Home Work

by Julie Andrews

  * * *

  Saw two orphanages today. The first was state-run and immaculately clean. They were obviously prepared for our visit; the children were in their Sunday clothes and on their best behavior. The second was for handicapped children. I will remember this place to my dying day. It was run-down, bleak, and there was no stimulation whatsoever—no color, no posters, no toys. I feel that the orphans there will never get out, let alone survive.

  All the children were on cots with wooden slats—no mattresses. They sleep on the hard wood and pee through to the stone floor. There were three kind-looking sisters who tried to clean, and to wipe noses and pus out of red inflamed eyes. The place was hopelessly understaffed. Some children have encephalitis, some polio, some are blind. They all have scabies. One child could no longer take nourishment. He had festering sores and never moved, just lay staring into space.

  There were children with terrible malformed limbs, legs twisted and curled. Madame Hua said they were birth defects from exposure to a toxic chemical—perhaps Agent Orange. There were some kids with so many problems that it made others with only one problem seem like the lucky ones. There are not enough cots, so they all share. They sat on the wooden slats and just stared at us. They had nothing to do, nothing to play with, nothing to look at—just nothing.

  I asked Madame Hua why, since they were so ill, they were in the worst surroundings. She said, “It is impossible to do it all. They need so much.” She said staff is difficult to find, and the sisters who do help are saints. Diseases spread so quickly, they can barely catch up.

  We were climbing into our car when I saw a little boy running around on all fours. A polio victim. It was as if his back had been snapped, and he will never be able to stand up. He looked at the world with his head cocked sideways, and upwards. It was simply unbearable.

  I felt guilty about having to leave. As I write this tonight, it is horrible to know that those children are all still there, on their hard cots, that the stench is just as bad, and that the little boy in the orphanage is one day nearer to death.

  * * *

  Came down with the “tourista” today. Madame said it was probably a microbe and gave me some medicine. The Cultural Minister called this evening in a panic. Unbeknownst to me, he had arranged tickets for our group to the “Foreigners’ Dance” and had promised people I would attend. They had all been expecting me and hoping I’d sing “Do Re Mi.”Could I please make an effort and go? I was so ill, there was just no way. I groaned and made my apologies.

  * * *

  I received a letter from the lady who keeps an eye on the street kids. She asked for my help in getting her and the children out. I’ll see if Mike Eiland can assist in any way.

  * * *

  Traveled to Phnom Penh, Cambodia. It must have once been charming, but it is now completely bombed out. During Pol Pot’s invasion, almost everything was destroyed. There are seldom any windows in buildings, and there is rubble everywhere.

  Our hotel is plain as plain can be, but the people running it are kind. A radio was playing as we came in. Amazing how subliminally soothing music can be. I thought of the handicapped children in the orphanage, and wondered if music could bring them any comfort.

  We visited another hotel where most of the aid agencies are based. Many jeeps and vans were neatly parked there, and their names lifted my spirits: World Vision, Red Cross, UNICEF, OxFam, World Health Organization. We met with the various agencies, and my poor brain tried hard to put two and two together. I flounder a lot while trying to look as though I’m intelligent and absorbing everything. There is so much to take in.

  We stopped off at the dental school where Glen will be working. Windows are non-existent or cracked. People are sleeping in the hallways. There were many boxes and parcels from OpCal. Glen will have to start from scratch, assembling donated dental chairs, and doing a lot of other difficult work.

  One of our companions at dinner tonight asked how I was doing. I got the impression she thinks I’m “Hollywood fragile,” and won’t last the pace. Walking home from the café reminded me of the London Blitz. Not a streetlamp was working, and only an occasional neon sign from a shop or a car headlight showed us the way. A rat scuttled out of some garbage. There are puddles everywhere. The children—always barefoot—wash their feet in the bigger puddles. There’s a lot of mud and garbage, and everywhere the smells of stagnant water, excrement and cooking oil.

  * * *

  Cannot write adequately about what we did today. We were taken for a tour of the Pol Pot prison and torture camp, now a museum of sorts. It had once been a school. During Pol Pot’s reign of terror, he had divided the rooms into small cells, barely big enough to hold a body. Prisoners there had been tortured in ways more hideous than I can describe. The grey, bleak buildings seem haunted by ghosts. I left with a sick heart, knowing that it was only three years ago that the place had been filled with such terrorized humanity.

  We then drove to Orphanage No. 4. I gasped as the car stopped and we got out. The structures look like abandoned storage buildings. Set into each outside wall, there are cubicles open to the elements. No doors, no matting, or weatherproofing—just three walls, a floor and a ceiling, and a bed. The children look dazed. Most of them work the land, such as it is. The place was crawling with ants that raced about and instantly swarmed over my shoes and up my jeans. I got in a bit of a panic and stomped about a lot.

  Our host was a man named Allen, from World Vision. When we first met him, he was up to his elbows in grease and sweat, trying to mend an ancient water pump. He was there all by himself, tackling whatever needed to be done.

