by Jenny Bowen
A response appeared immediately. It was 2:00 A.M. in California.
Jenny,
You must shut this trip down and get people on a plane to Shanghai. . . . I had no idea there was an enormous Muslim population and I don’t know how it wasn’t taken into account, but now that you know there is tremendous hostility, it’s time for everyone to leave. The leadership needed here is to get people to a relatively SAFE location, NOW.
Terri
At dinnertime—army food, served cafeteria-style—I talked to the volunteers. They had no interest in leaving. They felt completely safe and welcome. They were determined to finish the work they came to do.
COMPARED TO OUR government accommodations, Shaoyang orphanage was a sanctuary. Up a quiet lane on the outskirts of town, the orphanage grounds were divided by a tranquil canal edged with weeping willows. The children’s building was spartan but clean. The halls were silent. The children’s eyes were dull, incurious, but by now we knew we could find the sparkle.
Carol led her volunteers to a room stacked with painting and cleaning supplies, cartons of toys, and piles of bikes and books. She outlined the work schedule. First clear out the rooms; then clean them thoroughly. (She may have been feeling particularly hygienic at the moment. We weren’t always so meticulous.)
The volunteers tied bandannas around their heads, donned gloves, and went to work. They spent their first morning scrubbing down walls and swabbing floors. Their children helped on occasion but spent most of their time turning the reception room into a fort/art gallery—watched over by the ever-patient Feng Ayi, official crew babysitter.
ZZ and the orphanage staff did the necessary shopping. I wasn’t allowed to leave the grounds. It was just as well: I was to devote great chunks of each day on the computer in my own little war room (a corner of the toy-storage room), following WHO and CDC reports, adoption travel updates, embassy alerts, and all the news I could find on the web—and of course, responding to multiple e-mails from my irate board trio.
Carol is confident that we can finish work here in Shaoyang by Friday. It seems they all want to continue on to Baling for the second build. I’ll know for certain tomorrow. We have told the volunteers that they will not be letting anyone down if they choose to go home early. We have workers on standby to do the job. No one wants to leave.
We’ve called Baling to inquire about the Muslim population in that area. There is no large Muslim population, angry or otherwise. Everyone is very eager for us to come.
Jenny,
Read this article. Staying put is really not an option here. I find it completely irresponsible to throw caution to the wind, under these conditions.
MYSTERY DISEASE MAY HAVE SPREAD ON PLANE
HONG KONG (AP)—Adding to fears that a deadly flu-like illness is being spread by air travelers, Hong Kong officials said Tuesday nine tourists apparently came down with the deadly disease after another passenger infected them on a flight to Beijing. . . .
Terri
Each night after work, as we were being bused back, curtains drawn, to the compound, I read the latest SARS story aloud to the volunteers.
“Even more reason to stay off airplanes and enjoy lovely Shaoyang,” said one.
“If we could see it,” said another.
We were captives. No sightseeing. No shopping. No distractions.
“I don’t think I saw you all afternoon,” I said to Dick on the second day.
He confessed that his inner photographer had gotten the better of him. He couldn’t just paint orphanage walls in limbo with a whole unexplored Chinese landscape at his back. Having just begun working on Mei Mei, Little Sister, his book of photo portraits of orphaned girls and the twist of fate that had affected all of our lives, he just couldn’t resist a quick look at the town. So he’d set out quietly with his camera.
Not far from the orphanage gate, he’d encountered a very pregnant young woman sitting on the broken pavement. Her head hung down; a roughly drawn cardboard sign was at her feet. A young schoolboy stopped and read the sign to Dick in broken English. “Please give money so I don’t must abandon my child when it born.”
Dick gave what he had and took a photo. A man appeared from the gathering crowd and began to rant. The young woman raised her head and screamed back. The boy said, “The man said she fake. Rags stuffing belly. The woman said no fake. She tells you go away. You making her trouble.”
