Читать книгу Rescuing Ladybugs - Jennifer Skiff - Страница 11
ОглавлениеThe Joy in Compassion-Driven Intervention
There are times in your life when you’re presented with a choice: You can help another soul or you can look away. Such moments are pivotal — the decision you make changes lives forever, including yours. My game-changing moment came in March 1998 in Vientiane, Laos.
I stepped off a plane in Vientiane with my Australian boyfriend, Jon, and into another world. A rush of warm, humid air welcomed us, and instantly, the tension that came with entering a communist country seemed to dissipate.
Laos is landlocked by China, Vietnam, Myanmar, Thailand, and Cambodia. Poor and underdeveloped by Western standards, it’s rich with people who choose, because of their religion, not to strive for monetary gains. The majority of people are Buddhists and are raised to cultivate wisdom and kindness while practicing compassion for all living beings.
Despite its peaceful population, or perhaps because of it, Laos has been the center of political battles for centuries. The most recent conflict had brought me here: the communist takeover after the Vietnam War and the subsequent mass murders of up to one hundred thousand Hmong people by the Lao People’s Democratic Republic (LPDR).
I knew some of the refugees who’d made it out alive. They’d immigrated to the United States; many had opened nail salons, small grocery stores, and Vietnamese and Thai restaurants. While escaping, they’d lost family, friends, and even children. Moved by their bravery, I wanted to write a book that would lift the veil on Asian immigration to the United States while highlighting the human rights injustices in postwar Laos.
Thavisack Vixathep greeted us at the airport with a repeating handshake and toothy grin; he asked us to call him Tom. He was slim, around five feet tall, with short, shiny black hair. Tom was my government minder, an escort to make sure that as a journalist I didn’t overstay or overstep my welcome.
Tom led us to a blue Mercedes-Benz sedan. As we climbed inside, he warned me I was not permitted to ask questions about the Vietnam War, reeducation camps, forced repatriation, the former Royal Lao family (many of whom had been murdered), genocide, or refugee camps. I tensed. Jon rested his hand on mine.
The first stop on our guided tour was Pha That Luang, a Buddhist temple described in tour books as the most important monument in Laos. On the outside, the reflection of the sun on the temple’s gold-covered stupa and pillars was blinding. The feeling on the inside was just the opposite, calming and cool. In an alcove, the base of a gold leaf–covered statue of the sitting Buddha was adorned with fresh flowers and burning candles. In a far corner, a group of Buddhist monks with shaved heads, their bodies wrapped in orange cloth, sat on the floor in meditation.
I already felt a connection with Buddhism. Its teachings make sense to me, as they do to the nearly 500 million people around the world who consider themselves Buddhists. Followers of Buddhism, often called the religion of compassion, commit to a life of nonviolence toward all animals and to eliminating greed from their lives. As I watched the monks, I was excited to be in a country where so many people were leading conscious lives.
Away from the main attractions of government buildings and temples, the real Vientiane felt like a small town. Motorbikes carrying entire families sped past our car while little girls in school uniforms of white shirts and navy blue skirts gathered together on street corners, eating pineapple skewered on sticks like it was ice cream. Shuttered apartments — reminders of the French occupation of Laos in the early 1900s — looked out over brightly colored fruit stands at every turn. Electricity poles and wires littered the horizon, while open sewers and dirt roads were a reminder that little had changed for decades.
That evening, as the sting of the heat disappeared with the sun, Jon and I were left alone to stroll a few blocks from our hotel to the banks of the Mekong River. Pretty young women with long, shiny jet-black hair and tiny frames beckoned us to their food stalls. We walked on, arm in arm, until an old man approached, offering two plastic chairs in a secluded spot under a tree. Jon ordered two Lao beers and we settled in, enjoying a view of Thailand, thirty-five hundred feet away on the other side of the glistening Mekong. Music filtered from a window on the nearby street, children laughed at the river’s edge, and sparrows swarmed, welcoming the end of the day. The sunset was crimson red, created by a haze of smoke from cooking fires.
I was happy, swept into the moment with a cold beer and a new relationship. I’d met Jon eighteen months before, in Casablanca, Morocco, while on assignment for CNN, during a party at the US consulate’s residence. Two days later he unexpectedly burst into my life again.
