I have my foundation, I help the children who are victims of war

Host: The evening sun hung low over the Mekong River, spreading amber light across the water like a soft benediction. The air was thick with humidity and incense, carrying the faint murmur of temple bells and the laughter of children playing somewhere beyond the trees. The world felt both fragile and infinite — the way it does after great pain.

Jack stood near the edge of the riverbank, his shirt sleeves rolled up, shoes coated with dust. The horizon glowed gold against his somber face. Jeeny sat on a stone ledge, her bare feet touching the grass, a gentle wind moving strands of her dark hair. In her lap rested an old photograph — black and white, edges curled — a girl running down a road, her body on fire, her face open in terror.

Jeeny: “Phan Thi Kim Phuc once said, ‘I have my foundation, I help the children who are victims of war, and I talk about kids and I help people to understand how horrible war is and how beautiful the world can be if we can live with love, hope, and forgiveness.’”

Host: Jack turned slowly, his grey eyes reflecting both the photograph and the dying light.

Jack: “It’s hard to believe she found forgiveness in a world that burned her.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it sacred. Forgiveness from someone who’s known hell isn’t weakness — it’s the rarest kind of courage.”

Host: The river rippled, gold to bronze, the light shifting as if time itself were bowing to the moment.

Jack: “You know, when I first saw that photo, I couldn’t breathe. I was twelve. My teacher called it ‘The Napalm Girl.’ I didn’t know her name. Just that look — pure pain turned human.”

Jeeny: “She became a symbol before she ever had a voice. The world loved the image but forgot the child.”

Jack: “And now she speaks for the ones who never got to grow up.”

Jeeny: “Yes. She turned trauma into testimony. She’s not asking for pity — she’s teaching peace.”

Host: A distant temple gong echoed, long and low, a sound older than empires.

Jack: “You think forgiveness can really heal something like that?”

Jeeny: “No. Forgiveness doesn’t erase the wound. It transforms what’s left of you after the fire. That’s her miracle — she didn’t let the pain calcify into hate.”

Jack: “But doesn’t hate make sense, Jeeny? Isn’t hate honest, at least?”

Jeeny: “So is mercy. The difference is that hate consumes. Mercy creates.”

Host: Jack looked away, his jaw tightening, his voice low.

Jack: “If someone hurt me like that — if they destroyed my childhood, my country, my body — I couldn’t forgive.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not now. But forgiveness doesn’t start as choice — it starts as exhaustion. The moment you’re too tired to carry hate any longer.”

Host: The wind shifted, rustling the leaves, and for a brief second, the world felt still enough to hear the breath of the earth.

Jack: “She talks about love, hope, forgiveness — as if those things can stand against war.”

Jeeny: “They’re the only things that ever have.”

Jack: “That sounds naïve.”

Jeeny: “And yet she’s living proof. You think cynicism rebuilds anything? Love does. Hope does. Forgiveness does. Even if it begins as a whisper.”

Host: Jeeny traced the photo with her finger — the burned road, the girl, the soldiers in the background.

Jeeny: “You know what’s incredible? She still believes the world can be beautiful. Imagine surviving that kind of horror and still choosing beauty.”

Jack: “That’s not belief — that’s defiance.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Forgiveness is the bravest rebellion.”

Host: Jack lit a cigarette, the flame flickering briefly against the twilight.

Jack: “The world never learns, though. There are always new wars, new children running from new flames. What’s the point of forgiving when history keeps repeating its cruelty?”

Jeeny: “Because forgiveness isn’t for history. It’s for the human heart. It’s how we stop the fire from spreading inside us.”

Jack: “So she forgave not to forget, but to live.”

Jeeny: “Yes. To remind the rest of us that survival is more than breathing — it’s remembering without burning.”

Host: The first fireflies appeared above the river, tiny lights floating in the dusk like quiet souls. Jeeny’s eyes followed them, her voice soft, reverent.

Jeeny: “She could have spent her life hating the world that destroyed her. Instead, she built one that heals others. That’s more powerful than revenge.”

Jack: “You really believe forgiveness can heal the world?”

Jeeny: “Not the whole world. Just one person at a time. And maybe that’s enough.”

Host: The river darkened, stars beginning to reflect on its surface — small lights against endless shadow.

Jack: “You know what I think? Forgiveness is the only thing that separates survivors from victims. Hate keeps you chained to what hurt you. Forgiveness cuts the chain.”

Jeeny: “And in that freedom, you rediscover beauty.”

Host: The two sat in silence for a while. The world around them glowed faintly — the night alive, the past still echoing but softer now, like a scar fading into skin.

Jack: “She talks about love as if it’s medicine. Maybe she’s right. Maybe the only antidote to war is love, not justice.”

Jeeny: “Justice without love just rebuilds the same walls. But love with memory — that’s peace.”

Host: Jeeny folded the photo gently and placed it back into her bag. She looked up at Jack, her eyes reflecting the riverlight.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack, her story isn’t about war. It’s about what’s left when the fire goes out — and whether we dare to make something beautiful from the ashes.”

Jack: “Do you think we could?”

Jeeny: “We must.”

Host: The camera widened, capturing the two figures against the glowing river, their silhouettes haloed by the quiet shimmer of dusk.

The world, battered and ancient, still breathed — forgiving itself, one dusk at a time.

And through the hum of cicadas and the soft rustle of leaves, Phan Thi Kim Phuc’s words lingered like a prayer whispered across generations:

“The fire did not end my life. It began my mission — to show the world that love, even when born from pain, is still the only force that saves us.”

Host: The scene faded to black, the sound of water steady, eternal — the rhythm of a heart that refused to hate.