Day Five

     Bright and early the next morning Davida rousts me out and we're on our way to Mai Rut , the southernmost camp in Thailand . She seems in a hurry to get away from the hotel and later confides to me that she was witness there a few months earlier to a brutal murder committed by the police. It was, as she describes it, a terrifying experience and one not easily forgotten.

    At Mai Rut just after breakfast we meet two more CONCERN volunteers, young women who are again veterans of Bangladesh . The determination and strength necessary for this kind of work is difficult for me to comprehend, and is much more so when coupled with such grace and gentleness. Margaret and Cora show us around the compound to the sewing workshop where they teach the people how to make some basic items of wearing apparel. A large company has offered a number of sewing machines for the program but they again were refused as being irrelevant to the experience of these people's lives. And again I'm impressed with the good will of their clients. Seeing this attitude in people who have lived through what they have is enough to make one fairly full with an appreciation of the durability of the human spirit. 

After a brief tour of the area and a special look at the condition of the toilets that Davida found to be unsatisfactory on her last visit, we are shown the new camp. The old camp, behind us, houses 4,000 Khmer Rouge. The new camp, before us, has 3,000 Khmer Serai. The two groups are again separated, this time by a distance of about 1/4 mile. Here again I notice the difference in the dress. Also, there seems to have been more effort put into landscaping the new camp. The residents have attempted to grow vegetables in rows between the huts that, while bamboo, are longer than the ones at Khao I Dang and divided into cubicles, more on the order of Kamput. The children's area where we are taken is gaily decorated with paper streamers and artwork, and we're greeted joyfully by the young people of this particular unit. They're about to leave for the beach, which is only a short distance away, but before they go they treat us to a round of Khmer songs and dances, an elegant affair with slow graceful hand movements somewhat reminiscent of Hawaiian dancing. The children crowd around when they learn that I am from America . While few of them speak English they attach themselves to me in that open way children have and there's very little doubt about what their vision of paradise would be.

    As we leave the children's area Davida gives some last-minute instructions regarding unnecessary immunizations. She feels that the children are subjected to too much medication for no apparent purpose other than to ease the anxieties of some of the western doctors associated with other organizations. She's an amazing woman. It's incredible to see her in action and get an impression of the depth of her commitment here, as well as the respect with which she is regarded. Add together her fear of mines, her lack of ease with snakes and crawly things and her willingness to live under these conditions for months on end and her dedication to the ideal of even-handed, caring and abundant medical attention to those in need, and you come up a pretty impressive package.

    After a round of "Hello, OK, Bye-Bye" we head back to the car and make for Bangkok where we have to catch a plane for Ireland . As we speed along the highway (my heart in my mouth a few times at the near misses) I try again to assimilate the paradoxes in what I have seen and experienced. A land of wealth and poverty, tumbledown shacks and ornate temples, motorcycles and ox carts, sudden violence and calm acceptance, intense heat and air conditioning. What the hell, I realize, it sounds like America !

    A quick shower and meal at Ciunas' apartment and we're off through the hurly-burly traffic of downtown Bangkok to the airport.

    Stepping back into the time capsule, this with a French speaking crew, I look around, hoping for room to stretch out and get some rest after the mad dash of the last few days. No luck, the plane is full. The flight, I'm told, is taking us to Paris by way of Dacca , Bangladesh (appropriately enough after all I've been hearing about it) and Dubai in the United Arab Emirates . That's what they say. I have my own feelings about whether or not any of this is actually happening.

    The trip is a blur of ups and downs, some of them scary. Landing in Bangladesh is the same as landing anywhere except they tell you this is Bangladesh . The people who get on are very Indian looking with their saris and caste marks in evidence. Ongoing passengers are "invited" to stay aboard (read required) and it seems to be only an hour or so before we're airborne again. Just before we leave there is a brief mention of the force of the wind. Davida says that we are, as was evidenced by the rain in Thailand , at the beginning of the monsoon season. As we take off the meaning of that term becomes vividly clear in a sickening series of sudden lurchings and swayings that impress upon me in no uncertain terms that what I think of as this huge aircraft is hardly an afterthought considering the forces outside. Finally with the full force of every muscle in my body I succeed in pulling the plane above the storm and fall into an uncomfortable stupor.

