My smile grew as I flipped through each record: 39 million VND donated by 50 benefactors from all over Hanoi to treat 15 patients at the National Cancer Hospital. I felt a collective happiness increasing as I counted each donation, tallied the number of volunteers, and threw one flashy charity event after another. Quantifiable charity achievements like this not only made me proud, but also warmed me with contentment...until I visited a flooded village in Hue.
Though the storm had stopped, the village had to subsist on sickly brown water that smelled of garbage. After flushing away the cattle and tearing down the sacred altars, the beastly storm left only poor homeless people trembling, trying to survive. 30 volunteers and I hastily rolled up our sleeves and waded in. We brought cartons of clothes stacked high like skyscrapers, almost toppling over, which we handed out to survivors through the night.
Every fiber of my body vibrated in anticipation of the recipients’ gratitude. Except, there was no twinkle in their eyes when they received the clothes. Instead, they were filled with bitterness. On the dark street corners, piles of the donated clothing were strewn about. Taking a step closer, I noticed the clothing that was discarded: used prom dresses, bikinis, lingerie - garments that were not sufficient to keep the victims warm nor fit to plow paddy fields. They would rather keep their tattered clothes caked with mud. I staggered backward. My mind swirled. I felt betrayed.
The truth was that although those extravagant statistics may have satisfied me, it was embarrassing to hand out items that revealed how far removed we were from the realities of who we thought we were helping. It was one thing for people to thoughtlessly throw whatever into a charity bin, but I was the one caring for the community. I couldn’t stop thinking about what we delivered. For a long time, I had operated under the notion that charitable work was about giving as much aid as possible to the poor.
The next summer, I visited a psychiatric hospital in Hanoi. Witnessing their lunch, I was as rigid as a board. Each “meal” - a hodgepodge of cold, soggy rice negligibly combined with grisly charred beef, withered cabbage, and dusky egg yolk – was dumped into bowls by caretakers with vacant stares. Instead of serving food with the warmth of a mom feeding her sick children, it felt like they were just trying to get rid of it.
The day after, I decided to cook my favorite comfort meal, Bun Rieu - a noodle soup. I picked the freshest ingredients from the market and rallied my family and the cooks to serve this home-cooked dish. I saw each caretaker slowly poured a spoonful of spicy crab and tomato soup into a bowl and delicately topped it with caramelized shallots and basil. I brought the tray with both hands to a woman in a wheelchair and bowed down to look deep into her eyes. She could not talk properly; however, I could sense a gleam in her previously drowsy eyes and a vivacious smile uplifting her formerly frowning lips. That one warm smile was worth more than all those heavy cartons of clothes. I did not count how many bowls of soup I served and I didn’t administer a survey to rate their satisfaction on a scale from 1-10, but I can still remember hearing the happy clinking of spoons in their bowls and the satisfaction in their slurps.
From the experience, I realize that charity is not just about donating the largest sum possible, giving the most boxes of clothing we can, or handing out whatever is edible: true charity does not count unless I can also give respect and compassion as well. When I give now, I factor in if I am truly comprehending what others need and deserve so that they are reminded of their worth.