The man angrily grabbed the woman’s arm and yanked her to her feet, sending her stumbling and shuffling away. Suddenly feeling worse than helpless, Dick backed off and turned in the opposite direction, wondering what he had done . . . what new grief he might have caused.
“Honey, certain people on our board would have your head if they heard that sorry tale,” I said.
“It gets worse. After a while, I felt somebody behind me—like a shadow, but far off. I was being tailed.”
“Oh no.”
“I turn around. It’s a guy in a sharkskin suit and wraparound sunglasses. He’s wobbling along on a little Vespa. When I stop, he stops; he puts a foot down to steady himself and then he starts yelling at me.”
“Oh geez.”
“I just don’t think this guy is an angry Muslim. Is it about the pregnant girl? Maybe he’s trying to sell me something? But whatever he’s selling, I don’t want it. So I say, ‘Buyao! Don’t want!’ I walk off. But the guy keeps following me and shouting.”
I groaned. I could see it. My over-six-foot tawny-haired husband with only one Chinese word to his name, arguing on the streets of a town with a hundred thousand young men who were itching for battle.
“Then the guy pulls out a cell phone, makes a call, and tries to give it to me. He pushes it at me. He won’t go away. Finally I take it. I hear a girl trying to speak English. I can’t understand a word, but I can guess. I’ve stayed in enough two-star hotels in China.”
“The guy’s a pimp,” I said.
“That’s what I figure. One of those midnight wakeup calls. ‘Mister like a massage?’ Now I explode, start yelling back at the guy in English. He drives off.”
“Thank God,” I said.
“Five minutes later, he’s back—”
“Uh-oh.”
“—in a van this time. He flags me down. The back door slides open. There’s this girl inside. She doesn’t look like a hooker. She says she’s from the orphanage, that they’ve been trying to tell me I shouldn’t be out walking. It’s too dangerous.”
“Oh honey. What did you do?”
“I got in the van. At the orphanage gate, the director and staff came out to greet me like I’d just crossed a minefield. I asked ZZ to apologize. Over and over again. She told me they’d been worried sick about me. I felt rotten. I’ll stay at the orphanage tomorrow.”
“Good plan.”
Good morning, Board,
The work in Shaoyang is finished. This morning is for cleanup and then, in the afternoon, the volunteers will give a party for the children. The training will also be completed today. Tomorrow (Saturday) the volunteers and trainers will bus to our second build in Baling.
Yesterday I spoke to the U.S. Embassy in Beijing as they have consular jurisdiction over Hunan Province. They have had no reports of problems and there are no warnings or alerts for the province. They faxed me the current warnings about SARS and possible terrorism in China. Both were a week old and the information about SARS was far from current. We are staying up to the minute via various Internet sites—in particular, WHO and CDC.
We are purchasing high-grade N95 mouth masks for the volunteers in the event that any of them wish to use them in the airport or on flights. Currently the barriers are reported effective. We are avoiding crowded, closed areas.
Leaving no stone unturned, everyone on the crew has also received a bottle of special Chinese vinegar cure and a box of Chinese herb preventative.
Each day I update the volunteers and remind them that we do not need them to travel to Baling and that we cannot be responsible
for their protection. They all know that they’ll be required to sign an additional liability waiver before they can travel to Baling and all are completely willing—in the words of one, “without hesitation.”
I won’t respond to Terri and Daniel’s remarks about my blind determination, poor leadership, or the mess that the organization is in. Perhaps we can discuss these issues at a less busy time.
Jenny
THE ROOMS WERE painted. The shelves were lined with books and toys. The nannies and teachers were trained. We all—volunteers, children, and orphanage staff, all wearing Half the Sky T-shirts—assembled in front of the children’s building for our traditional group photo.
As the merry crowd made its way back inside to the new preschool for music and treats and balloons and, best of all, to explore the dress-up box, I detoured one last time into the war room, now just empty toy boxes and me. I sat on the floor and opened my laptop.
I no longer looked forward to booting up. There was always something waiting for me. On the other side of the ocean, fingertips must have been poised above keyboards, ready to pounce.