At the time, I was scouting a location to shoot video of food markets. Local women in brightly colored robes with head scarves were perusing the outdoor stalls, shopping for their families’ dinner. But what most intrigued me were the homeless street dogs, who followed at a safe distance. They looked up, eager to make eye contact with any person who might provide a scrap of sustenance, but it was as if they were invisible. No one took notice of them.
I’d witnessed this same street dog problem in other countries and gotten into the habit of packing boxes of dog biscuits when I traveled internationally. I reached into my bag, crouched to the ground, and one by one the market dogs cautiously approached and gently took a biscuit from my hand.
I was so caught up in the moment that I hardly noticed the man standing behind me until he said in an Australian accent: “If you were my girlfriend, I’d charter a plane so you could take these dogs home with you.”
I turned and there was Jon, haloed by the sun, with a golden head of curls, freckled skin, and a contagious smile.
Now he and I were sitting together in Asia, contemplating the mighty Mekong, the source of life for billions of animals, sixty million of them human, and a silent witness to some of the world’s greatest crimes against humanity. From where I was sitting, it was easy to visualize the tens of thousands of people who’d swum across the river to Thailand in 1975, while fleeing the communist regime. As I imagined the terror of that crossing, I wondered if writing about their experiences could actually prevent future wars, as I’d hoped. The world’s knowledge of the Holocaust hadn’t put a halt to mass killings. Genocide had occurred in Bosnia from 1992 to 1995, and it was currently happening in Rwanda. As I watched a large tree being swept downstream by the current, I wondered what power I had, if any, to create change.
The next day, Tom picked us up at 9 AM to take us to the National Ethnic Cultural Park, twelve miles south of Vientiane. I’d expressed an interest in learning about the history of the country, and he’d assured me I’d find what I was looking for there. Since the communist government still controlled Laos, I didn’t expect to find what I was seeking — information on the Vietnam War and the mass exodus of refugees that followed. But I was eager to see what the government made public.
As we walked through the gates, it was apparent we’d entered a forgotten place. Kiosks were shuttered, footpaths were overgrown, and there were no signs of staff. Tom quickly apologized that it appeared closed and invited us to walk the grounds.
It was oppressively hot and the jungle was alive with the wing-snapping rattle of millions of cicadas. The noise was loud and yet simultaneously calming. I sauntered down a dark path that led to a moss-covered statue of an elephant. As I admired it, a bird landed on the elephant’s trunk. It was a bright green parakeet, with a red beak and matching neck ring.
“Hello,” I said, hoping he’d mimic. “Hello,” I repeated. He nodded and extended his wings, ruffling them with a shake. He nodded again, let out a screech, and flew down the path. I followed, pushing past a patch of hanging vines to find him bouncing on a palm frond. As soon as I approached, he screeched and flew farther down the trail, out of sight. Then Jon yelled from that direction.
“Jenny, don’t come down this path!”
“What is it?” I asked.
He didn’t reply.
I proceeded cautiously until I reached a clearing. In the middle was a ten-foot-high statue of a smiling Buddha head surrounded by a circular dirt pathway. Jon was off to one side, standing in front of a six-foot-high bell-shaped cage with thick iron bars.
“Don’t look,” he warned.
The parakeet let out a screech and I looked up. He was on top of the cage, nodding as I walked closer. My eyes dropped.
A black Asiatic bear was imprisoned in a cage he’d physically outgrown. The cream-colored half-moon marking across his chest — a hallmark of Asiatic black bears — was broken in the center by a line of dark brown hair. He had a long snout and rounded ears that stood upright, each the size of a man’s hand. One arm dangled outside the five-inch space between the bars, while the whole paw on his other arm was stuffed into his mouth. His eyes and the fur below them were wet, and he was rocking on his feet. When he saw me, a muffled cry erupted from his throat and his free arm reached for me. I moved closer, inches from his reach, and looked into his eyes. He was sobbing, trying to catch his breath like a child after a long tantrum. His eyes held mine. In that moment, telepathically, he conveyed his suffering to me.
I looked around his feet for signs of food or excrement, proof he’d been eating, but saw neither. A plastic pail of stagnant green water was behind him, but I couldn’t tell if it was within reach. My eyes went to his again, and he lifted the arm that was outside the bars, turning it over for me to see the palm of his paw. There were five circular blisters, bubbled and red, on the pads, along with other spots of scar tissue. He cried out as I looked from the blisters back to him.
