Vientiane, Laos

      I stepped off a plane in Vientiane with my Australian boyfriend, Jon, and into another world. A rush of warm, humid air welcomed us, and instantly, the tension that came with entering a communist country seemed to dissipate.

      Laos is landlocked by China, Vietnam, Myanmar, Thailand, and Cambodia. Poor and underdeveloped by Western standards, it’s rich with people who choose, because of their religion, not to strive for monetary gains. The majority of people are Buddhists and are raised to cultivate wisdom and kindness while practicing compassion for all living beings.

      Despite its peaceful population, or perhaps because of it, Laos has been the center of political battles for centuries. The most recent conflict had brought me here: the communist takeover after the Vietnam War and the subsequent mass murders of up to one hundred thousand Hmong people by the Lao People’s Democratic Republic (LPDR).

      I knew some of the refugees who’d made it out alive. They’d immigrated to the United States; many had opened nail salons, small grocery stores, and Vietnamese and Thai restaurants. While escaping, they’d lost family, friends, and even children. Moved by their bravery, I wanted to write a book that would lift the veil on Asian immigration to the United States while highlighting the human rights injustices in postwar Laos.

      Thavisack Vixathep greeted us at the airport with a repeating handshake and toothy grin; he asked us to call him Tom. He was slim, around five feet tall, with short, shiny black hair. Tom was my government minder, an escort to make sure that as a journalist I didn’t overstay or overstep my welcome.

      Tom led us to a blue Mercedes-Benz sedan. As we climbed inside, he warned me I was not permitted to ask questions about the Vietnam War, reeducation camps, forced repatriation, the former Royal Lao family (many of whom had been murdered), genocide, or refugee camps. I tensed. Jon rested his hand on mine.

      The first stop on our guided tour was Pha That Luang, a Buddhist temple described in tour books as the most important monument in Laos. On the outside, the reflection of the sun on the temple’s gold-covered stupa and pillars was blinding. The feeling on the inside was just the opposite, calming and cool. In an alcove, the base of a gold leaf–covered statue of the sitting Buddha was adorned with fresh flowers and burning candles. In a far corner, a group of Buddhist monks with shaved heads, their bodies wrapped in orange cloth, sat on the floor in meditation.

      I already felt a connection with Buddhism. Its teachings make sense to me, as they do to the nearly 500 million people around the world who consider themselves Buddhists. Followers of Buddhism, often called the religion of compassion, commit to a life of nonviolence toward all animals and to eliminating greed from their lives. As I watched the monks, I was excited to be in a country where so many people were leading conscious lives.

      Away from the main attractions of government buildings and temples, the real Vientiane felt like a small town. Motorbikes carrying entire families sped past our car while little girls in school uniforms of white shirts and navy blue skirts gathered together on street corners, eating pineapple skewered on sticks like it was ice cream. Shuttered apartments — reminders of the French occupation of Laos in the early 1900s — looked out over brightly colored fruit stands at every turn. Electricity poles and wires littered the horizon, while open sewers and dirt roads were a reminder that little had changed for decades.

      That evening, as the sting of the heat disappeared with the sun, Jon and I were left alone to stroll a few blocks from our hotel to the banks of the Mekong River. Pretty young women with long, shiny jet-black hair and tiny frames beckoned us to their food stalls. We walked on, arm in arm, until an old man approached, offering two plastic chairs in a secluded spot under a tree. Jon ordered two Lao beers and we settled in, enjoying a view of Thailand, thirty-five hundred feet away on the other side of the glistening Mekong. Music filtered from a window on the nearby street, children laughed at the river’s edge, and sparrows swarmed, welcoming the end of the day. The sunset was crimson red, created by a haze of smoke from cooking fires.

      I was happy, swept into the moment with a cold beer and a new relationship. I’d met Jon eighteen months before, in Casablanca, Morocco, while on assignment for CNN, during a party at the US consulate’s residence. Two days later he unexpectedly burst into my life again.

      At the time, I was scouting a location to shoot video of food markets. Local women in brightly colored robes with head scarves were perusing the outdoor stalls, shopping for their families’ dinner. But what most intrigued me were the homeless street dogs, who followed at a safe distance. They looked up, eager to make eye contact with any person who might provide a scrap of sustenance, but it was as if they were invisible. No one took notice of them.

      I’d witnessed this same street dog problem in other countries and gotten into the habit of packing boxes of dog biscuits when I traveled internationally. I reached into my bag, crouched to the ground, and one by one the market dogs cautiously approached and gently took a biscuit from my hand.

      I was so caught up in the moment that I hardly noticed the man standing behind me until he said in an Australian accent: “If you were my girlfriend, I’d charter a plane so you could take these dogs home with you.”

      I turned and there was Jon, haloed by the sun, with a golden head of curls, freckled skin, and a contagious smile.

      Now he and I were sitting together in Asia, contemplating the mighty Mekong, the source of life for billions of animals, sixty million of them human, and a silent witness to some of the world’s greatest crimes against humanity. From where I was sitting, it was