BOARD, YOU NEED TO RESPOND TO THIS SITUATION! We can override Jenny’s decision to stay.
Jenny, read those advisories and evacuate all nonessential personnel!!!
Evelyn
I swallowed hard. I leaned against a wall, closed my eyes, and listened to the distant merriment. Over the music, I could hear children laughing.
I opened my eyes and typed.
Dear Evelyn,
If you read my e-mails, you will know that I have not made a decision to stay. There is nothing to override. What I have said repeatedly is that I cannot force people to leave China. Neither can this board. I can and will continue to give them the WHO, CDC, and embassy materials I’ve mentioned. I will also tell them about your concerns again.
Jenny
The Greek chorus was hovering in cyberspace. The words flew back at me:
Jenny:
Now you can tell the volunteers that one Board Member has resigned over this.
My fellow Board Members: It is with great anger and sadness that I must resign from the Board. We all admire entrepreneurs who can bring their vision to fruition. But the same tenacity and drive that turns an entrepreneur’s dream into reality more often than not brings a company down. I am afraid Half the Sky is in such jeopardy. . . . Half the Sky is still run by one person. I am not a rubber stamp.
Evelyn
Terri, my once-dear pal and cofounder, leaped back into the fray.
AM I TALKING TO THE WALLS HERE??!!!
I’ll state it once more, as I told you our pediatrician said at the beginning of the week: GET YOUR PEOPLE OUT OF THERE!
Terri
I PACKED UP my laptop and walked down the now-bright halls toward the music. I stopped in the doorway of the Infant Nurture Center and watched the newly trained nannies curled on cushioned floor mats, cuddling babies unfamiliar with real human contact.
One eager nanny tried to encourage her small charge to use the pull-up bar at the mirrored wall. The baby tried but couldn’t grip; she plopped back on the floor. Both nanny and baby laughed out loud. For the child, it was maybe her first laugh ever. Then the mirror caught her eye. She reached out to touch the little smiling face in it. Her own. She stared. Captivated.
I leaned against the doorjamb. The nanny gave her love so easily. She’d already reached this baby girl. One day the baby would leave, and her nanny’s heart would break . . . but then be healed by opening to another little stranger. I felt my chest tighten with an unwieldy mix of joy and sadness. Tears began to fall for no good reason and for every good reason. I’ll give you something to cry about. Right then, I was the happiest and saddest person on earth. I wiped my tears away and followed the party music.
INSIDE THE NEW preschool, all was joyful chaos. Little girls with feather boas and sunglasses madly pedaling shiny trikes. A volunteer teaching a blind child to make music on the electronic keyboard. A toddler in the arms of her teacher, trying to figure out how to put little plastic shoes on the baby doll. In the reading corner, ZZ was settled on the sofa, reading a story to an enthralled trio of little girls.
“ZZ, do you have that Sharpie?” I asked.
I turned toward a freshly painted wall and climbed on a lavender chair. I wrote, as I always did, BUILT WITH LOVE AND HOPE.
Then ZZ wrote the message in Chinese. Finally, as they always did, the volunteers and new teachers and new nannies gathered and passed the Sharpie around, signing the wall with their own names and hometowns and happy wishes for the children.
Chapter 11
One Who Is Drowning Will Not Be Troubled by a Little Rain
“Look folks,” I said as our bus left Shaoyang, “I know you’re tired of hearing about this, but if you insist on continuing with us to Baling, will you please write a note to our board and tell them why?”
No problem!
Hi Board from ZZ,
Thanks for your concerns for all of us working in China’s institutions at this critical moment. . . . Fortunately, there is not a single SARS case in Hunan. People enjoy their weekend. Children are flying kites in the square with a beautiful warm weather. We can certainly feel that spring has arrived! We all wish and doing our best to make families returning home safe!
. . . I made the decision to stay because I believe so strongly in the work of the Foundation. This is a personal decision that I made completely on my own. . . .