“You like bear?” Tom asked in his pidgin English.
“This is an unacceptable situation for any animal,” Jon answered.
“Bear happy. Nice bear,” Tom said, grinning.
“No. Bear not happy. Bad water,” I said. “Bear is sick,” I said, pointing to the blistered paw. “Who takes care of this bear?”
Tom’s smile vanished. “I find man,” he said, and walked away.
My eyes followed Tom, and it was only then that I saw the other four cages, all circling the Buddha, all imprisoning bears. I must have been so focused on the first bear that I shut out everything around me. Now it was as if someone had turned up the volume and all I heard were the sounds of despair. I turned in a circle, my heart racing, feeling anguished and desperate. The sun was unforgiving, burning. My knees buckled and I grabbed a handrail.
At that moment, Tom arrived with a man wearing a conical straw hat, a light brown long-sleeved shirt, and sarong pants. He was carrying a handmade wide-bottomed whisk broom. “This man is keeper of bears. He’s friend to bears,” Tom said.
I asked whether he spoke English, and Tom shook his head.
“Will you translate for me?” I asked.
Tom nodded.
“To keep bears in this small cage is not good. This water is bad water. Where is the food? And what is wrong with his paw?” I said, pointing to the blisters.
Tom interpreted the questions, and the two men launched into a discussion. The bear stopped crying and focused on their conversation, his eyes on them, his ears turned in their direction, one paw still in his mouth. I wondered if he understood their language. I couldn’t. I could only read their expressions, and they were serious.
After a couple of minutes, the bear’s keeper scurried away, and Tom turned to me and Jon.
“This bear has been here since baby. Some other bears,” he said, pointing to cages nearby, “brought here by people who keep for pet, like dog, until they grow too big. They ask park to take care of them, and people pay money to see them. Man who take care of bear likes bear very much but say, never enough food for them.”
As Tom talked, the keeper returned with a bucket of fresh water. He poured it into the green water, only serving to stir the algae. He looked at me and smiled, clearly hoping for praise. I wanted to thank him but held back. The least he could do was to give the animals fresh water, and he hadn’t. Not today and clearly not before.
“What about his paw?” I asked the keeper, pointing to the blisters.
We may not have spoken the same language, but he knew what I was asking. He answered and Tom cringed.
“This is where people burn bear with cigarettes,” Tom said, mimicking the way a person would crush a cigarette butt in an ashtray.
My throat swelled and my eyes welled with tears. I turned to the bear and our eyes locked. With a despair that permeated my being, I physically felt his suffering.
Jon’s voice interrupted. “Let’s go, Jenny. There’s nothing you can do. You can’t save every mistreated animal in the world.”
“No,” I whispered, my eyes still connected with the bear. “But I can help the ones I come across.”
In that moment, locking eyes with the bear, I experienced an epiphany, a profound spiritual realization that not only could I do something, but that I must. Fate had brought me here for a reason. I turned back to the bear. Wordlessly, I promised I’d help and asked him not to give up.
As I walked toward the exit, I stopped at each cage, took a photograph, and gave each bear my promise. When I looked back, the keeper was pushing a wheelbarrow, half-filled with vegetables, in the direction of the bears, and I experienced a moment of satisfaction. Yet I knew the gesture was meant to appease me; it wasn’t based on any lasting compassion for the imprisoned animals.
As we walked toward the car, Tom suggested the bears were probably poached as cubs — victims of the illegal wildlife trade — and had been “saved” by the park. I didn’t buy his story. The way the cages had been positioned around the Buddha statue was intentional; these animals were an attraction.
“Why does the government run the cultural park?” I asked.
“Government runs everything,” Tom said. “But there is no money. We try to get tourists here because they bring money. I hope you might write story to bring people here and maybe that money help bears.”
With those words, the path forward became clear, and I resolved to follow it. The key to unlocking the cages was to convince the communist government that there was a financial incentive in treating their native animals with compassion.
“Will you help me talk to the government about this situation with the bears? Will you work with me?” I asked.
Tom placed his hands together in prayer and bowed. When he lifted his head, he was smiling. “Yes. We work together. Thank you, Miss Jenny.”