  We met a teenage boy with one arm. The other had been shot off by a soldier, for sport. Another man had only one leg. Allen has an unflagging energy. He does not want any of the people there to think that he pities them, and he is profoundly compassionate.

  They grow some food at the orphanage, and there is a cow and a couple of wells for water. But the mud, the damp, the dreariness of it, the exposure to the elements, the ants, and I’m sure rats, make it a hellhole. No sheets, pillows or covers that I could see. No music. Nothing to make the quality of life any better.

  * * *

  The owners of our hotel invited Richard, Tony and me to dinner. Cambodians are not allowed to fraternize with foreigners, so their invitation put them in some danger. They spoke of the things they needed to help the hotel run better, such as towels and lightbulbs. I asked what their most special wish would be. The wife answered simply, “To be more free.”

  * * *

  We flew back to Bangkok today, via Saigon. Tony and I said a sad goodbye to Richard, who is staying in Vietnam to help Glen with the dentistry project. I delivered a package to Madame Hua from one of the aid agencies in Cambodia.

  Press were waiting at our hotel. I did my best to keep my replies to their questions very simple. I need time to gain perspective, and don’t wish to get into politics or offend.

  I’ve been agonizing over the decision to either go home tomorrow, or to stay an extra day and go with Mike Eiland to the refugee camps as he requested. I finally decided to honor his request.

  * * *

  Woke after a bad night with the worst stomach yet. I felt incredibly weak, and thought I was crazy to consider going to the border, but didn’t want to waste the opportunity, especially with Mike having gone to so much trouble. I took some medicine and ate a light breakfast.

  We departed in Mike’s tiny car; no room to move feet or lie down. It was pouring with rain. We stopped at his office, and I delivered the letter from the lady with the street children in Saigon. We traveled through rice paddy after rice paddy, and, thanks to the medication, despite the many bumps, bridges, and potholes along the way, I eventually began to feel slightly better.

  Mike explained the differences between the border camps we would be seeing—a Vietnamese camp, a Cambodian camp, and a U.N. Refugee Camp. There are curfews from 6 PM to 6 AM, and it is after the curfew that atrocities occur
. Guards take their pick of the women, and there are nightly raids by the Khmer Rouge, who steal, kidnap, and kill. Apparently the last 20 miles of a refugee’s journey to any camp is the hardest, because of the mines.

  As we neared our destination, we began to pass relief agency lorries parked in wired compounds, and warehouses where all the aid is stored. We drove for several more miles, lurching and bouncing on a rutted track with no signposts. How we didn’t get stuck in the mud I’ll never know.

  We passed several checkpoints, with ridiculously young-looking men in uniform, armed to the teeth. Finally, we drove under a wooden frame with a sign, and a few yards further on, we saw some pitiful looking straw huts tilting in the mud—bamboo structures, with thin walls and floors. This was the Cambodian refugee camp that contains about 50,000 people. We drove through it and into a smaller Vietnamese camp, set inside the larger Cambodian camp.

  I got out of the car and was introduced to the camp commander. Opposite his hut were row upon row of untidy-looking tents . . . dark, tattered, ragged pieces of material. As we began to walk in the thick mud, I caught a glimpse of the people packed inside each tent, with no room but for their own body space. Some were sitting, some lying listlessly, mothers nursing babies. I was told that they are not allowed to speak to or make contact with visitors. The camp was built for 700 people, and there are 2000 there at present.

  We passed the camp kitchens. The refugees are given rice and fish, and very little else. There were two water taps in deep, trampled mud. People are rationed to 12 liters per day. A naked little girl was washing a tiny child, soaping its hair from one bucket of water and rinsing with the other while checking carefully for lice. Clothes were hung out to dry on anything that would hold them.

  We entered a straw hut. There were three tiers of bunk beds packed with bodies—205 people. I felt ashamed to be looking in on their misery.

  It was about this time that I thought I was going to faint. The pressure of so much humanity jammed into such a small space, the crushing midday heat, the humidity, my stomach troubles. I had an awful vision of slumping into the mud in front of all these sad people.

  I sat on a bench and looked at the scene, trying to imprint it on my mind forever, wishing I could communicate it to someone, knowing that I was one of relatively few people in the world to have witnessed it.

  We then drove back to the larger Cambodian camp and visited the hospital there. It’s divided into two—one half is managed by Cambodians who prefer to practice their own medicine, the other half is staffed by relief agencies. There is no electricity, and doctors and nurses work by lantern light. Mike says these people, mostly volunteers, burn out pretty fast . . . usually after about three months. They seemed so glad that I was there. The fact that I had come all that way to see for myself was somehow meaningful for them.

  I began to realize that I should not be ashamed or shy to look at anyone, to observe how they were living. A smile for them was like a gift; our presence something to remember at the end of a miserable day. Perhaps there was some small hope that we could carry a message back to the world. I began to say “Hello!” and to wave to the children. The response was so enthusiastic it was heartbreaking.

  Finally, we moved on to the U.N. refugee camp. Here there were neat little thatched huts, divided in half; eight people per side. But the people are just as destitute, and it is desperately crowded in spite of the orderliness of the huts.

