapers are laid out, ready to receive the precious little bodies who form a most unique family - the children of Peace Village.

I've developed a little ritual around my daily task of preparing the beds. These 3' by 5' cribs are the only personal space each child knows. It's their vantage point from where they view the world, it's where they retreat to when they're sad, and where they're put when they are punished and it's where they dream their dreams. These cribs are sacred space! So I imagine a smudging ceremony as I clean each vinyl mattress, wiping away anything that stands in the way of these children becoming all they were born to be and clearing space for beginning a new day. Fitting the four corners of the light blue sheet over the mattress, I offer words of hope and blessings for each child. Eight times.

The only furniture in the room are eight small metal cribs, a metal cabinet which holds clothing and diapers, and a deep metal sink, so we spend most of the day sitting and playing on the floor. Personal belongings don't exist, even clothing is shared. Every once in a while a stray toy appears, but most of the time it's just person to person contact and interaction. Older children from other rooms come into check on the younger ones, to bring them treats, and occasionally to start trouble. Universal characteristics of childhood are alive and well as imaginations run wild, games are invented, songs are sung, wrestling matches break out, feelings get hurt, tantrums are thrown, tears are shed and the giggles are gotten. Kids being kids!

About 10 AM rolling carts holding big pots of food arrive from the hospital kitchen. Meals consist of a bowl of pureed food per child. Several children are learning to feed themselves, and the others are spoon fed. Severe medical issues confine two children in Room 1 to their beds and they receive liquid nourishment through tubes.

Everyone sleeps from around 11 AM -1 PM. The children in their cribs, and nurses on mats on the floor.

I've been spending some time each afternoon with the older kids who hang out in the wide hallway, one side of which is large open air windows looking down on a busy clinic.  There is only 1 wheel chair which is used to transport kids to appointments. So those who have no legs or on use of their legs use plastic chairs to scoot around on, and they are masters at maneuvering. There's always a small group who line up to watch cartoons on the TV that hangs from the ceiling. It doesn't take long to learn the personalities, quirks and gifts unique to each child.

The second meal arrives around 3 PM. After all the children are fed and settled back into their cribs, I make my rounds to each child saying good bye until tomorrow. Then I head home. Filled to the brim,
and grateful for another day in Room 1.

Welcome Anger

Being reunited with the children and staff at Peace Village was wonderful, but being reintroduced to the reality of how war continues to inflict suffering on children 30 - 40 years later is painful. I appreciate that this blog helps to deepen my experience and keeps me connected, but truthfully, there hasn't been much energy at the end of each day for writing, so it's  a slower process than I'd imagined. Thank you for bearing with me.

Anger has become my almost constant companion and she shows up frequently. Her hands weigh a ton as she places them on my shoulders when I stand beside the bed of a child who's head is swollen to more than 10 times the normal size. And she deposits a lump squarely in the middle of  my throat, making it difficult for me to swallow, as I spoon gruel into the mouth of a child who has no eyes.  She stings my eyes as I fight to hold back tears when the boy whose skin resembles the bark of a tree scoots his chair beside me and engages in piercing eye contact. And she lights a fire in my chest when I notice the adolescent girl whose body is beginning to grow breasts, but is incapable of ever growing arms.

So I've decided to befriend my Anger, knowing that she's real and was conceived and born out of truth. My truth.

And my truth tells me that it is wrong that the leadership of my country used it's most brilliant and talented minds to concoct the deadliest combinations of chemicals known to man. And then proceeded to spray more than 20,000,000 gallons of the substance mixed with jet fuel over the homeland of these children's ancestors. My truth tells me that a huge injustice will remain until the day the United States government and the chemical companies who manufactured  this deadly toxin step up to the plate, claim their own truth, and provide restitution. And my truth tells me that the responsibility has been misplaced onto the souls of American veterans who were forced to carry out these atrocities and have suffered years of torment, guilt and shame for simply doing what they were ordered to do.

To deny or engage Anger would only create more turmoil and conflict.... Allowing her to perpetuate war within myself. But by making her my ally she works with me. Instead of zapping my energy, she fuels my fire of inner knowing. She makes me even more certain that we are one human family capable of working together for peace - the best and the brilliant, hand in hand with the last and the least.

The first step for me is inner peace.

So.....Welcome my friend Anger. We're in this together!

Half A World Away

Here I am half way around the world with half a day difference in clock time between VN and my home in NY.  I always manage to forget just how long the trip takes. And I can never quite wrap my head around the fact that the US government sent more than 2 million men and women, plus all the helicopters, tanks, weaponry and supplies this distance to sustain 10 years of what is known here as the American War.

So I've settled into my little $10 a day room, with a view of the rooftops of Saigon, rested and ready to see my friends at Peace Village tomorrow. I find myself wondering if some of the children who were there last year might be gone now. The severity of their medical conditions precludes the option of adoption for most. So I realize that those who are missing will have most likely passed from this physical realm at some point in time during the 330 days while I was...half a world away.

Ironing

Two days until I leave home for a month. Waves of uneasiness come and go, making their way throughout my body. But in my heart I know I'm ready.

Yesterday I bought some very cute little clothes for the children in Peace Village. It was fun picking them out, imagining who might wear what. I brought them home and washed them, laughing to myself as I tried to remember how many years have passed since the inside of my washing machine had seen clothes that size.

And then I ironed them, knowing full well that taking the time to iron wasn't practical. There were so many other things I needed to be doing to prepare, and the wrinkles would surely return and multiply during the 9,000 mile journey. But I ironed them anyway, with as much care as I would when ironing for my own children. That's when my innermost knowing showed up reminding me that we are one human family, and that these are my children.

As the iron glided, and the wrinkles vanished, I fantasized about being able to remove the children's disfigurements and deformities with the same ease. And I found myself wondering about the little arms and legs that would soon be filling the fabric.

Thread crossing thread. Interwoven to create one piece. One peace.