Before leaving Laos, I presented Tom with a handwritten letter of introduction to Nousay Phoummachanh, a minister secretary for the government and deputy director of the National Ethnic Cultural Park. It extended my gratitude for inviting me to visit. It included my credentials, a description of what I’d witnessed at the park, and a personal offer to provide advice on how to build the country’s tourism trade.
Mount Desert Island, Maine, USA
I returned from Laos with a redirected purpose. Back home in Maine, I tacked a photo of the first bear I met on my office wall. His cries were embedded in my memory, and I decided to call him Fri, the Lao translation of “free.” His rescue was now my priority.
Within days, a fax arrived from the Ministry of Information, Culture, and Tourism in Laos, a response to the letter Tom had delivered. It justified the condition in which the bears were found by stating that there were costs associated with the care of the animals but that money to feed them would be welcome. It also said the government would welcome help to increase tourism to Laos.
My thoughts raced. How could I help increase tourism to a communist country and also free the bears? Laos is naturally beautiful; it has a warm climate and is home to wild elephants, bears, and exotic birds. Those qualities attract tourists. Caged and tortured animals do not. Ultimately, I wanted the bears rehabilitated and released into the wild, but I knew that wasn’t possible. There were no rehabilitation centers for large animals in Laos. There was only one solution.
That night I called Tom, whose role with me had changed from minder to government liaison. I told him that when people travel, they want to leave a country with a positive impression, yet the poor treatment of the bears went against everything Laos, and Buddhist culture, stood for. I suggested the creation of a sanctuary where the bears from the cultural park could live on several acres and where tourists could view them from a distance. Then I offered to build it.
Tom seemed excited by the idea and suggested the Laotian Ministry of Defense might be the correct office to grant land for a sanctuary, not the Ministry of Information, Culture, and Tourism. He offered to meet with representatives of both departments.
Two weeks later I received a fax from the Ministry of Defense. It read:
Dear Miss Skiff,
The Department of Defense will make land available if you will build a sanctuary for bears. Thank you for your interest in Lao tourism.
Lao PDR
It was almost too good to be true, too easy. I was skeptical and excited all at once. I had easily cleared what I’d thought would be a major hurdle. The next step was to find the person to build it.
Through research, I discovered Victor Watkins. In 1992, while working for the World Society for the Protection of Animals (WSPA; today known as World Animal Protection), he’d initiated the first international crusade to help captive bears. The campaign, called Libearty, worked in conjunction with other animal welfare groups to end the practice of dancing bears in Europe and Asia, bear bile farming in Asia, and bear baiting in Pakistan. The campaign’s goal was to expose the exploitation of bears in an effort to get public and government support to end these cruel practices.
Victor had also helped design and build the first bear sanctuary in the world, which had enabled the Greek and Turkish governments to eradicate the use of dancing bears in their countries by providing a home for confiscated bears. Victor Watkins was my man. I picked up the phone and called him in London.
Victor was sympathetic to the cause, but I didn’t have him at “hello.” I explained my intentions to liberate the bears in Laos. When I finished, Victor peppered me with questions: Who would build the sanctuary? Who would pay for staff costs and ongoing food and medical supplies in a third-world country where many people didn’t have those amenities? I had no answers, but I was sure of one thing: I was talking to the single person who could help.
As he politely wrapped up our conversation by wishing me well, I panicked.
“Please, may I meet you?” I asked.
“I’m afraid I can’t commit to a project like this, but yes, we can continue the conversation. I’ll be at the Karacabey Bear Sanctuary in Bursa, Turkey, next month. It’s a permanent home for former dancing bears. Can you meet me there?” he asked.
I looked at my calendar. I was scheduled to be reporting for CNN from a Greek island off the coast of Turkey. It was meant to be.
I called Jon in Australia and asked if he wanted to meet me in Turkey.
Karacabey Bear Sanctuary, Bursa, Turkey
The combined scent of pine and cedar hit me like a spray of perfume as I stepped out of the car at the Karacabey Bear Sanctuary, nestled high in Bursa’s mountains. Victor was waiting, and he embraced me like a long-lost friend. He was younger than I expected for someone with his accomplishments. He looked like he was in his late thirties and had light brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He was casually dressed in a collared, short-sleeved shirt and jeans.
