Last day in Hanoi...

So, I’ve spent a lot time venting and bitching about the screw-ups, challenges, questionable food, cockroaches, dirty hotel rooms, hard beds, and the differences between here and home. I’ve been thinking a lot about that point of view over the past several days.

I just finished reading “The Place at the End of the World” by Janine Di Giovanni. It’s an account of conflict, death, famine, horror, tragedy and evil in places like Chechnya, Kosovo, Jamaica, Ivory Coast, Nigeria, Iraq, and Afghanistan. She’s a war correspondent who was challenged some years ago to “write about the small voices, the people who can’t write about themselves.”

Her writing brought me back to what these trips are all about – individual lives and the small voices. I’ve made some fantastic connections, built on developing friendships, watched as some police (not all, or most, as that would be too much to expect too soon) “get it”, talked to lots of smiling kids and adults in the streets, consistently been greeted with smiles wherever I go, been the recipient of many acts of kindness, been reminded multiple times how spoiled we are in the West, and been fortunate enough to experience, in small ways, a totally different culture. I have been lucky to help, in small ways, to improve how police will treat children who are victims, witnesses, or suspects.

These are a people who have a culture and history dated in the thousands of years. They have endured and experienced challenges I cannot begin to imagine. And, they have been kind enough make me feel welcome. For all of this, I am grateful. I am fortunate to have been blessed with this experience, and these friends.

Now, if only the beds were better and the cockroaches were smaller…