Remembering the Basics

"Han-naa, jam n'tEk.  Kn'om owee duk k'dau," Ming insists, moving swiftly before I can say a word.
           
Without the strength, nor the language, to fight for the little pride I have left, I stare into space, saying nothing.  Ming takes a large cooking pot, fills it, and puts it over the fire.  I wait, numb of emotion, unsure of myself, unsure of what to expect...

Stepping into the small space that is our bathroom, I slowly lift the small blue bucket handle over my body.  As I turn the bucket upside-down, a rush of hot water sweeps over my numbed fever-ridden body, suddenly awakening an ocean of emotion within me.  Closing my eyes, tears—strikingly warm—push their way past my eyelids, down my face, and into nothing.  I have forgotten the feeling of hot water.  As I lift another scoop over my body, I recognize a more costly forgotten feeling: the feeling of gratitude.
                     
                      Gratitude, for life itself.
                                     For running water, for boiled water.
                                                 For the Cambodian family that has taken me into their
                                                             living space, and cared for me like their own.  

                                                                     - - -

That was the first month in Cambodia.  Over the next several, I would learn this lesson again and again, receiving grace when I had absolutely nothing to offer, but a broken body and a drained spirit.  Feverish-illness would only strike me twice more.  But I would be overwhelmed with gratitude many many times over.  I would experience gratitude for the steel roof— leaky as it is— as rain water thundered over.  I would experience relief for electricity, that, for the most part, faithfully powers the portable fan that cools us down on unbearably hot days.  I would be grateful for fresh running water, when sewage water from flooding threaten to clog up the pipes.  But mostly, I would be grateful for the individuals that walk me through. My siblings, whose lighthearted spirits lighten up a tough day.  My co-workers, who care for me like family. My brothers and sisters at church, who share the same living community as me.

Gratitude, I have experienced, is one of the deepest evidences of God's presence.  It breaks through in the midst of utter chaos, providing moments of clarity to remind us of God's faithfulness.  I have seen people in destitute poverty testify to it, times when fear of disease, death, war, are no longer at center stage.  On the other hand, I have seen people living with great excess, deny its existence, frantically scrounging around, as if having lost life itself somehow.  Gratitude is stunning testimony to a God here and now, that allows us to be present with the people around us.  Together, reminding each other to be grateful for life, and for the very God that gives life.  

---
There are a short 5 weeks left in my time in Cambodia.  My prayer is that we as a Global community would continually remind one another, of a God that gives life where we are at.

Gratitude, I must add, does not discount the realities of fear, death, and sickness that are a daily struggle.  Instead, I believe it empowers us to to confront the realities of brokenness face-to-face.  My Ming is fighting a psycho-somatic condition each day, as non-stop worry physically drains her health.  I ask for prayers for her healing, and rest in her heart, as she continues to seek a God she does  yet know for answers.  I pray also, that Christians would surround her through the struggle, and be further strength to her each day.
 

Home

I push my bike forward across the lot, straining against the drenched sand, that is threatening to consume my tires.  My tires leave their mark, deep lines in the ginger-colored dirt amidst spots of tall grass.  My footprints leave distorted circular marks in the mud, betraying evidence of human struggle across the lot.





















My friend, and fellow co-worker, follows behind me, maneuvering his moto with much more ease, while graciously handling the sea-green backpacking pack I have lived out of for the past several months.  The hooded plastic coverings meant to protect us from the rain have, as usual, done a poor job keeping the water off our skin.  As I head towards the crude ladder, that marks the back of my house, I am well aware of a newly-established settlement next to the cement wall, a makeshift shack that is my neighbor's attempt to escape the impossible flooding.



"PtAya neu na?" Vysal asks me, eyeing the shack warily.
         
"PtAya neu nE," I say, pointing to the settlement on the other side of the ladder.  "tOl mok ptAya yearn lAk duk jrOU howee, alleU yearn neu kang kaoee."  The flooding at the front of my house is waist-high, and rising, hence my unconventional route through the back lot.