As we toured the facility, Victor explained that it had been built in 1993 for a single purpose: as a place to release dancing bears kept illegally in Turkey by displaced Roma populations, often derogatorily referred to as gypsies. The moment the sanctuary was ready, Victor had led a late-night raid to rescue a dozen European brown bears held captive in Istanbul. The mission took eight hours as police and veterinarians worked together to tranquilize the bears, cut their chains, and load them into crates — all during a downpour. After another six hours of traveling, the bears were safely in Karacabey, free from their torturers.
The bears were big, over six feet tall when standing. Most of them were covered in light brown fur with rounded, upright ears. I found it hard to comprehend that these beautiful animals had ever been under the control of human beings. But as Victor explained, most of them had been stripped of their defenses. Their keepers had burned holes into their snouts with blazing metal rods so they could be controlled by a nose rope or ring. Their teeth had been knocked out and their nails removed. And they had been beaten into submission.
In the outdoor enclosure, I could see ten bears. Some were playing together while a few were in rough shape, mentally. One was walking in circles and two were rocking, exhibiting the same behavior I’d noticed at the cultural park in Laos. Victor explained that they suffered from a form of posttraumatic disorder.
The root of the cruelty and suffering they’d endured was an age-old problem: poverty. After centuries of persecution in Europe, many Roma people didn’t have homes or jobs. Some stole bear cubs from the wild because they knew people would pay to watch the bears dance. If people hadn’t paid, the abuse wouldn’t have continued. It is the same as when people pay to take selfies with chained elephants, captured dolphins, tethered monkeys, or lion cubs. Money drives exploitation.
“Let’s talk bear sanctuaries,” Victor said. “Write this down. It’s what you need to know.”
I fished a notepad and pen from my handbag and wrote the following:
1. Sanctuary should include natural bear habitat/forest.
2. Fence. Can be weld-mesh fencing or stone walls. 2–3 meters high. Fence foundations must extend 1.5 meters deep. Bears dig.
3. Protective barrier. Electric fence. Charge must be 7,000 volts. To prevent bears from going out and people from getting in.
4. Buildings for staff.
5. Quarantine den for newly rescued bears for adjustment period.
6. Enclosure should be 6 hectares or 15 acres to house 30 bears.
7. Must have: freshwater pools, trees for climbing, dens for hibernation, and areas of shade. Perfect setting is in natural forest.
“The male bears will need to be sterilized before going into the enclosure together,” he said. “You will want to have a vet clinic on-site. How confident are you that you can secure the land?” he asked.
“That’s the good news,” I said. “The government has agreed to give three acres.”
“For how many bears?” he asked.
“Five.”
“It won’t be enough. Once it’s built, people will want to surrender bears to you. When you build it, they come.”
“Will you help me build it?” I asked.
“Follow me,” he said. In his office, he unrolled a blueprint of the Karacabey Sanctuary.
“You need a drawing to work from. Use this one,” he said. “What are you thinking it will cost to build?”
“I’ve been estimating around eight thousand US dollars for the enclosure. To be honest, I didn’t even think about other buildings.”
“Triple that,” he said. “Can you raise that kind of money?”
“I’ll have to,” I replied.
An hour later, it was time to go. As Victor led me to the parking lot, I was upset but tried not to show it. He had given me drawings to build a bear sanctuary, but I hadn’t been able to secure what I wanted: a commitment from him to help. With a lump in my throat I took his extended hand, covered it with both of mine, and thanked him for the plans, his time, and his advice.
I rolled down the car window to wave good-bye, and Victor lifted his finger into the air. He approached the window and leaned in.
“You go raise the money. I’ll be in touch,” he said.
Perth, Australia
The sun was shining when I landed in Perth. Eight months had passed since meeting Victor in Turkey. I was in Australia to visit Jon and to raise the rest of the money for the bear sanctuary in Laos. So far, in my purse, I had $6,000 and fifteen pieces of donated jewelry, which I intended to auction. The money came from an American friend who donated a portion of one night’s proceeds from her restaurant. The jewelry was a gift from a couple of dear friends who, when asked for help, reached into the depths of their jewelry boxes and presented me with seldom-worn rings and necklaces.
