Wish You Happy Forever (35 page)

Our trucks ran between the airport, the orphanage, and the places in trouble. When we needed more help, the ministry sent in the army (the PLA). Half the Sky was
zijiren
(one of us)—not so foreign anymore.

A small convoy of red-bannered military trucks filled the orphanage driveway. Forty uniformed soldiers loaded one truck with tents, baby formula, clothing, and blankets. The front grill sported the Half the Sky logo and the characters for “Relief Goods.” The army would try to get relief to two thousand children in flood-threatened Leigu, tucked in a valley northwest of the epicenter. Another truck was destined for the children stranded in distant Aba.

ZZ and I climbed behind Mrs. Gan into the ministry minibus. It was already full. The elegant UNICEF China representative—a foreigner like myself—her cameraman, and three Chinese assistants were surrounded by media gear and bulging plastic bags. Everyone wore bright turquoise UNICEF T-shirts. They scooted aside to make a bit of room for us. The UNICEF representative didn't seem particularly thrilled to have us onboard (“What is this Half the Sky?”), but her colleagues welcomed us. I was humbled to be part of the team.

“Do you share our policy on children and institutionalization?” the UNICEF representative asked, moments after we were introduced. I'm embarrassed to say I had no idea what it was. I glanced at the UNICEF team in the backseat. They smiled apologetically.

“Absolutely,” I said.

“Good,” she said. “Because if you don't, we don't want to work with you.”

The minibus headed north toward Dujiangyan, just fifty kilometers south of the epicenter. After careful scrutiny at each stop, guards at the military checkpoints allowed our minibus to pass through into the town.

Dujiangyan, a once-bustling resort town, was in full relief mode. There was quake damage on every street, though not all of it catastrophic. Three-story buildings with faces ripped off, furniture still inside. Shops open for business despite pancaked rooms overhead. Tents crowded onto every possible bit of open space.

Mrs. Gan showed us where the government was erecting Hardworking and Frugal Families Shelter, the first and largest refugee camp. Several acres of farmland had been cleared, and now, prefabricated blue-roofed housing was being erected in neat rows. An instant city, only a bit more than a week after the quake.

We stopped at the local orphanage. The children and
ayi
s were outside, like most everyone else, living in a tent. No one had really slept in days.

Mrs. Gan, ZZ, and I climbed out of the minibus and visited with the children. They were eager to talk; their quake stories spilled out. Meanwhile, two UNICEF workers set about quizzing the workers and filling out questionnaires. The third hauled one of the plastic bags out of the minibus.

The UNICEF representative remained in the minibus, adjusting her makeup and smoothing her hair. Eventually she emerged, smiling and fresh. Diego, the cameraman, filmed her giving toys to the children. Then she posed for stills while her colleagues did the work they came for.

It was the same drill at every stop. Whether makeshift shelter or government refugee camp or hospital ward, each visit was capped with a UNICEF representative photo op.

“WE'VE TALKED TO
the Army,” Dick said. “The trucks can't get through to Aba.”

His call came while the ministry minibus was driving us through more quake-ravaged countryside toward the big refugee shelter in Mianyang.

“They told us that nearly two hundred people have died in the last few days along those mountain roads in mudslides caused by the early rains,” he said. “As dire as the situation appears to be, even the Aba director feels the risk is too great.”

“So you think there's no way to get to those kids?”

“There's maybe one. Since the ministry was instrumental in launching us on this mission, can you ask if there's any possibility the government could fly at least some of this shipment by helicopter?”

“Okay . . . sure,” I said.

I hung up and looked at the back of the head of the Ministry of Civil Affairs of the PRC's sole representative in the vehicle, Mrs. Gan. She was sound asleep and snoring. The UNICEF representative sat stonily beside me. This wasn't the moment for
carpe diem
.

“The Mianyang Jiuzhou Stadium is the largest and
most famous
stadium in southwest China,” the local Civil Affairs official told us as our minibus neared the sports complex. “It cost 150 million
yuan
! Many people criticized such wasteful spending. Of course, they don't criticize now! No other place is large enough to shelter so many refugees.”

