The next day, Tom picked us up at 9 AM to take us to the National Ethnic Cultural Park, twelve miles south of Vientiane. I’d expressed an interest in learning about the history of the country, and he’d assured me I’d find what I was looking for there. Since the communist government still controlled Laos, I didn’t expect to find what I was seeking — information on the Vietnam War and the mass exodus of refugees that followed. But I was eager to see what the government made public.

      As we walked through the gates, it was apparent we’d entered a forgotten place. Kiosks were shuttered, footpaths were overgrown, and there were no signs of staff. Tom quickly apologized that it appeared closed and invited us to walk the grounds.

      It was oppressively hot and the jungle was alive with the wing-snapping rattle of millions of cicadas. The noise was loud and yet simultaneously calming. I sauntered down a dark path that led to a moss-covered statue of an elephant. As I admired it, a bird landed on the elephant’s trunk. It was a bright green parakeet, with a red beak and matching neck ring.

      “Hello,” I said, hoping he’d mimic. “Hello,” I repeated. He nodded and extended his wings, ruffling them with a shake. He nodded again, let out a screech, and flew down the path. I followed, pushing past a patch of hanging vines to find him bouncing on a palm frond. As soon as I approached, he screeched and flew farther down the trail, out of sight. Then Jon yelled from that direction.

      “Jenny, don’t come down this path!”

      “What is it?” I asked.

      He didn’t reply.

      I proceeded cautiously until I reached a clearing. In the middle was a ten-foot-high statue of a smiling Buddha head surrounded by a circular dirt pathway. Jon was off to one side, standing in front of a six-foot-high bell-shaped cage with thick iron bars.

      “Don’t look,” he warned.

      The parakeet let out a screech and I looked up. He was on top of the cage, nodding as I walked closer. My eyes dropped.

      A black Asiatic bear was imprisoned in a cage he’d physically outgrown. The cream-colored half-moon marking across his chest — a hallmark of Asiatic black bears — was broken in the center by a line of dark brown hair. He had a long snout and rounded ears that stood upright, each the size of a man’s hand. One arm dangled outside the five-inch space between the bars, while the whole paw on his other arm was stuffed into his mouth. His eyes and the fur below them were wet, and he was rocking on his feet. When he saw me, a muffled cry erupted from his throat and his free arm reached for me. I moved closer, inches from his reach, and looked into his eyes. He was sobbing, trying to catch his breath like a child after a long tantrum. His eyes held mine. In that moment, telepathically, he conveyed his suffering to me.

      I looked around his feet for signs of food or excrement, proof he’d been eating, but saw neither. A plastic pail of stagnant green water was behind him, but I couldn’t tell if it was within reach. My eyes went to his again, and he lifted the arm that was outside the bars, turning it over for me to see the palm of his paw. There were five circular blisters, bubbled and red, on the pads, along with other spots of scar tissue. He cried out as I looked from the blisters back to him.

      “You like bear?” Tom asked in his pidgin English.

      “This is an unacceptable situation for any animal,” Jon answered.

      “Bear happy. Nice bear,” Tom said, grinning.

      “No. Bear not happy. Bad water,” I said. “Bear is sick,” I said, pointing to the blistered paw. “Who takes care of this bear?”

      Tom’s smile vanished. “I find man,” he said, and walked away.

      My eyes followed Tom, and it was only then that I saw the other four cages, all circling the Buddha, all imprisoning bears. I must have been so focused on the first bear that I shut out everything around me. Now it was as if someone had turned up the volume and all I heard were the sounds of despair. I turned in a circle, my heart racing, feeling anguished and desperate. The sun was unforgiving, burning. My knees buckled and I grabbed a handrail.

      At that moment, Tom arrived with a man wearing a conical straw hat, a light brown long-sleeved shirt, and sarong pants. He was carrying a handmade wide-bottomed whisk broom. “This man is keeper of bears. He’s friend to bears,” Tom said.

      I asked whether he spoke English, and Tom shook his head.

      “Will you translate for me?” I asked.

      Tom nodded.

      “To keep bears in this small cage is not good. This water is bad water. Where is the food? And what is wrong with his paw?” I said, pointing to the blisters.

      Tom interpreted the questions, and the two men launched into a discussion. The bear stopped crying and focused on their conversation, his eyes on them, his ears turned in their direction, one paw still in his mouth. I wondered if he understood their language. I couldn’t. I could only read their expressions, and they were serious.

      After a couple of minutes, the bear’s keeper scurried away, and Tom turned to me and Jon.

      “This bear has been here since baby. Some other bears,” he said, pointing to cages nearby, “brought here by people who keep for pet, like dog, until they grow too big. They ask park to take care of them, and people pay money to see them. Man who take care of bear likes bear very much but say, never enough food for them.”

      As Tom talked, the keeper returned with a bucket of fresh water. He poured it into the green water, only serving to stir the algae. He looked at me and smiled, clearly hoping for praise. I wanted to thank him but held back. The least he could do was to give the animals fresh water, and he hadn’t. Not today and clearly not before.

      “What about his paw?” I asked the keeper, pointing to the blisters.

      We may not have spoken the same language, but he knew what I was asking. He answered and Tom cringed.

      “This is where people burn bear with cigarettes,” Tom said, mimicking the way a person would crush a cigarette butt in an ashtray.

      My throat swelled and my eyes welled with tears. I turned to the bear and our eyes locked. With a despair that permeated my being, I physically felt his suffering.

      Jon’s voice interrupted. “Let’s go, Jenny. There’s nothing you can do. You can’t save every mistreated animal in the world.”

      “No,” I whispered, my eyes still connected with the bear. “But I can help the ones I come across.”

      In that moment, locking eyes with the bear, I experienced an epiphany, a profound spiritual realization that not only could I do something, but that I must. Fate had brought me here for a reason. I turned back to the bear. Wordlessly, I promised I’d help and asked him not to give up.

      As I walked toward the exit, I stopped at each cage, took a photograph, and gave each bear my promise. When I looked back, the keeper was pushing a wheelbarrow, half-filled with vegetables, in the direction of the bears, and I experienced a moment of satisfaction. Yet I knew the gesture was meant to appease me; it wasn’t based on any lasting compassion for the imprisoned animals.

      As we walked toward the car, Tom suggested the bears were probably poached as cubs — victims of the illegal wildlife trade — and had been “saved” by the park. I didn’t buy his story. The way the cages had been positioned around the Buddha statue was intentional; these animals were an attraction.

      “Why does the government run the cultural park?” I asked.

      “Government