Jon was confident his Australian friends would be generous if we threw a good party. I loved the idea but wasn’t sure how to pull it off. I knew very few people in Australia who might help. I did, however, have faith. Past experience had proven to me that when you set forth to right an injustice, you will find yourself surrounded by good people willing to help.
And that’s what happened. The first person I approached was Theresa Smith, a California girl married to an Australian and one of my first friends in Perth. Years before, for her fortieth birthday, Theresa had invited me and her friends to take surfing lessons, and we’d remained friends ever since. Theresa was popular, often hosting parties at her mansion in the exclusive suburb of Peppermint Grove, and I figured she’d know the best way to organize the party. Over a cup of tea under a giant peppermint tree, I showed her the pictures I’d taken of Fri and the other bears. She studied the photographs for ten seconds and then turned them facedown on a table.
“I need to introduce you to Jayne Middlemas,” she said. “You’ll like her. We’ll need a committee.”
The next day I met Jayne, and as she studied the photograph of Fri, she smiled and said, “I’ll be on your committee. I’ll handle the money and accounting.”
The next morning at a beachside café, I met Bill Woolley and his fiancée, Lindi, by chance. I didn’t even have to show Lindi a photograph. She joined the party committee on the spot after hearing what I’d seen in Laos.
At the end of that first week, Taury Wainwright, a sweet-natured, beach-blonde girlfriend of one of Jon’s business partners, had also raised her hand to help. Taury, a decade younger than the rest of us, had many friends who were famous Australian footy players, and she promised to get a young, hip crowd to the party.
We decided to ask Ian Love, the owner of the popular restaurant CoCo’s, if he would host the party. Jon knew Ian and arranged a meeting, and Ian quickly agreed. He had two dogs and was an animal lover, and he threw in a substantial discount on food and drinks.
Miraculously, a team of bear warriors had materialized, all eager to end the suffering of five souls they’d never met.
Five months after the formation of the committee, the glamorous event and jewelry auction caused a frenzy of generous bidding that raised $17,500. Combined with the $6,000 I already had, the sum totaled the exact amount Victor had said we needed to build the sanctuary.
I could barely contain my excitement when I called Victor with the news. He had good news, too. His organization, WSPA, had given the nod to oversee construction of the sanctuary. In addition, he’d reached out to the Thai Society for the Conservation of Wild Animals (TSCWA) to see if it would assist with the project. Apparently, TSCWA had received many complaints about the neglected bears at the Vientiane National Ethnic Cultural Park. Not only were they willing to help us, but they offered to sterilize the bears and relocate them to the sanctuary once it was built.
Like an unstoppable wave, the movement to uncage Fri and the other bears was a powerful force of energy. Good was prevailing, and I was overwhelmed by the generosity of people from all parts of the world who were working to right this terrible wrong.
Mount Desert Island, Maine, USA
Approximately six hundred days after I met Fri, I received a large manila envelope in the mail. It was a letter from Victor, telling me the bears were finally home in their new sanctuary. The news was bittersweet. Two of the five had died while awaiting rescue.
I stuck my hand in the envelope and pulled out two photographs. One showed a medical team standing over sedated bears on stretchers. Another was a shot of a bear in a wooden crate being transported on the flatbed of a truck. Tears welled in my eyes as I studied the pictures and thought of the bears I hadn’t been able to save. As I reached for a tissue on my desk, a third photograph dropped from the envelope and to the floor. I picked it up and my spirit lifted. It was Fri — recognizable by his unique, broken half-moon chest marking. He was standing upright, rubbing his back on a tree. He was smiling.
When I first touched down in Laos nearly two years earlier, I’d been searching for justice and compassion for human beings. I left the country with something else: a clear understanding that all animals, human or otherwise, deserve life and are entitled to freedom. The experience was enlightening. I was shown that as difficult as it is to witness the cruelty that often comes with rescue, the reward in helping a defenseless soul is immeasurable.
The first bear sanctuary in Laos was built by WSPA, TSCWA, and more than a hundred people, primarily from the United States and Australia, who generously funded it. Today, the Laos Wildlife Rescue Center is home to twenty-four bears. It is operated by the Wildlife Friends Foundation (WFF), a Thailand-based charity founded by Edwin Wiek.