Suddenly, a familiar figure appears over the wall.  "mm...Han-naa!"  My host brother—also named Visal—says, greeting me in his usual accusatory manner.  Before I can respond, he throws his head back, yelling, "Ma!  Han-na mao howee!"

I laugh.  Yes, I am home.        





Before I know it, Ming appears over the wall, next to Visal.  "Miing!" I say, a wave of gratitude hitting me, in the familiarity of her caring smile.
     
                            "Han-naa!  hot meh,  plEun rOholt Han-naa.  be Bak na,"                                          she says, empathizing with the difficulty of my journey home.

A third person pops up, next to Ming.  Channa, my younger host sister, has determinedly squeezed into whatever space is left on the ladder, not to be left out on the scene. Channnaa....." I say, chuckling to myself, barely able to contain the excitement at the sight of my host family.

As Ming, Visal, Channa, and other Vysal, help take my stuff over the cement wall, it is clear that our house is not in the best condition.  The flood water has risen so that the bottom floor— where Ming and Bu sleep, and where food is made—is unlivable.  The water, disturbingly black from years of unkempt waste in the community, has hidden everything except the wooden table that serves as the dinner table, as well as Ming and Bu's sleeping space.

The last time I was home, a few days before, the water was at mid-thigh.  I went to drop-by my host family after church, following the home visit of a friend—and neighbor—bed-ridden with suspected Dengue fever.  Taking the usual path home, I meticulously stepped my way through the water, guessing—hoping—for stable ground, as I had done so many times before through flooded roads in Cambodia.  I found Ming, Visal and Channa lounging on the table mid-afternoon, passing time, as if stranded on an island surrounded by water.  With a long stick Ming attempted to keep floating-trash away from them.  I had called on them unexpectedly, and upon seeing the ridiculous scene, laughed profoudly.  They had, upon seeing me and my excitement, and that I had willingly staggered through "the depths" to get to them, found great amusement in the situation themselves.  We then, devised grand plans to create floating devices to help us get around, and to go fishing, making light of the impossible situation...  I told them I would be home Wednesday.
                   
                             - - -
August was a time of angst for me, when the culmination of battles—both internal and external—somehow crept up in a grave cynicism. September, thus, was time away—a retreat, space, a step back—from the external pressures of the context, to reflect on the first three and a half months of life in Cambodia.

Three weeks at my boss's house, to myself, allowed me to set my own boundaries—though they were surely tried and tested, by the many children in the neighborhood—and in a way, rediscover my own calling.  It was a growing time, when relationships with DOVE staff deepened, when I was able to share my testimony in Khmer, when I experienced the incredible support of Khmer church and DOVE staff.   It was a sacred time, where the time away slowly steeped me in a new appreciation for my relationships, my challenges, and my experiences.  Sure enough, by the end of three weeks, I could not wait to be home.


The certainty in my being, that this is where I need to be—here, now, present, this moment—makes this home for me.  Home is an ambiguous term.  And perhaps, it should be. Henri Nouwen articulates this concept of voluntary displacement in Compassion.  "We, like everyone else," Nouwen states, "are pilgrims on the way, sinners in need of grace.  Through voluntary displacement, we counteract the tendency to become settled in a false comfort and to forget the fundamentally unsettled position that we share with all people" (64).

That conviction, makes this place home for me.  And that makes all the difference, to both me and my family.  It means that, the rising flood waters, accompanied by swarming mosquitoes, makes does not change the fact that I want to be with them.  The stink of the sewage water, along with the choked-up toilet, is of little matter to me.  The route home, marked with mud, flooding, and detours, in an endless drizzle of rain, is not the point.

What matters, instead, is getting to be in the moments of every day.  Like in joining Channa as she spontaneously belts out the latest pop tune, accompanied by grand attempts of dance choreography.  Like in watching Visal as he decides he must figure out how to make karaoke work on my laptop - and does.  Like joining in the exhilaration of seeing our neighbor send Vijerah, the community baby, down the flooded lane in a floating bucket. Like in watching Bu hysterically attempt to get rid of a fearless little mouse with a bamboo sheet.  This, figuring out life, being fully present in the joys, in the struggles, in the daily life, together—is what matters.  ---

In the fifth month of my internship, I ask that we pray for the lives in Cambodia that have been affected by endless days of rain, and flooding.  Eighty people— forty of which are children—have lost their lives, and 60,000 people have been displaced due to the flooding. Please pray that God would open the people's hearts to know Christ's presence with them in their suffering.  Please continue to pray for the unsettled political situation in Cambodia.  Specifically, that it would result in justice for Cambodians, particularly the oppressed.  And please pray for me, and those around me, that we, together, would know God's presence with us, each day.

