I've been hearing whispers about forgiveness lately, and I've been considering the bravery and the cost.
The whispers started in earnest a few weeks ago when I attended a documentary film, "Regret to Inform," at the Varsity Theatre. The film was shown to benefit an orphanage in Mu Nei Bay, Vietnam, and Medford resident Donna Andrews organized the event. Andrews, along with her friend Xuan Nguyen and her partner Ed Reiman (both Eugene residents) are purchasing a small beachfront piece of land and plan to turn it into a getaway for orphan children-a place where the children will be nurtured and be free to romp on the beach.
Nguyen, the Vietnamese translator in the film, suffered terrible loss through the war. Her story and her presence at the showing deeply affected me.
The award-winning film was produced, written and directed by Barbara Sonneborn. It's a powerful piece of art and a touching and agonizing account of pain, recovery, forgiveness and hope.
Sonneborn at age 24 lost her husband in the Vietnam War. Twenty years later, she embarked on a pilgrimage to Vietnam-to see where he died and to realize what for years she could only imagine. As a war widow, she makes numerous other connections with both American and Vietnamese widows, one of whom was Xuan Nguyen.
The stories of loss from women on both sides of the conflict are heart wrenching, but living through the war is unlike anything else. Nguyen not only lost her husband, but also saw her 5-year-old cousin gunned down, her home destroyed, her town scattered and her way of life changed forever. She is not alone. Thirty years later, as the women tell their stories, and the pain and rage seem fresh, the tears flow easily. Yet these same women, this country that still suffers from the affects of Agent Orange, has chosen to forgive, to move forward. The Vietnamese welcome Americans to their country, veterans included.
What is this ability to forgive?
And then came more whispers when I chanced on a story about San Francisco resident Takashi Tane-mori.
At 8 years of age he saw his home city of Hiroshima disintegrate and his parents and four siblings die of radiation poisoning. One of the "quota" of Hiroshima survivors allowed into this country, he came to America seeking to revenge the death of his family and his city. But one day, decades later, while driving on the Bay Bridge, he saw a cloud shaped like a mushroom. "I cried so hard I pulled off and parked at Treasure Island," he told a writer. "My father's voice spoke to me, said each action has a consequence, and revenge begets revenge. At that moment, a white butterfly flew in through my open window and, just for a moment, landed on my dashboard. It removed all the anger from my heart."
And then more whispers.
I read about the Biehls, whose daughter, a Stanford graduate and Fulbright Scholar, was murdered in Cape Town's Gugulethu township in 1993. After setting up a trust foundation to fund community projects in the poverty-stricken townships where their daughter had worked and died, they made peace with the men who had killed her. The men, freed after four years in an amnesty bid that the Biehls supported, now work directly for the foundation and closely with the Biehls.
The Biehls still receive hate mail for helping their daughter's assailants go free, but they have made peace with South Africa and with the men who killed their daughter.
Mr. Tanemori now speaks for reconciliation not retaliation.
The women of Vietnam welcome Americans to their country. They do not want their children to harbor resentment, to bear the anger of their parents.
In fact, when the young men's soccer league teams in Xuan's hometown in Vietnam learned of the events of September 11 in America, they all wore white headbands throughout their soccer matches. White is a symbol of mourning.
Amy Richard has lived in Ashland since 1990, was Revels editor at The Tidings for three years, and since June of 1998 has been media relations director for the Oregon Shakespeare Festival.
By Amy Richard
