CHAPTER 30

NECKER ISLAND, THE CARIBBEAN

BARING MY SCARS

AUGUST 2015

“We will pay all expenses for you and Toan,” the event coordinator said to me, as I absentmindedly ran my index finger along my left-arm scar. I am almost sure my skin is softer there. Maybe the laser treatments are working, thinning out my scar tissue.

“Kim,” the coordinator said, bringing me back to the reason for her call. “It would be such an honor if you would come share your story with us.” The “us” happened to be fifty of the world’s most influential leaders who were attending billionaire Richard Branson’s multi-day seminar, “The Power of Forgiveness and Gratitude,” on his private Caribbean island.

“I am the one who would be honored,” I said. “Toan and I accept your kind offer.”

For the past twenty years, regardless of where I am speaking, when I am speaking, or to whom I am speaking, I have almost always worn a traditional Vietnamese ao dai, complemented by a pair of black shoes. It is such a contrast to the secondhand blouse, polka-dot skirt, mismatched scarf, and mid-length beige trench coat that I wore for the Veterans Day speech in 1997. I did not feel put together at all, but what was I to do at the time? I had no money to purchase clothing; Toan and I were trying to survive!

I remember crying out to the Lord one night. I want to look professional. I want to look beautiful. But most of all, God, I want to hide my skin. Of course, the entire reason that people were inviting me to come speak in the first place was because of my scars. They must simply use their imagination, God. That is the best that I can offer them.

One week after I began asking God for help in this regard, I met a Vietnamese couple at a church service. I did not know either of them, but I felt an instant camaraderie with the wife . . . as well as an instant affinity for her beautiful outfit. “I must tell you how lovely your ao dai is,” I said to her. “Did you get it overseas?”

She smiled conspiratorially and said, “I will give you a lady’s number, and in two days’ time, you shall have one for yourself.”

As you might guess, I could not phone the lady fast enough. In less than a week, she had met with me, taken my measurements, and whipped up seemingly from thin air the most gorgeous ao dai I had ever owned. I believe I paid fifty dollars for the outfit, which I still wear to this day. I am comfortable when I wear it. I look professional. I look beautiful—at least, that is what many people have told me. And most important, not one inch of my scars can be seen. This has been the perfect outfit for me.

When Toan and I arrived on Necker Island, we were greeted by scorching heat. But the weather had nothing to do with something I had already decided to do. For the first time, I was going to wear short sleeves in public. With armfuls of courage, I had packed a lightweight sundress for this esteemed event.

I had hated my buffalo-hide skin for most of my life, and yet I had indeed made peace with my pain. I had come to accept the napalm’s effects. I had learned, yes, even to love my scars. “You humble me,” I would say to them. “You help me to live.”

But here on Necker Island, I felt some trepidation: What will people think of me? What will they say?

I thought back to another prestigious invitation I received in 2000—to meet Queen Elizabeth—an event I nearly turned down. When one of the queen’s representatives phoned and asked me to come to London in two weeks’ time I said, “Oh, I am so very sorry, but I cannot be there that day.”

There was a long pause, and then she said, “You cannot come for the queen?”

“I am honored by this invitation,” I replied sincerely, “but I have another commitment in the United States that day.”

I was scheduled to speak at a university in California. How I loved speaking to university students! Not only did their youthful optimism inspire me, but being in an educational environment was personally gratifying. I had spent so much time wishing for, but never seeming to obtain, a solid education, that being in a large lecture hall full of eager students felt almost like it closed that gap for me. As only God could orchestrate it, on six occasions, the university higher-ups actually presented me with an honorary doctorate. Really! Me, Kim Phuc, the one who never earned even a bachelor’s degree because of governmental shenanigans? Each time I returned home with another one, I insisted with a twinkle in my eye that Toan, Thomas, and Stephen address me by my title. With the titles adding up, the boys finally referred to me as “Doctor Doctor Doctor Doctor Doctor Doctor Mommy.” Oh, we had some good laughs over that one.

On the other end of the phone line, I heard the queen’s representative say with a bit of an edge, “I see,” before assuring me that she would pass along my regrets.

Which is precisely what I told Uncle Ut when he phoned me moments later. “Kim, you must go to England. This is the queen, Kim! The queen.” I could imagine the look on Uncle Ut’s face from the tone of his voice.

Uncle Ut said that he, too, had been invited and explained why both of us needed to be there: A permanent exhibit featuring my picture was being installed in a British museum.