We were allowed past another military checkpoint onto stadium grounds. The giant courtyard was ringed by a multicolored sea of tents, tarps, and plastic sheeting. The Red Cross and various government agencies had set up aid tents and kiosks. Cases of bottled water were stacked in small mountains.

Twenty thousand survivors, maybe more, overflowed the grounds. They were camped on quilts or sleeping bags among their few possessions; or standing in line for information or food; or wandering and looking for familiar faces; or scanning for the hundredth time the row of white boards covered with name lists of those in other shelters or hospitalized with injuries; or studying the big notice board and every other vertical space that was covered with missing-person flyers, photos, and posters.

We left the minibus, and while Mrs. Gan went to check in with Civil Affairs officials, ZZ and I wandered over to the notice board. We joined the dozens who were standing stock-still in front of it, staring at the rain-washed notices and fading faces, wanting them to morph into someone they loved but seemed to have lost.

I looked at the faces on the board. Children and grannies and strong young men. All vanished. The same song played over and over again on the loudspeakers, “No matter where you are, I must find you. . . .”

Mrs. Gan returned. She told us that it would not be possible to visit the children inside the arena, the “inner circle.”

“But why not?” the UNICEF representative protested. “UNICEF has come expressly to help the children. That is our only purpose for coming all this way. Just today the drive was over three hours.”

“I'm sorry,” Mrs. Gan said. “The authorities wish only to protect the children. They are concerned about the spread of disease. Since we have come all this way, however, I suggest you visit with the many families here. As you can see, there are thousands of children. I'm certain it will be all right to take their pictures. Our bus will wait here until you return. Take all the time you need.”

The UNICEF representative sighed and turned away. She walked into the throng with her crew following.

ZZ and I started to do the same. Mrs. Gan caught us both by the arm.

“Follow me,” she said.

A DOZEN MORE
checkpoints led us to the “inner circle”—a very big gymnasium housing about a thousand children, volunteers (most in their late teens or early twenties), police, and soldiers.

“No picture taking in here.” Mrs. Gan smiled. She'd had it with the photo ops.

Neat rows of red mats striped the wood floors. We walked past a few counseling sessions—three or four earnest psychologists, brought in by the Municipal Committee of Youth League, questioning a single frozen-faced child.

Mrs. Gan introduced us to Mr. Liang, the man in charge. Recently retired from the military, Mr. Liang had a calm and kindly demeanor.

“How do the counselors decide which children to counsel?” I asked.

“We look for the sad faces,” Mr. Liang said gently. “Generally, those are the ones who need help.”

“That seems the right approach,” said ZZ.

“Sometimes, though, if the child looks very sad,” he said, “they are counseled by a few different groups.”

I wandered through the rows of children and sat down beside a little girl, seven or eight years old. She had a sheet of paper before her, beside a bunch of colored markers. She was looking down at the plain pencil in her hands, chipping the red paint off its outside with her fingernails.

The paper was blank, except for a neatly drawn round sun in one corner. It was black.

“May I sit with you?” I asked.

The girl said nothing. I sat beside her. I touched the black sun.

“Is your drawing finished?”

“Uncle said to draw my home. Draw trees and flowers. Call the picture ‘Take Care of Our Planet.'”

“You don't want to?”

“I want to draw earthquake, but I don't know how.”

“What is earthquake?”

“Big shaking, big noise, then come aftershocks, then comes epidemic when you die for not washing hands before eating.”

We sat for a while and pondered such a fate.

“Do you want some help with your drawing?”

She nodded. Then she climbed into my lap. The tears came before she'd even settled.

“I miss my mama,” she whispered, choking on the awful words.

IT WAS RAINING
lightly, and mud flowed on the roads. The UNICEF representative decided that her team would not join us for the drive farther north to the small orphanage in Zitong.

When we arrived, dozens of children were huddled in the courtyard, sheltered from the drizzle by a few dazed young
ayi
s holding umbrellas. A large blue government relief tent sat in the center. It was full of babies and toddlers. The walls of the orphanage itself were too cracked to trust.

A sign inside the gate listed the names of new arrivals, some with notations.