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On the opposite side of the world, Cameron Macauley sits in his cluttered office in Harrisonburg, Virginia. The small southern town is home to a McDonald’s, an information centre, James Madison University and not much else. He sits in front of his small wooden desk surrounded by treasures he collected during his adventures across the sea. Painted African tribal masks hang on the wall suspended by metal hooks. Their mouths are opened wide as if they’re about to greet their owner with a song. An antique map dresses another wall. The once white sheet of parchment has been stained yellow with age like it’s been soaked with tea. Its weathered edges are torn. Books with leather bindings coloured red, blue and brown are stacked on shelves, chairs, and the scratchy tan carpet.

Macauley used to work for the Landmine Survivors Network as a psychological rehabilitation specialist taking him to former warzones all over the world – including Vietnam. “Back in those days a lot of people were making money digging up war remnants to sell for scrap metal,” he says. “They would frequently uncover unexploded bombs.” He explains that when people began disassembling these bombs, and other dangerous war remnants for metal, they would often detonate. If the person survived the blast, they were likely disfigured and left physically disabled.

“What we wanted to do was train people who had been injured by explosives ordinates in wars to do just basic counseling with people who were still in the recovery process,” says Macauley.

Without much financial or government support, Macauley says that peer counseling was the easiest and most effective way to help newly disabled people cope with their trauma. “A good deal of research supports its validity as helping people recover faster and preventing suicide, preventing drug and alcohol abuse, and even in some cases, preventing people from engaging in high risk or violent behavior,” he explains. While peer counseling may be the most cost effective way to help landmine survivors successfully reintegrate back into society, Macauley says that the process was more difficult in Vietnam than in the other countries he has worked in.

“We ran into a couple of cultural peculiarities,” he adds, remembering his first few days on the ground in Vietnam.

Macauley’s salt and peppered eyebrows furrow until their hidden beneath the thin metal frame of his glasses. He says that the stigma that exists in Vietnam towards people who were physically disabled because of the American War is complex. “Veterans who have served their country and are disabled because of war have a number of privileges if they fought on the side of the north,” says Macauley. He continues to say that the soldiers of the North and the Viet Cong who were injured are viewed as war heroes. Their missing limbs worn like badges of honor – a small loss for the greater good of the country. The northern warriors get all the perks the government has to offer says Macauley. Free health care and transportation, monthly financial support, and they’re invited to join active political groups in the community. He adds that some even get sent annual gifts. “Those who fought on the side of the south get none of this, and in fact, some of them are often ostracized and discriminated against,” he says. That means that over 40 years after the war has ended, the communist government is still penalizing people for their actions. Although the government has no concrete statistics concerning the disabled population in the country, they have kept a detailed list of names of those who fought against them. Macauley says that it’s nearly impossible for a disabled person to hide their history and receive support of any kind from the government.

These stigmas are some of the central issues that prevents Vietnam’s Law for Persons with Disabilities from being successful states Macauley. “There are many areas of the law that are deficient”, he explains, adding that since the law is left in the hands of each province, than poor provinces have barely seen its effects. “Most states in Vietnam are still in the process of implementing this law and they haven’t done a very good job,” he says, “so there are many places where people with disabilities are still campaigning for their rights.”

One of these places, according to Macauley, is the rural province of Quang Binh.

During the American War, Quang Binh was part of North Vietnam. Situated in the centre of the country, the province was just 20 kilometers away from the demilitarized zone (DMZ) dividing the two battling nations. The Vietnamese DMZ was a prime battleground during the war, making the surrounding provinces perfect locations for landmines, bombs, and other explosive war ordinance. Macauley says he spent a lot of time working with landmine survivors in Quang Binh, specifically with the Association for Empowerment of Persons with Disabilities (AEPD). AEPD was once a chapter of the Landmine Survivor Network, and formed after the network dissolved due to a lack of funding. “Of all the organizations for people with disabilities that I know around the world”, says Macauley, “I think AEPD is one of the best.” When he was in Quang Binh, Macauley says he worked on a number of projects with AEPD and its project manager, Nguyen Hao.

“[Quang Binh] is one of the top 10 provinces for population of persons with disabilities,” explains Nguyen over the phone. While Nguyen is firm on this statistic, there’s no evidence available to back her claims. The line crackles loudly, static shrieking from the receiver of the cellphone. Nguyen’s voice briefly cuts out, filling the room with silence, before the buzzing returns at full volume – her voice barely audible above the loud hum. Nguyen apologizes profusely although it’s clear by her tone that she’s annoyed by the technological inconvenience.

