Written with Sam Weston and Ashleigh Whittaker.
A look into the lives and smiles of the people of Vietnam and Cambodia in 2015
Chapter One: Light in Dark Places
Vietnam, 1955-1975: Up to 2 million Vietnamese civilians die during the Vietnam War.
Cambodia, 1970-1975: Between 1.7 and 2.5 million Cambodians die during the Pol Pot-led Khmer regime, known as the Khmer Rouge.
Thirty years on, these two neighbouring nations continue rebuilding from two of the 20th century's most destructive conflicts. Remarkably, Vietnam was named the second happiest country in the world in a recent study. And in Cambodia, virtually an entire generation is eerily missing- but its young generations are upward bound, refusing to dwell on the past. Instead, they are pushing relentlessly to develop their country.
For outsiders, it is scarcely fathomable how a country can overcome such horrific histories to prosper once more. The conflicts loom over the two, spectre-like, but from Hanoi to Siem Reap, life moves on. Smiles have returned. So how do we measure our happiness as outsiders to people who've experienced such terrible things? Is there is a discrepancy between what the word 'happiness' means to us Westerners and what the word represents to the people of Vietnam and Cambodia?
Thousands of Vietnamese children are born handicapped every year; even now thirty years have passed since hereditary effects of their ancestors’ exposure to the dioxins in America’s mutagenic pesticide, ‘Agent Orange’. Most of the kids we meet suffer what we would call autism or Downs Syndrome. They are the lucky ones: dreadful physical deformities are the trademark of Agent Orange.
Cambodia, 1970-1975: Between 1.7 and 2.5 million Cambodians die during the Pol Pot-led Khmer regime, known as the Khmer Rouge.
Thirty years on, these two neighbouring nations continue rebuilding from two of the 20th century's most destructive conflicts. Remarkably, Vietnam was named the second happiest country in the world in a recent study. And in Cambodia, virtually an entire generation is eerily missing- but its young generations are upward bound, refusing to dwell on the past. Instead, they are pushing relentlessly to develop their country.
For outsiders, it is scarcely fathomable how a country can overcome such horrific histories to prosper once more. The conflicts loom over the two, spectre-like, but from Hanoi to Siem Reap, life moves on. Smiles have returned. So how do we measure our happiness as outsiders to people who've experienced such terrible things? Is there is a discrepancy between what the word 'happiness' means to us Westerners and what the word represents to the people of Vietnam and Cambodia?
In Vietnam's capital, Hanoi, a cluster of ugly buildings lies set back from the cacophony of peak hour traffic.
Scores of Vietnamese youth are growing up behind these grey walls, belonging to the Thanh Xuan Peace Village. They are being educated, nurtured, cared for. They sweat and howl in the oppressive heat of midsummer. Students and volunteers play with them and placate them. These children are the most terrible legacy of the ‘American’ war. They are, indeed, the all too forgotten legacy.Thousands of Vietnamese children are born handicapped every year; even now thirty years have passed since hereditary effects of their ancestors’ exposure to the dioxins in America’s mutagenic pesticide, ‘Agent Orange’. Most of the kids we meet suffer what we would call autism or Downs Syndrome. They are the lucky ones: dreadful physical deformities are the trademark of Agent Orange.
The Peace Village was established in
1991, to help victims of a problem that has decimated swathes of family
bloodlines across the nation. The war had so many victims the government
cannot give enough to every organisation of this kind. Annually, it
receives less than $13,000 from the government. Instead, it relies on
the assistance of volunteers, both Vietnamese and foreign visitors.
We are a group of around 12, armed with expensive cameras and recording equipment. We march through the classrooms. The children's reactions to our strange presence are varied. Some laugh bemusedly, some stare or look away. Some are visibly distressed by us being there. They are comforted by the high school students who act as makeshift older siblings. 'Happiness', here, is another concept altogether. What can you possibly do to make these children happy - truly, happy? Some volunteer, others give money.
Thanh Xuan is hardly a sanctuary. It is a grim place. But it is, at
least, a reminder that people care. Happiness equates to being
comfortable; being accepted. Even in these darkest of places, there
remains a defiant sense of looking after one another. These children,
unlike many less fortunate than them, are not alone. For happiness, this
is enough.
We are a group of around 12, armed with expensive cameras and recording equipment. We march through the classrooms. The children's reactions to our strange presence are varied. Some laugh bemusedly, some stare or look away. Some are visibly distressed by us being there. They are comforted by the high school students who act as makeshift older siblings. 'Happiness', here, is another concept altogether. What can you possibly do to make these children happy - truly, happy? Some volunteer, others give money.
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A student with Downs Syndrome uses our camera
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