The place is the Philippines, and the year is 1979.

Bonna Sam shivers amid the dark, green forest and hides under the moistened trees to escape the glare of the overpowering, translucent moon, which has been chasing her it seems, for a lifetime. She weighs eighty-nine pounds, maybe, soaking wet, and her frail, yet callous fingers, grip for the support of the trees, the only shelter that she has known for over nine months now. Her three sisters and two brothers huddle together. Their breath keeps them warm during the nighttime, while in the day, the stifling noon sun penetrates their olive skin, as they hold together, and pray for a new beginning. Bonna is only fourteen.

“Little sprout, little sprout,” her mother calls to her from across the refugee camp. She is holding a pail of luke-warm water, and her fingers are coated with the rough, brown clay of the straw hut in which she and her family have been sleeping. “Drink, my little one, drink,” she whispers softly as her child obeys, gazing over to her younger sister who is sleeping. She murmurs under her breath and shakes her head as to ward off the “enemy” that has been chasing her and her family—the enemy that has been striving to capture them, to destroy their vision of achieving “it.”

For the last two months there has been no sound of men and their guns. No firing and no screams of terror, no children slaughtered before other children’s eyes. No horrible cries of pain, no moans or gasping for one’s last breath of life, no mania––no evil. But, that is the most frightening thing of all, for the quiet is always followed by the storm, and the longer it remains peaceful, the sooner the crash and destruction. But this is the Philippines, Bonna thinks, a little girl trapped in the big woman’s sea of experience. I won’t hold my breath yet. Not until I have breathed “it.”

Three refugee camps now—finally, this may be the last one. First, the border camp in Cambodia, then the other camp in Thailand, and now—at last—the Philippines.

Sleep will never come with complete surrender and oblivion to the world around them. The natural responses will always, for a time, be fear, suspicion, and hesitation; it will take a long time, maybe forever, to become normal again.

Bonna looked over at the small group of women dancing, moving their frail, little bodies to the rhythmic pulse of the musical instruments, each step taken with careful consideration and pride. Bonna sighed to herself, as she gazed at the one older woman leading the rest of the dance circle. She was petite, yet something about her spoke strength, and the sparkling, surprising blueness of her almond-shaped eyes clearly called individual attention to her beauty. Bonna closed her own eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like just to move like that. How beautiful and rewarding it must be to express oneself through this uniqueness and talent. It was a shame that Bonna’s parents did not share the same opinion as their fourteen-year old daughter.

“Entertainment is no place for a young woman to earn respect,” Bonna’s mother would scold her, though acknowledging her daughter’s appreciation for this art form. Just to be allowed one opportunity to at least try…, Bonna thought reluctantly to herself. Perhaps another time, in another world, she would be allowed the opportunity to rise above, to soar through the air with ease and graceful movement. Bonna possessed such love for this gift that life offered, yet too many obstacles lay in front of her preventing her. She would have to leave this dream behind. Bonna would indeed have to be practical.

Lying in her family's quarters that last night, she looked down at her little gold bangles. She had been given these by her parents to celebrate her birth, her coming into the world, and tomorrow, perhaps, she would be reborn again.

“Sleep, my little sprout, for perhaps tomorrow, we will get there.”

The morning sunlight warmed Bonna’s smooth cheek, as she felt a man shake her lightly, indicating that it was time to go. “Come on,” he motioned, now rather abruptly, for her to awaken and rise. “Much to do ahead now, be good and get along.”

Bonna rose and searched around for her family who was packing up a few articles of clothing. Her mother was secretly holding onto a photo and some ink-smeared, old ripped letters that she had been able to sneak off with. Her father looked at her with a stern, steady unspoken acknowledgement of his daughter’s fear and apprehension. His cold, clammy hands grasped for her warm, soft ones, and for the first time in Bonna’s life, she knew her father had real fear.

Almost a year of giving up their home, of eating food without any real taste, a year of going through the motions and battling the inner fear of being captured––this was a year when children learned the secrets that this world should never tell. This was a year when children learned that promises can be broken daily, and just surviving—just surviving—is enough.

“Come now,” her mother whispered, as Bonna climbed the airplane stairs alone, her brothers, sisters, and parents following. Bonna paused. She wanted to leave something behind, but what? She could throw one of her bangles, but there was no time for sentimentalism or afterthoughts. There was only time to scurry forward, and, of course, to feel the fear overcoming her bravery. The motor gave a shriek and a loud ruuuum, ruuuum, as the smoke trailed behind the motor.

At the end of her long flight, Bonna saw the tops of the many buildings and the flag that spoke America, and she knew she had finally managed to capture “it.”

The place is Lowell, Massachusetts—the Patrick J. Mogan Cultural Center––and the year is 2003.

“I will meet you in a minute, Brianna,” Bonna motions for her daughter to go inside and wait for her, while she assists the other young children with their costumes for today’s practice. The room is full of chatty children laughing together in their dance circles. Vibrant colors and decorative costumes fill the room with exquisite taste. Thirty or forty young girls, aged six to eighteen, fill the room with their gold bangle-stacked bracelets, and gold-metal belts with loosely-fit palazzo pants, wrapped from a long, one-piece, lavish dress material, that had been twisted behind their legs to give the appearance of being a skirt.

The music starts and there is a pulse, which cannot be mistaken. The children rise, subtle moves and dainty first steps. Bonna explains to the audience that the children are trained to move with the beats at a very young age. “These are more like warm-ups, and these exercises stretch their muscles and minds to open themselves up to the dancing. You see how the position of the hands and feet are a big part of the dancing? The teacher is instructing the little girl how to correctly point her toes and fold her fingers. Each motion is performed in synchronized dance steps. There is an emphasis on positioning and group-focused movement.”

Bonna assists half of the class with the dressing of their costumes, in between also helping the local Sunday audience that had come to see the little girls' Cambodian dance class. She sits in the back of the classroom and watches her daughter as she plays the role of the male dancer. She is graceful and moves precisely to every stressed beat. Bonna is now more proud than ever. “It fulfills me to see her learn something that she loves and does so well. Just as I love to see her speak her language with eagerness and a constant sense of progression, it makes me glad to see her immerse herself in such beauty—such true self-expression. For Cambodian dancing is something I never had a chance to indulge in.”

Bonna closes her eyes and immediately, she is back, back in the Philippines, back watching the women dance in the tent next door to her art class. Bonna could still see the beads of sweat glisten across the foreheads of the blue-eyed Cambodian dance instructor as she kicked up her left leg and held it into the humid air. The woman had been determined to dance her part perfectly, and perfection was what Bonna admired. “If I just had been given the chance,” Bonna thinks, remembering what it felt like to be young and having a dream that seemed impossible. “Ah, well, at another time, in another world.” Twenty-something years later now, that other world stood staring her in the face.

Bonna watches as the girls move to the beat with precise timing and keen skill. Brianna is so young, yet, she possesses this ability to express her individuality through her dancing. Bonna gets up to move closer to the children, to the source of an inexplicable feeling that has come over her. “To raise a child to move like this,” she muses, stunned by her powerful overflow of emotion, “she will move mountains with her love for this art. She will win a whole country’s war with her beauty and truth.”