Link to Recent Cambodia Article:
http://www.washingtonpost.com/world/flooding-in-cambodia-claims-more-than-80-lives/2013/10/07/2bff476e-2f4c-11e3-8906-3daa2bcde110_gallery.html

Rumblings of War

Election Day, July 28^th, and excitement exudes from my host brother as he rushes into the home, skin visibly darkened after a long day.  Since the election polls opened in the morning, Visal has been out perusing the streets, following the ballot count, at the center of the action.  

“Sam Rainsy chin-Auh DAyang awh,” Visal says, eyes wide, countenance barely containing its glow, as he catches his breath.  Ming looks at him incredulously.  My heart skips a beat, as I tune my ear to what he is saying.  Visal begins to name off the districts and provinces in which he learned Sam Rainsy, the opposition favorite, had claimed victory in the ballots… “Phnom Penh, Takeo, Kanda, Kampong Cham, Prey Veng, Siem Reap, Svay Rieng, Kampong Tom, Battambang…”  As Visal keeps talking, all I am thinking is...no way.  I have not even entertained the thought that the opposition party, Sam Rainsy's Cambodian National Rescue Party(CNRP), might even have a chance at winning against Hun Sen, the longstanding Prime Minister.  A ruler that has seemingly implemented every form of corruption in his three-decade reign since the Khmer Rouge, Hun Sen would surely abuse his power to win this election again.  But perhaps, the tide has changed.  Perhaps Hun Sen's power was finally meeting its match against a fed-up Cambodian people.     

There had been much excitement around me, in the weeks leading up to the election.  Political rallies became a regular part of my day, as bike commutes to work inevitably included surges of demonstrators making their voice heard on the streets.  Youth lead chants of "p' Do" or "m-pel" - "Change" and Seven," the number for the CNRP.  Meanwhile, television and radio stations, under Hun Sen's Cambodia's People Party (CPP), had little to show except love for the Prime Minister. Wherever I went, excitement over the "boh chinaoit," or election, filled the atmosphere.  Despite the bold climate on the streets, a stronger sentiment loomed in the background.  Fear reigned, in the hearts of Cambodian people, with the horrors of the 1970s Khmer Rouge, playing in not-so-distant memories.  At night, Cambodians would shut their doors, talks of the election continuing only in whispers.

"Khnom gut ta Menu DAyang Awh prohIl joljet Sam Rainsy laaw jeeing..." I say one evening, thinking out loud. I am immediatedly interrupted with a "shhh" by my siblings.  They look around quickly, as if to make sure no one unwelcome is listening.  In the middle of saying, "I think all people probably like Sam Rainsy better..."  I quickly change my statement to a jestful, "Na GA joljet Sam Rainsy?" or "Who is the world would like Sam Rainsy?" to the snicker of my family. But the feeling of paranoia, of being watched, looms overhead. 

Conversations at language school (LEC), with Bong Tarry and Bong Kim Leang, confirm that people in their provinces have similar feelings of fear, terrified to vote for the opposing party, not wanting to later be hunted down by the CPP after the election.  Ming, at home, expresses a similar reality, showing me a CNRP cap - marked by the rising sun - concealed underneath clothes, hidden from the entrance of our home.  She tells me that the village leader, a despicable man employed by the CPP, walks around the community with a camera, capturing proof of "traitors," to exploit them after the election.                                                                       

                                                                            - - -

Later that day, Pisey looks at me with a dead serious expression, saying "I think there is a 3 out of 4 chance for a Sam Rainsy win".  She tells me that the most recent news is that Hun Sen has barricaded all of Phnom Penh's major roads with armed forces.  She thinks that Hun Sen would only block the roads, in angry protest to a CNRP win.  While startled at the current news, I am still hesitant to believe in a political upset.