  Doctors and nurses from all nations work in the hospital there. There were a lot of people with limbs missing. A young man had tried to come in during the night and stepped on a mine. Part of his leg had been blown away and he had developed gas gangrene. What must he have been through during the night—in the agonizing time before he was found? What price freedom?

  It was getting dark. Curfew would be upon us in half an hour, and Mike wanted us to get on our way. We had a four-hour journey back to the city. On the way home, we talked non-stop. Mike tried to help me find the correct words for all we had seen—to properly represent it to the media. He suggested I stay non-political and deal only with the human dimension. He said to blame no-one, or everyone. I asked him where the buck stopped in terms of the problems in all three countries. He said, “It doesn’t ever stop. It just gets passed around and around.” He said that it’s foolish to believe that the global situation can be solved; the only answer is to do what you can, for whomever you can, whenever and wherever you can, piece by piece, bit by bit. Patch, and help, and do, and make people aware. Slow, painful work, with all too slow, painful results.

  I am so very glad we took the extra day and went to the border. If we hadn’t, we would never have seen the plight of the refugees. On the flight home, I thought a lot about my impressions and the things that I will forever remember. Not in any order:

  I’ll remember how impressed I was that people in South Vietnam still feel remotely friendly towards the Americans. I’ll remember the dirt, the mud, the heat, the humidity. I will forever remember the children—little ones, taking responsibility for tiny babies, heartbreakingly ill ones who will never see the world as Amelia and Joanna will see it. Feisty ones whose future is bleak and empty.

  I don’t understand why the world as an international body isn’t able to help more. The common denominator is human misery.

  The most important thing I have learned is the simplest of all: people are just people—no matter their politics, their skin color, or where they live. There is no difference in our humanity; only in our circumstances.

  * * *

  We landed in L.A., and within minutes my Blackie was beside me. We hugged long and silently. I think I wept.

  As we drove along the Pacific Coast Highway, the sea looked so beautiful, and fresh, and familiar. I had been so emotionally raw, so pried open by everything I had seen, and I suddenly had the deeply disturbing sensation of Vietnam and Cambodia slowly receding into memory. I felt ashamed, and made a promise to myself to always be vigilant, and to do all I could to help those in need.

  Amelia and Joanna rushed to greet me as we arrived. Jo was hopping from foot to foot, grinning and thrusting forward to hug me. Amelia was trying to contain her excitement and her smiles, but happily, not succeeding at all. I hugged them both fiercely.

  20

  WITHIN A FEW days of my return from Southeast Asia, I began to do television and print interviews about my experience there. I focused on three areas of concern, as Mike Eiland had advised: the plight of the Amerasian children, many of whom were abandoned or on the streets; the Cambodian and Vietnamese refugees in the Thai border camps; and the need for aid to Vietnam and Cambodia, to help them recover from the devastating effects of the war.

  The day before my birthday, I received a call from Connie Boll, a lady from the agency who had helped deliver Joanna to us. She was hoping I could reach out to the Speaker of the House, Tip O’Neill, to plead for the Amerasian Immigration Act, which was an attempt to provide a path for the thousands of Asian-born children of American servicemen to immigrate to the United States. The bill had been languishing for four years, but was potentially going before Congress the next day, just prior to their recess.

  I telephoned the Speaker’s office with trepidation. I had never lobbied or reached out to a government official before, and I was worried they might wonder what a British citizen was doing advocating for an American cause. But it seemed so important, after all I had seen, that I try to do something. The Speaker’s office suggested that I call New Jersey congressman Peter Rodino at 6:30 a.m. my time the next morning. When I reached him, the congressman was very kind, and spoke at length about his passion for the bill. He then referred me to another congressman, who referred me to someone else. I thought I was being given the runaround, but plodded ahead and made my pitch each time. To my disappointment, I was eventually told that the bill would not be going to the floor that day—they had too much else to focus on—but that it might be brought forward to a lame duck session in a month or so.

&
nbsp; However, at the end of the day, I received a wonderful surprise: a call from Congressman Rodino’s assistant, who said that Mr. Rodino had asked him to tell me that the bill had in fact come to the floor, had been passed, and was now on its way to the White House for President Reagan’s signature. I told Mr. Rodino’s assistant that he had given me the best birthday gift I could ever have wished for. Connie later phoned to convey her thanks, saying that my call had made the difference.

  My trip to Southeast Asia changed me on a profound level. Whereas before, my creative work seemed the most significant pursuit, now a heightened awareness of the basic human right to the essential elements of life—clean water, adequate nourishment, safe shelter—had given me a new sense of purpose.

  I TRAVELED TO New York to do some more press interviews, and to celebrate Emma’s twentieth birthday. To my joy, she presented me with a belated birthday gift from her. She had been taking voice lessons, and had recorded herself singing an enchanting song, entitled “Mama, a Rainbow,” by Larry Grossman and Hal Hackady. The lyric is about attempting to find a gift for one’s mother, and in the end realizing that the most meaningful offering is to hold to a vision of Mama, forever young and beautiful, in the mind’s eye.