Little Kim

It is the last full day of my 9 months´ travels. With my mind already partially back in the inevitable daily routine of life at home, I wander along the streets of a capital city that does not feel like one. Finally, I reach my destination and walk into the white, cheerful building that serves as the visitors centre.

Instantly, the positive atmosphere of the place that deals with such a destructive subject becomes apparent. I install myself on a fluffy couch for a documentary that focuses on the harsh reality of children being provided with prosthetic devices. They lost their limbs playing with unexploded cluster bombs. Walking past photos of a country dealing with the remnant of a silent war I realise that I never heard of this devastation in my pre-travelling era.

“What’s your name?”

A Lao voice fills the room, bringing me back to the here and now. I had not even noticed him yet, but the young man, although blind, did not miss my presence. Little Kim sets foot in the Cope Centre in Vientiane 16 times per week, “for the free wifi”. My guess is that it is mainly a way out of isolation, but just like the centre, he lets the positive prevail.

Proudly, he shows me a video of his dance performance in a full theatre which expresses his otherwise hidden feelings. While he listens to his screen reader on his head phones, he controls his laptop with his mouth. Besides being blind, the boy also misses both hands. I half expect him to scream out in frustration a number of times, as for me, the pace is painfully slow. But I gradually learn that nothing is an obstacle to share his passion for music with me.

After our chat, I am able to walk out of his world, while he is captured in it for life, although he obviously does not share my wording. Our meeting makes me feel fortunate. Little Kim shows me that little things matter. This, I put into practice in my familiar surroundings. No sentiment of being disappointed to be back, but curious of all that is still to come.