A Picture Of Contentment — page 2

I assumed she had a story for me. The Hmong knew our time in the camp was limited and, once word had spread that we had not come to rescue them, they were desperate to give us the tales of their struggles in the hope that the world beyond this jungle would remember them and acknowledge their existence. But Xiong Yang had no story for me. My interpreter said she wanted to know whether it was true, as the other villagers were saying, that I carried with me proof of paradise, the mythical kingdom: "I have heard you have a picture. I would like to see it."

It was the photograph I had carried in my wallet since I first arrived in Asia from Australia in 1997, a snapshot from a weekend walk with my wife along a Sydney beach. Often, when I was far from home in a foreign place, I would take it out and remember that I was not alone, that I was loved, that I was in love. That picture was almost a charm. It could open doors, loosen tight lips, defuse threats. I had shown it to soldiers with guns in Indonesia, to street thugs in Manila, even to my landlady in Taiwan. The men ogled, and I was one of the boys; the women were happy I was married.

But the Hmong saw something else in the picture. They saw hope. Here was proof not just of a better life, but proof of life itself. Many of them knew nothing except suffering followed by death. Weddings and births—the rituals celebrated in every culture—were not marked here. Only death was recorded, in a thick black book meticulously kept by the camp's commander. The women had given up embroidering stories of paradise long before I had arrived. They lived in a place where hope itself had become too painful.

I hesitated to show her the picture. The previous night I had shown it to other villagers and, for the briefest of moments, their eyes lit up. That look haunted me, and haunts me still. I knew I would soon leave and most likely never be back. I knew our stories and pictures would draw attention to their plight, but still they would remain trapped in the jungle, dying in droves. Would belief in a better place bring Xiong Yang comfort, or merely add to her suffering?

Xiong Yang was persistent: "I would like to see it." She stared at the picture, impassive. Then she smiled: "I never knew that anyone could be so happy and peaceful. Is this paradise?"

"What is paradise?" I asked.

"The place you come from, where people are happy."

"Then, yes, it is paradise," I said. "Take it. Please. It's yours."

She tucked it carefully into the sling that held her grandchild to her back. I had heard that the son who fathered this child had recently been killed in a mortar attack, and that he was the sixth and last of her children to die. I started to ask her about it. The smile disappeared. Slowly, sadly, she turned and walked away.

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Aug. 18, 2004	Aug. 19, 2003	Aug. 20, 2003