guilt soils compassion

kris and i awoke early this morn to catch the bus to scenic halong bay. typhoon xangsane had nixed our plan to work up the coast and i am ready to flee the urban hustle bustle and the return of my pollution cough. $34 bought us a 2-day 1-night excursion on a viet junk, kayaking, meals and transport inc., so at 8 am 15 of us packed into a small van for a 3 hour jaunt to the coast.

half way we stopped at what appeared to be your typical tour group snacks n brickabrack waystation. embroidered scarves, ceramics and coin purses were laid out in rows inside of a school gym-sized concrete box. since im a narcissist, i eyed a copy of andrew x phams 'catfish and mandala,' described as:

'...the poignant, lyrical tale of an american odyssey... a voyage around the pacific rim to viet nam made by a young vietnamese-american in pursuit of both his adopted homeland and his forsaken fatherland.'

(i know im shameless and predictable, but it won awards and shit.) having become used to ten cent beer and 40 cent pho this book of questionable authenticity wasnt worth its $12 cover price (almost 200,000 viet dong)! so i haggled with a woman sporting two disfigured eyes, but she only went down 2 bucks. i defiantly declined and made my way back to our van, which was when i saw the sign describing said concrete box as the dai nghia humanity center #2. the center sold traditional handicrafts made by local young people who were disabled by the us militarys spraying of the agent orange defoliant during the war. earlier i had eyed a handsome employee and had been surprised to see him moving towards a potential customer dragging his leg in a dramatic limp.

a rush of blood shot to my face. i was ashamed, responsible, arrogant, petty, humbled, stupid, lucky ... my father and thousands of other american gis killed 3 million vietnamese during what the viet call the american war yet no one has showed anger or resentment when i tell them where im from. but this young woman didnt smile to ease my conscience and i became paranoid wondering if she made a connection between our realities. sure, the center's prominent sign aims to tug at heart strings, but surely she didnt know what i would do if she elected to milk my overwhelming guilt.

ive had people chastise me for being cold and uncaring and praised by others as extraordinarily compassionate. back on the road after leaving the center, i realized that i have a very low tolerance for people agonizing over what i perceive to be minor hardship and am a total sap when it comes to individuals who i think have endured significant trauma. (how/why ive appointed myself supreme arbiter of hardship is a question for a future post.) ive often thought a main ingredient for compassion is ones ability to relate to the victim, but my uncomfortable interaction at the center makes me curious about the relationship between guilt and compassion; where do they meet? should they remain mutually exclusive? is there such thing as pure compassion? does guilt taint compassion?

(update) needless to say, on our return trip this afternoon i tried to assuage my guilt through retail therapy. i made a beeline to the woman and acquired mr phams memoir as well as some postcards and a silver ram for lil zuzu. i didnt even haggle for the latter. in karmic retribution for being an arrogant yankee ass, my book is a poorly photocopied reproduction, sporting hand written page numbers and pages folded yet uncut. tearing each page instead of turning them makes reading more interactive. im enjoying the book so far. back to saigon tomorrow.
more viet nam photos here.