When I finally get a phone call from my Craig, my Alongsiders boss, affirming that it looked like an upset might be a possibility, I decide to finally let the wave of exhilaration hit me.  And it does — like when my Texas High School football team, with it's 13-0 record, made semifinals in 2008, or like when my High School band took First Place at the Sam Houston State Marching Contest over one of the state's top marching schools, or perhaps, like when the Giants inched to victory over the Patriots in Superbowl 2008.  Ming describes a win by the CNRP to mean, "freedom, justice, and democracy like America."  While I hesitate at this one-dimensional perspective of the United States, the sentiment of hope for Cambodia is a welcome feeling.

             - - -

Hun Sun's CPP leading rallies 

6PM. Election Results...
       
 Hun Sen, majority.  

                Sam Rainsy, behind.

My family and I are watching the television in silence, unspoken feelings of anger, confusion, and disappointment thick in the air.  The reporter is showing that Hun Sun had the lead in almost single province, in each single city.  I turn away from the screen in disgust, exhausted.  The final results are that the CNRP claimed a significant 55 seats in the 123 seat National Assembly, with 68 seats going to the CPP.
                                                                - - -
Over the next couple of days, the city returns back to its busy rhythm, though political tensions remain high in Cambodia.  Sam Rainsy declares that the CNRP is not going to accept the results, with allegations of 1 million names stolen by the CPP in the election, and CPP intimidation tactics at play.  Further, Sam Rainsy declares a CNRP win.          

In a standstill, both the CPP and CNRP having declared a win, Sam Rainsy went to the United States in recent weeks to get help, asking for a full investigation that includes U.N. participation.  

Celebrating Pisey's 21st

In the political tension, life is strikingly normal in Phnom Penh.  Markets teem with life, as sellers and buys continue to barter, chat, and gossip.  The roads still remain a battle, as commuters deal with traffic and roads carved-up by construction. Monsoon rain continue to pour everyday, its flood water creating the annual smelly lake in my community - which, of course, leads to an annoying increase of rats in our house.  Meanwhile, at home, my siblings and I mess with each other more than ever, having become incredibly comfortable with each other.  Still yet, fear is a constant enemy, looming over, as the city waits in expectation, for who knows what. 

A notable part of daily conversations is an anti-Vietnamese sentiment, towards anyone and anything affiliated with Vietnam. Because of Hun Sen's support for the Vietnam, and consequently, the migrant Vietnamese community's support of Hun Sen, the Vietnamese - impoverished, isolated, and hated - have become a scapegoat for what is happening.  There's rarely a day when I do not hear a snide comment made about these "terrible" people.

Friends choose to stay out of the city, for fear of the political examples that Hun Sen might want to make of CNRP demonstrators.  In the last few days, Hun Sen deployed armed forces into Phnom Penh once more, with election results expected over the weekend.  They were, of course, delayed.

With the possibility of civil war breaking out in Cambodia, privilege, stands out more than ever as an American.  My Cambodian family has asked on several occasions - "Hanna, if you go have to go the American Embassy, will they take us with you if you plead for us?" - mindful that their options of escape and survival would be, whatever resources they could get their hands on.  But an email to Matt Soerens - leading voice for Christian immigration reform in the U.S., fellow Wheaton HNGR alum, and HNGR small group leader - tells me that my family's chances of getting refugee status, are close to impossible, with U.S. laws at this point.  My family would need to flee to another country first, where they would likely be relocated to refugee camps - of which my host dad has already spent a decade in from the Khmer Rouge era-  and then spend "years, maybe decades" of waiting, before even having a chance of getting to the U.S.

---

At this point, again, I pray.  And I ask for prayers.  Again, I admit I do not know what to pray.  But  I know I have to pray.  We have to pray.  For safety, for justice, for compassion. For love and not war, for peace and not fear.  For an awareness of God's presence so strong - here, having always been, now being, and always being  - that Cambodians would seek God.  I pray against political systems fueled by greed, defined by exploitation and corruption. That God would provide an answer, His answer, to this mess somehow.  And I pray, for all people, in all places, to be mindful and active in thinking about fellow human flesh and blood around the world that constantly fight these battles, everyday.  I pray that God would move us to see one another, to love and understand one another, and to fight for one another, whatever that looks like, wherever we are at.     

