Blogging
From Abroad

I broke down in tears today. As the sun shined brightly in Vietnam, I wept at the sight of what it illuminated. I found myself in an orphanage this afternoon, and my expectations were far from the reality. I stood in an orange gated, colorful concrete structure with exotic fruit trees blossoming in the courtyard. A hand full of multi?level buildings surrounding me as I stand in the middle, taken by the place’s natural beauty.

Then I walked with my group of social workers from West Virginia and the volunteer translators into one of these buildings. Upon entering, we removed our shoes, a customary sign of respect. About a dozen severely disabled children were scattered around the room. The odor was lacking human excrement, citing a certain degree of care. Nonetheless, the situation was a unique one. I walked around talking to the children, the same way I talk to my friend’s kids. Many were unresponsive, but this one boy was smiling and laughing. He picked up a small pillow with his tiny hand and threw it at one of the girls in our group. He laughed from the heart. We smiled and encouraged him as he repeated this action again and again. Levity had been achieved in the situation.

This was promptly shattered as I exited to a comment from a colleague of mine. “You know why they are like this don’t you?” he questioned. “Victims of Agent Orange.”

The question was rhetorical but the answer was horrible; these lives had been destroyed as a result of a desperate war tactic. My heart slammed in my chest and eyes instantly teared behind my ESS combat sunshades. I stood shocked, unresponsive.

As I walked a few steps behind the group toward the next building, I thought about many things. I thought about my family who had to go into this war and its ugly modern cousin. I thought about the American Soldiers whose DNA was ruined as a result of this terrible man?made chemical. I thought about the sad fact that the toll of was is calculated by casualties and fatalities, rather than a look at all the lives affected by the inhuman sights a person sees in its course. How this measure neglects the affect that war has on a persons view of life and in turn their interactions with the world.

As I stood pondering these things, I felt ashamed for my government’s actions, which took place more than a decade before I was born. Amazingly, not one Vietnamiese person gave so much as a dirty look or made a comment. I felt what I felt was not a result of interpersonal pressure, it was a reflection of who I am.

As I sit in the city which served as the last stand of an unpopular war more than 20 years age, my demeanor is stoic. I have moved past my shame and sorrow into a position which is more productive; the journalist. I now remember just why I got into this game.

It was not to achieve minor accolades and pats on the back for cute features, but to serve as an ambassador between the truth and the knowledge seeking people. I am here to suffer first person hardships to tell everyone what is really happening in our world, and to remind those who may have forgotten. I now feel confident, and have remembered just why I came. Through each stress comes growth, and there is never a hardship without a gift in its hand. It is all about recognizing that gift, and using it as it was intended to be.

~Robert Rizzuto