She explains that the rural province is nestled between Laos and the Pacific Ocean and is relatively untouched by the footsteps of adventure seeking tourists. Rows of plush green mountain peaks frame the horizon. The jungle spreads down the cliffs and into the valleys, sheltering the rice fields below. Gentle rivers with sparkling teal water flow freely with small boats and rafts made of bamboo docked on their beds. They dance from left to right in the current. Workers wade into the water silently tending to their crops. It’s the perfect picture of peace and tranquility. It’s a scene broadcasted on travel ads and plastered on post cards – the stereotypical image of Vietnam that’s sold to adventurers across the world. Nguyen says that while the quit existence is a bonus for the farmers in the area who can tend to their rice patties without Westerners snapping photos, it means that modern technology, including cell reception, is limited. According to a poverty analysis conducted by the Australian Agency for International Development, Quang Binh is one of Vietnam’s poorest provinces with nearly half of the population living in poverty. So it’s no real surprise that the province’s telephone service is lacking.

Nguyen sighs deeply and asks if her voice is clear on the other end of the phone. With the line intact she continues her story. She explains that AEPD does not provide charity. In fact, you will never see Nguyen or any of her team members making door-to-door house calls and handing over a cheque to an impoverished family. She says that cash is not the support that a disabled person requires. The organization works to improve the conditions for Quang Binh’s disabled community by giving the poorest individuals the tools they need to change their own future. She explains that if a disabled woman is interested in sewing, but her condition limits her from working in a tailor’s shop, AEPD will provide her with the proper training and equipment to open her own store. Supplying essential tools, like sewing machines and thread, allows her to work at her own pace and create her own schedule. But it’s the woman who’s in charge of mobilizing herself.

“We only support when the person with a disability shows their effort,” says Nguyen, “our support is a final push to overcome their difficulties.” It’s tough love, but she says it’s the only way that people with disabilities in poor provinces like Quang Binh can break the cycle of poverty and stigma. While the Law for Persons with Disabilities was created to improve the quality of life of the disabled population, Nguyen says that it’s just AEPD and a few other advocacy groups that are working to help the community in the region.

Outside of Saigon’s city walls, disabled people in small provinces like Quang Binh have no idea that they have rights of any kind explains Nguyen. In 2013, the Quang Binh People’s Committee launched a plan of assistance for the disabled community in the province. The plan, which is tailored specifically to the needs to the disabled people in the area, is meant to “help persons with disabilities to overcome difficulties, to have better lives,” by 2020. But despite the government’s plan, Nguyen says that it’s not enough. “There are many other policies that persons with disabilities have not been aware of or have not been published or communicated with them,” she adds.

But when asked specifically about what the government could be doing to improve things, the line goes silent again. But this time it’s not the shoddy phone connection that’s to blame. Nguyen stifles a low nervous laugh, just loud enough to be heard above the hum of the electric static. “I think that’s quite a political question,” she mutters. It’s clear that she’s worried about speaking ill of the country’s one-party government. She pauses, choosing her next words carefully. “I mean the capacity of the government is limited,” she says reluctantly. “From my point of view they have been doing their best.”

The tone in her voice has shifted. Instead of being bothered by the technological failures it’s the line of questions that begin to annoy her. Soon after, she makes a series of excuses to get off the phone — the sound quality is too bad and she can’t hear, the connection is awful, it’s the middle of the workday, she’s very busy – and with that, the line goes dead for the final time.

Back in Virginia, four yellow oak paneled walls surround the aging man. The gold vertical lines of the wood mimic the muted stripes on his buttoned up short-sleeve shirt. He glances at the cloth poster that hangs behind him, a rendition of the famous Japanese painting by ‎Katsushika Hokusai – The Great Wave off Kanagawa. He pauses for a moment, his thoughts lost with the crests of the ocean and the foamy white peak of the powerful wave seconds away from returning into the abyss of the never-ending sea. After devoting his life to helping survivors of landmines in exotic places all over the world, Macauley now works as a contract instructor at the local university in the sleepy town.

“I think our work was not as successful as we had hoped it would be,” Macauley says with a sigh, contemplating his time in Quang Binh with AEPD.

He exits his basement office leaving all its treasures behind. He begins to climb the stairs that lead to his living room. NPR faintly plays on the radio; the murmuring voices fill the silence in the room. The four walls are wallpapered with bright watercolors on white sheets of paper. Splashes of red and yellow and streaks of green and blue line the circumference of the light beige walls. The bright colours liven up the otherwise neutral space. The series of paintings were hand crafted by his son.

The middle-aged man takes a seat on his couch. The sunshine from the window behind him surrounds him in a glowing halo of light. Despite the work of advocacy groups like AEPD and others across Vietnam, Macauley says there’s a lot more to be done. Unfortunately, without the government’s support, the Law for Person’s with Disabilities is no different than the art that litters his walls: beautiful to look at and filled with so much hope and joy, but in practice, no more than a pretty pieces of paper.