Somehow Gone Wrong

Dai, celebrating with me
Channa's creative hairdo.

"Ma Dai Neu Mon-tee-pet, Han-na.  Ma Dai Che." Ming says to me, with a grave expression on her face.  "Ma Dai kluin ot la-aw."  

Furrowing my eyebrows, confused at this suddenly newly-acquired information, I stare and blink a few times before asking, "Hay-it ay?"

I know Ming had taken Pisey to the hospital to check out a lingering cough.  And Pisey had been okay.  But now, Ming is talking about a neighbor, the mother of my sweet, bubbly 8-year old friend who is not well.

"Ma Dai lA-up tnam ch-raan bAk, Hanna"                                       "Mon-tee-pet ot la-aw..."  

The mother of Dai, my friend, is sick.  But not just sick...Sick.  

                                                                   - - - - -
I am pulling my bike into the home, waiting to ask Ming what I know is on her mind,  "Ming, Ma Dai laaw jeeing neu?"  I am hoping - almost expecting - to hear, "Everything's alright now, Hanna, don't worry.  Dai's mom is all better."  But sometimes, I don't get what I want.  And this is one of those times.

"Ma Da ot laaw Hanna....."
                                     "Monteepet ot laaw....Ot mien loi...."         
                 "      Vit jeah bon dut ot laaw...
                                                          "Ot mien som khun."

As Ming finishes what she is saying, I put together what I understand.  Dai's mom is not okay. The hospital is not good.  There is no money.  The doctors are not skilled.  And...there is no hope.  No hope.  These last two words hit me like a ton of bricks, lingering in my ears, producing a knot in my stomach, its striking unfamiliarity sending a shiver through my body.  No hope.  Within me, everything screams that somehow, someway, this is not true.  But I have no words.  No explanation.  I head upstairs silently, praying for a miracle.         

                                                                     - - - - -                                                         
Earphones in ears and guitar in hand, I am figuring out the chords to Pisal's favorite Khmer song, when Pisal walks over to me.  As I take my earphones out, he says, "Ma Dai slap howee," which produces another knot in my stomach.  I let the silence break in.
                                                                         Dai's mom is dead.

                                                                     - - - - -
For the fifteenth-hundred time, I am trying to put together the pieces from the last few days.  She was healthy, Channa said, like me. She got sick and had a fever.  She was given too much medication in the form of an injection?  Who gave her the medication?  Why didn't she know taking too much medication was wrong?  The Hospital couldn't do anything helpful.  Why couldn't the hospital treat her?  The hospital didn't have money for the proper resources, no thanks to the government.  Dai's family didn't have the money to get her to a better hospital.  They didn't enroll in the USAID program that helps under-resourced communities.  Within 5 days, Dai's mom is dead.  Somewhere, somehow, something had gone horribly wrong.  Perhaps a few somethings.  And everything within me wanted to know how it could have been different. Because all I can think about is Dai.

                                                                    - - - - -

I am not exactly sure how Dai came to be part of my life.  She is one of the children who embrace me immediately in my transition to Cambodia.  Yet she sticks out in my mind, because one day, I found myself exploring the community with one of the most excitable of personalities.  Her bright smiles at the smallest of delights, accompanied by earnest squeals of joy, stand out in everybody's minds.  Early in the transition, I found myself a constant companion who consistently visited to share the joys of coloring with me - and then I clumsily lost the markers and the beloved sketchbook a dear friend gave me.  At one point, Dai helped me wash my laundry, showing me that experience, no matter what age, wins when it comes to doing laundry.

You might be able to imagine how I felt when, after the death, I heard a familiar voice call, "Han-NA!" Turning around as quickly as I have ever, I received the emphatic hug of a small friend, whose touch perhaps provided as much comfort to me as it might have provided to her.  Her brave smiles and laughter, as authentic as I have ever seen, in the week after her mom's death, repeatedly gave me reassurance of the presence of an ever-loving God.