    The seat belt announcement tells us we are heading into Dubai and once we stop moving, Davida and I decide to take the opportunity to look. It is airport again, the only difference being that some of these people are wearing flowing robes and burnooses. A fully robed and veiled woman waiting for her man to awaken from his nap sits in sharp contrast to the slack-clad, westernized woman next to her. The view out of the window, other than airplanes, is of vast black emptiness. Desert. The sight of another man looking every bit as if he just climbed off a camel, yet carrying a brightly polished leather briefcase catches the eye. Words like "oil" and "money" flash through my mind.

    The pilot's voice tries to convince us that we're flying over places like Yugoslavia . Later Davida points out the window at what must be the Alps . We begin the descent and come to a halt in Paris . I want to laugh at this whole idea.

 

  Days six, seven

    Airport in Paris . Cigarette butts all over the floor because of a maintenance workers' strike. Change planes and off to London . Airport again. Irish Airlines this time, and off to Cork after a careful check to make sure we aren't carrying any explosives. Up and down and out the door to waiting friendly faces. And the press. To think on my feet is difficult enough at this time, to answer questions isn't possible. How was it? What are my impressions? I really don't think I can make any sense out of it all. The only thing I have any real awareness of is the fact that the air is actually cool on my skin.

   The CONCERN Conference on Refugees is held at Cork University and is addressed by medical experts, technicians who have been in the field, Father Aengus Finucane in from Thailand , his brother Father Jack Finucane in from Bangladesh , two people from the United Nations High Commission on Refugees and Sean MacBride, Nobel Peace Prize winner and founder of Amnesty International. It is a very high-powered gathering wherein a lot of people put out a lot of information. The refugee situation in today's world is not going to go away. The United Nations and the international voluntary agencies have no magic wand to wave over the situation and clear it up. As a matter of fact the political contest within the UN makes it subject to the whim of the meanest, most small-minded considerations of some of its member countries. The ultimate fact is that the flood of refugees from Kampuchea , Viet Nam , Bangladesh , Uganda , Somalia , Tanzania , Ethiopia , and on and on will grow larger in the 1980's. It is a political question. Refugees are refugees as a result of political acts and political decisions and until the civilized world becomes a civilized world there will be more of them all the time.

   The answer, if there in fact is one, seems to lie in the willingness of people who care to continue to demonstrate that care by supporting the extension of humanitarian aid to those in need. Some do it by giving dollars and cents. Others do it by sharing information and expertise. Yet others do it by giving their time. And Davida and Gus and Ciunas and Robin and Mary and Mary and Mary and Dave and Margaret and Cora and Joan do it by giving themselves.

    The conference over, the message having been sent, Davida and I share another flight to London , this time with Sean MacBride who is on his way to a UNESCO conference in Paris , and with the two UNHCR representatives, Harri Brassimi and Jack Cuneau who are on their way to Geneva . Davida and I are able to do a little personal lobbying regarding the question of the Thai military forcing Khmer Rouge refugees to take birth control shots and Ms. Brassimi promises to take a careful look at the situation.

    Sean MacBride's words stay with me. It is not usually the case, he indicates, that governments and government officials take the first courageous steps to correct an injustice. It is the concerned individual citizens of the world who must point the way and, having done that, it is up to the rest of us to build the most powerful force in the world, the force of public opinion, to follow in their path.
 
Day eight

The flight from London to Los Angeles is a piece of cake. Local time when we land is announced as 5:55 PM Sunday, June 1, 1980. My watch is right on the button. Life, for some of us at least, goes on.

   

 

page 4 of 4