For a long time I felt guilty for having received so much—for being born into a large, loving family where faith was woven into everything. A golden cradle, you might say. Then I read the Gospel passage: "To whom much has been given, much will be asked." I told myself: now it's time to give what you can.
I finished my studies in social work at twenty-one. Armed with my diploma, I felt the need to pause before diving into working life in France. I wanted to step outside Europe first, to see something different.
I didn't choose Vietnam, and I certainly didn't choose to work with disabled children. When I told MEP I was available for any placement and wanted to work with kids, that's what happened.
MEP was mostly looking for French teachers. I was lucky—just before I left, they offered me a split assignment: half my time teaching French to Vietnamese nuns, the other half at an orphanage.
Learning to See
When I arrived, the previous volunteers had just left. A nun who spoke halting French gave me the tour.
We ended in the children's room. I had tears in my eyes: iron beds, sparse decoration, children folded in on themselves, crying and shouting. I felt utterly alone. I did what I could—I spent long hours with each child, one by one. Pretty soon I stopped seeing their handicap. It was a very particular kind of experience.
When new volunteers arrived and cried in front of me, I couldn't understand their sadness, their pity for these children's fate. My whole way of seeing had shifted. My first reaction felt like it belonged to someone else.
Despite their physical or mental disabilities, I formed deep bonds with these children. Of about thirty kids, only Phat could walk with a walker and speak a little. There was Bao Minh, whom we helped walk using supports. And Phi Nam, who didn't speak at all, but you could sense a sharp mind at work. He understood so much, but his body was too damaged to let him express anything. So we developed a code: I'd ask him something in French, and he'd answer with a thumbs up for yes, thumbs down for no.
I remember Lai especially. He'd been abandoned at four years old. Blind and deeply traumatized. Skeletal, refusing food. I took him under my wing and found an approach I'm still proud of. Every time I came near him or left his side, I sang a song. For months I sang him "Au clair de la lune"! One morning, walking into the room, he heard my voice and started humming "Au clair de la lune"... That song became the sign of his well-being. It's a memory that still means everything to me.
We also learned we had to keep a certain distance—not get too attached, since we were only there for a year. A year was short, but long enough to see the children make progress, to watch them grow and improve within their own capacities. Learning to eat, for instance: Hien and Bao Minh at mealtimes were total chaos when I arrived!
A Lesson in Patience
Looking back, I think that year taught me patience above all else—though I still work on it every single day. Every morning the routine was the same: roll out the mats, get the children out of bed, settle some onto chairs, open the toy box, spoon-feed them. I'd stand there in front of one child for an hour, spoonful after spoonful. Sometimes I was tempted to ask one of the nurses to take over. Then I'd think: I'm here for them. If I, a volunteer, won't give this time, who will?
But beneath that routine was nothing but joy. Joy in the everyday. You can see it in the photographs. These children gave back so much happiness.
Priscilla, 2011
(Ombres et Lumière no. 179)