Jackie (Nanny Trainer)
. . . The greater risk is probably the plane ride home (including the in-China flight, where the seats are very close together). Whether we leave now, or next week, we still have to get on the planes to fly home. In fact, the risk of flying could be less by next week, as people become more aware of what is going on. . . .
Although I am not an epidemiologist but rather an anesthesiologist, I do not perceive there is any increased risk (or at the most minimal) of staying another week. All of life is a risk. We took a risk in embarking on this journey in the first place, and I do not think the risk has changed all that much.
Cynthia (Volunteer)
Every one of our crew wrote to the board. There was no response. And so we forged on.
A CARTON OF 3M N95 mouth masks, the most protective and last available in China (ZZ had managed to convince a hospital in Shanghai to share) was waiting for us when our bus stopped in Changsha, the provincial capital of Hunan, for lunch. After a celebratory banquet, ZZ distributed the masks and the Hunan Provincial Civil Affairs team passed out new bottles of best local brand flu-killing vinegar to all. Our volunteers vowed to wear their masks in crowded places and to drink their vinegar religiously (except for the kids, who absolutely refused the vinegar but adored the masks). Then we reboarded the bus, now bound for Baling.
In truth, I would have returned to Baling alone if I’d had to. I knew some little girls were waiting for us there—in the dark.
Jingli
Ba Jingli, female, was born on January 3, 1996; found at the gate of Baling City Social Welfare Institution on May 3, 1996, with a bottle, two suits of clothing, and a bag of diapers. She had a round face and black hair, with misshapen lower limbs. She was reported to Baling City Security Bureau on that day. The police couldn’t find her parents and relatives, so placed her in Baling City Institution. We hope she can conquer the serious illness and have a peaceful, happy, and lucky life.
I first saw Jingli in the fall of 2002 when I visited her orphanage as a prospective program site. I always tried to scout potential sites well in advance of selection—in part to assess the need, but equally, to scope out the director and staff. It hadn’t taken long to learn that the success of our programs would depend on those people.
Based on the obvious criteria, Baling was not a place I would have chosen. The Baling orphanage director reminded me of the worst kind of Hollywood agent, right down to the black shirts, quirky bright neckties, and slicked-back hair. But it wasn’t the garb—Directo
r “Slick” stood too close and was a butt-grabber, and he charged adoptive parents five hundred dollars for a homemade DVD about his orphanage. And maybe it was just me, but I had a hunch the man was a baby-broker.
I’d seen the signs before. Row after row of beautiful, healthy baby girls, all less than a year old—perfect for adoption. No older kids. No special needs. He walked me through the baby rooms as if they were auto showrooms. Only after he’d hurried off to take a call from the mayor (making sure we knew who was calling), and left us with a young office administrator, did we find the rest of the Baling story.
“Nihao,” I said to the office administrator. “What’s your name?”
“Luo.”
“ZZ, please ask Ms. Luo where the older children are. There must be some. Explain that Half the Sky would like to build a beautiful preschool here in Baling for the older children. But we must meet them first.”
I’m sure that ZZ put it better, for Ms. Luo made a phone call and motioned for us to follow her to the yard behind the children’s building.
It was a low, small concrete building. Out front, in the pounded dirt courtyard, a couple of women were providing rehabilitation massage for two small boys with cerebral palsy. The women seemed to be expecting us and beamed happily as we watched them set upon their tasks with vigor, bending and stretching spastic little limbs.
I edged toward the worn wooden doorway. Miss Luo tried to stop me. Too late. I was inside.
The only light came from one small window. The walls were dank and dirty. The air musty. The little children were lined up against the wall on small chairs or benches. There were maybe twenty of them, from about four to ten years old. All had special needs. They weren’t tied. They knew to just sit. This was how they spent their days. All day, every day.
I can see the image even now. A still photograph. Near darkness, eyes looking at me. . . . A little girl whose face was burned off. A toddler who looked healthy, alert, and confused, as if she’d been dropped at the wrong bus stop. Another child, limp, almost translucent—she seemed to have no bones.