But these days, things are different.  There is a numbness in Dai that screams that she was wronged, robbed of a love that every child has the right to have.  Her silent, hollow stares are evidence that somewhere, somehow, something has gone horribly wrong, and things are not the way it should be.

Dai has a loving father who takes care of her well, but I ask for prayers for what only God can do.  I ask for prayers that God would bring life and not death, peace and not fear, freedom and not discouragement, into Dai's life.  I ask for prayers that their family would become aware of an ever-present God who knows their pain, and walks with them through the journey.  I ask for prayers that Dai, her family, and my community would find that there is hope - a living hope in Jesus Christ already at work, somewhere, somehow, amidst the messiness. I ask for prayers for health, for provision, for people to come around Dai, that in her every moment, God would be her truest comfort, her best strength, and her greatest hope.

Opposite Direction

“Som Ji Yeut Yeut,” I beg my host siblings.  Two weeks into Cambodia, I had gotten a much-needed bicycle, or gong, and am pleading that my two younger siblings, Pisal and Channa, will teach me to maneuver the traffic-ridden Phnom Penh streets, slowly, very slowly.  Channa is requesting, to my nervous disposition and Ming’s mindful disapproval, to lead me on moto.  Somehow, I am imagining chasing behind my sister on her moto, with my bicycle.  The thought of  Frogger-ing through the streets of Phnom Penh is horrifying.  “Channa, hay’it ay ot jong ji gong?” I ask my sister why she doesn’t want to lead me on bike. “...Channa k’jil,” Ming responds for me.  “Jia, kn’om k’jil na,” Channa says, agreeing shamelessly with her mom that she is lazy.  I can’t help but laugh, as this is completely characteristic of my opinionated 15-year old sister.  The final consensus is that Pisal, my brother, will go ahead of me on bicycle, and show me how to get to Toul Tom Pong, where both the SERVANTS team center and my language learning school are located.  Relieved and grateful, but feeling uneasy still, I put on my helmet with determination, and scuffle onto my used bike, praying that everything will be okay.

Clamoring down the muddy, rocky, pathway in front of my home with my bike, struggling to gain control, I wonder if this is a good idea.  I am fully aware that the real struggle is going to be the highway. The first time that Pisey, my host sister, took me to church on the moto, we had turned left onto the highway, straight into the face of traffic flowing directly towards us.  And we had stayed in the makeshift feeder for the entirety of the trip, maneuvering against pedestrians, motos, bicycles, and trucks, flowing in the opposite way.  The ride was probably less than ten minutes altogether, but for me, it felt much longer.  I remember nervously hanging on to my seat behind Pisey, doing everything to keep myself from asking her the obvious, “are you sure this is the right way to get there?” and “…are we allowed to do this?”  That experience makes me smile now, as I recognize just how new I was to the country, only seven weeks ago.  This is a country where police will be the first to make the clearly-marked illegal u-turn, before all of traffic follows suit.  And a country where some genius city planner constructed an important intersection, so that traffic must cross an overpass over a river, make a u-turn, and come back over, to get on the adjacent road.  For those riding on human strength, going the opposite direction is the obvious better option.

Pisal maneuvers carefully down the highway in front of me, sticking close to the curb as we face traffic going the opposite way.  He is indeed going very slow, and I am tail-gating closely behind, mindful of our lives.   Meanwhile, I gawk - not sure whether to laugh or cry - at a woman riding her bicycle down the highway, one hand on the handle, another hand on her one year old - both helmet-less.  Should life like this ever be normal?  Pisal and I get to the end of the road where highways converge.  What is this.  I swallow hard, as I follow Pisal, amidst a slew of motos, into a mess of traffic.  We need to go slant-across three different flows of traffic before we get to the lane of the farthest right.  My heart races, as I take in the incoming traffic going in all directions. Clenching my jaws, I remember that my brother knows what he is doing.  And that he's done a tremendous job being mindful of me thus far.  These streets are not new territory for my siblings.  They have made their marks on this exact route to get to and from school, since they were children.  "Han-NA!" I suddenly hear next to me.  Taken aback, I turn to see that my sister, Channa and my bubbly 8-year old neighbor, Dai, have joined us on moto for the journey, in the middle of the highway.  Surprised but pleased, I sense that the group of four is a much more secure cluster than the two of us.  With a sigh of relief as we get to the lane on the right, I ask Channa what is happening, a little confused.  She tells me that she and Pisal decided to switch-off in the middle of the trip.  Cool.  My siblings specifically show me the wave of the arm, a signal to drivers the intent to turn. "Go with motos and cars," Channa says to me when turning, showing me how to take advantage of being the smallest vehicle on the road.  Finding this a really effective way to make turns, I decide I can not be happier leaching off of larger vehicles.

