Page 36 - 1970 LCJH Falcon

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Innocence At Nine

by Elizab th orris

Rain poured off the rusty sides of the panel truck as it turned
off the busy highway and into the ods. An ungrad d road ound steeply
up the mountainside, and the truck crept up this road in 1 gear,
bouncing over exposed rock and shallow gullies. At the top of the ridge,
the driver pulled into a clearing that overlooked the valley and stopped
beside cabin. Opening the door of the truck he called out into the
rain, "Is anyboay here?"
The door of the cabin opened and an elderly Vietnamese man stepped
out in the rain. I asked him a few questions. From what I understood
this as just another peasant farmer.
I got back in the truck and started on ntr ws:y to Saigon. I only
hoped that I'd get there in time to meet the other guys. Colonel Huxley
had sent me to investigate the surrounding land. Now I as finished
and as I ready for some funl
Sure enough, the :aru.ddy roads made me late so I was out to explore
Saigon by JJ\Y'Self.
As I alked down the war-torn streets of Siagon I could see traces
of the ar.
Poverty and disease are common signals. I coul.dn t understand
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ar. Why?
The children, abondoned in the streets left to starve or steal.
They ere so different from typical children back in the states. Ver.y
f laughed--most of them cried. Ver.y few ran--most were too weak.
I'd seen children in the ghettos of New York City that looked healthier
than these.
Laughter as uncommon in such a city, unless it came from a drunken
American soldier. wcy shouldn't all children laugh? It was a birthright
God gave to children--to be free from cares and worries.
Yes, in the war-torn land of Viet Nam birthrights ere taken
away--they mattered very little. Survival was the key ord.
As I turned the corner I sa a bo.y, no more than seven, steal a
small cake from a baker's cart.
I remembered growing up in Yonkers, Connecticut. I never had to
orr.y about food, clothing, shelter. I played baseball, basketball,
football, soccer, tennis, and all other types of ball. In the summer
I swam, in the winter I skated all on the same lake.
The poverty, the disease, the filth that these kids were born
in, grew up in, and died inl It asn't fair. They ere the ones
so innocent.
Children in the United States are sheltered, pampered, provided
for--these orphaned children ere rough and tough from years of living
life. They aren't really children--they are miniature adults.
Miniature adults in every sense of the word. They kn the worries
frustrations, and anxieties of adults. What the orld had thrust on
their narro brown shoulders.
As I alked down the street I paused a moment. A little orphaned
beggar boy stretched out his thin arm.

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