“But Uncle Ut,” I said, “if they knew they would be inviting us, why are we only learning of this today?”

“Kim,” he said, “this is how things must be—possibly for security reasons, we could not know.”

I felt terrible that I could not make it, but Uncle Ut would have none of my rationale. “Kim, you must change your plans,” he told me.

Knowing Uncle Ut would never lead me astray, I said, “Oh, Uncle Ut, I do love you. I will do what you ask. I will change my plans and go.” Toan was to travel with me, and so we set about making our plans.

Toan and I finally made it to the welcome wing of London’s Science Museum, where elegant preparations had been made. Everyone in attendance was on pins and needles, waiting for the queen and her husband, Prince Philip, to arrive. Behind the receiving line, onlookers watched eagerly to catch even a glimpse of the British royalty. I had landed in quite a whirlwind of activity and now understood just how rare it was to have this wonderful opportunity to meet such a famous leader.

I had chosen a beautiful black ao dai for the occasion, its bodice accented with thick crystal clusters, its fabric covering every inch of my scars. I had been prepped on the protocol for how the queen would move through the receiving line—“She will move rather quickly, in order to have time to greet each guest; do not offer your hand until she first offers hers; keep conversations brief, supplying only the information that the queen asks of you.”

But when she arrived at the museum and began greeting guests, I was not prepared for what happened when she reached me.

Queen Elizabeth extended her gloved hand for me to shake, looked intently at my face, and said, “Kim? Is it really you?”

I laughed while still holding the queen’s delicate hand. “Yes! It is me, Kim Phuc, your Majesty. Truly! Here I am!”

“Kim, I can hardly believe it,” she replied. Then it dawned on me. She cannot see the evidence of my burns. I wanted to roll up my sleeve to show her that I really was that little girl, but I knew it would be violating proper etiquette.

Still, the moment stuck with me, long after the event. Why am I so ashamed of my scars? I wondered. What am I afraid will happen if I reveal them?

Here, at Mister Branson’s event, I was ready to come out of hiding. I was ready to walk by faith, not fear regarding my appearance. I was ready to bare my scars.

I will never forget the warmth on Necker Island—not just the tropical temperatures outside, but also the spirit of acceptance and love in the room when I was giving my talk. “Choose to free your heart from hatred,” I said to those gathered, the first in my list of five important decisions I wanted the audience to consider making too. “Yes, we will be wounded in this life,” I acknowledged. “Yes, we will feel we have every right to make our perpetrators pay for the wounds we received. But this is the truth: Only God can right the wrongs we have known. And to carry around hatred and bitterness is to forfeit our one beautiful life. Come to God. Choose to love God. Lean into God’s supernatural strength, knowing it is the only means for doing supernatural things. Let go of the hatred. Let go of the bitterness. Allow God to do what is his, alone, to do.”

I had worked through four of my five points—free your heart from hatred; live a simple, not complicated, life; give more to those in need that you meet; expect less, and you’ll know less dissatisfaction—and when I arrived at the fifth one, the topic I knew so intimately, I smiled. “Walk by faith, and not by fear,” I said to the crowd.

“I spent too many years tied in knots because of plain fear. I feared my pain. I feared my appearance. I feared my destiny. I feared myself. And where had all that fear taken me? Right to suicide’s front door. You cannot imagine how gripped by fear I was,” I said. “I could not breathe, for the fear I knew.” I paused, then continued.

“But then,” I said, “I found faith. Not a nondescript sort of faith, but the faith of a person who has met and surrendered to God. And do you know what I discovered, upon being swept up by the God of love? Fear cannot be present wherever faith is exercised.”

I told the men and women that I wanted to demonstrate what walking by faith instead of fear means to me. “Today,” I said, as I held my left arm aloft, “I am showing my scars in public for the first time. Before this, I have always worn long sleeves. But I am no longer afraid. These scars, they are part of my journey. They are part of my story. They are part of me. And I have decided that in order to walk by faith, I must let go of my fears—the fear of what you might think about me as you see my unusual skin; the fear of what you might say about me, long after we part ways from this event; the fear of what you might feel toward me, now that you see how disfigured I am . . .”

Before I could say anything more, a smattering of applause began across the quiet room. That smattering gave way to louder applause, which turned into a standing ovation. These wildly successful men and women had tears in their eyes. “I love you, Kim!” several of the participants shouted above the raucous applause. I smiled broadly and whispered, “Oh, how I love you, too.”