Người Dân

Tonight I bathed to rid myself of the dirt, the filth of degradation and the stench of corruption. I bathed to find purity, to search for the innocence of the street children. I bathed in search of sanctity, for the Vietnamese women who lose their virginity to a stranger participating in the sex trade, not knowing that they've already lost their lives to HIV and drugs. I wanted to cleanse myself of the impurity, praying that their children be spared from the degradation.

Tonight I felt anger and hatred. I hate the backpacker bars, I hate the sixty-year-old men spending their life savings reliving their glory days with young Vietnamese prostitutes. I hate the people taking pictures of children dancing on pool tables and selling cigarettes. I hate the woman who forcefully pulled Hao and me in for a picture; she only did it because we're Vietnamese, even though we don't look at all like locals. I am angered by her ignorance, by my own degradation, by my own loss of dignity. I am no dog, I am no novelty. I hate the backpacker district, for every child and woman lost in the struggle for survival, for every man paid to keep his own people out of the nightclub.

They are no novelties, they are human beings. They are daughters and mothers, neighbors and friends. You, dear backpacker, may see a beautiful woman sitting by herself near the pool table, a prostitute waiting for work - another whore in the street. I see a woman lost to corruption and desperation. I see a single-mother coming home from work, I see a hungry child, I see the slums. I see a person, a human being dying of AIDS. I see exploitation and suffering.

I think of Thuy Cuc, Thuy Truc, Vi, and Thanh Thy. I think of the beautiful children who want to become doctors and teachers, I think about how much they deserve a voice in the world. I pray, oh I pray, that they will never have to suffer so. That they live as long as they can and receive the opportunities that we have. I pray that I never see them in a bar, sitting by a pool table. I pray I never see another three-year-old dancing at three in the morning to sell gum.

I stood in the shower, water running down my back, head in hands. The water of Vietnam cleansing me, the stench of cigarette smoke still in my nostrils. The cigarette burns a hole in my mind, a pockmark to remind me that scars never wash away.