"Channa, toah mah dah deu sala trogah man neitdi?"  I ask Channa how long it usually takes to get to school.  “Basun Hanna ji yeut yeut, tlo-gah mamoung.” Channa responds that if I ride as slowly as we just did, it will take me an hour.  I laugh.  We did go very slowly, even for a rookie's taste.  “Toe-um mah-dah, ma-pai niet-di ban."  A 20 minute ride, once I get the hang of it.  

                                                                   - - -

Now five weeks later, logging more than twenty hours of commute between school, work, and home, the taste of dirt on my teeth is a familiar feeling - with some frustration that it gets past the surgical mask.  I am constantly aware that except for pedestrians, I am the smallest person on the road, the brilliant "brinnng" of my cowbell lost in the blaring "hooonk" of the tow-truck.  But there is a definite rhyme-and-rhythm to the streets of Phnom Penh, a mutual understand between drivers that share the same road, as we collaborate the vacant spaces.   While the streets have not exactly become home, the streets have become familiar enough to provide me a sense of much-needed autonomy for every day life.  On better days, I recognize that with my bike, this autonomy is nothing short of a blessing.  On other days, I clench my jaws as I prepare to face another day on the streets, against traffic, potholes, construction, rain, heat, pollution, and only God knows what.

Monsoon Season

Every day, with rare exception, there is a torrential rain storm that surges over the city.  It is the equivalent of titanic buckets of water being poured over your homes, with the volume of a clattering freight train making its way through your front yard.  It silences everything with its boisterousness, from teachers lecturing at school in mid-afternoon, to life at the market, to traffic in the hustle-bustle of Phnom Penh.  Those caught on the streets are at a loss; motorcycles stall on the side of the road, while unlucky motorists find themselves in too-deep puddles they should not have risked, and unprepared commuters sum up the cost of damaged goods.  The city waits, cooling down, as water plummets from the sky.    

At home, life is summoned at the roar of the storm.  Children shriek with joy, and streets are occupied with dancing, running, screaming, with laughing.  It is time for tag. It is time for swimming.  It is time for a free shower.  Out comes the bath bucket with the shampoo, as both young’uns and old’uns take advantage of the storm.  In front of my home, Channa, my lively sister mimics Psy’s Gungnum style as she chases the children in the street.  Every existing child I know on our street is drenched now, playing, each face exuberant with joy.      

“HanNA!” they call, laughing, running, screaming.  But I can’t, rationalizing, wrestling, fretting.  In my mind, I can’t get over the knowledge of what comes with the play…injuries, disease, sickness… I think that I know too much to ever be able to share those carefree laughs of the storm, with these kids, on this side of heaven. 

Meanwhile, homes are flooding.  My home is flooding.  Water flows through the holes between our wooden planks, into the lower lot next to us—a trash dump for the community, a beer-drinking space for men, a place to dry clothes for women, a sand lot for children, and a scrounging space for animals.  For others, water that continually surges into homes is trapped, forcing families to wade through water, or sewage, for days at a time.   

Khmer Language Practice

“Channa, bA-a kao-ao moung man?” I ask the younger of my host sisters.

Blank stare.       
I try again, using the negative.  “Channa bA-a OT kao-ao moung man?” 

“Khnom ot yul A.”  She says, not understanding.  She is sitting still, uncharacteristic for her usual vigor.  I say it again.  Slower, louder, pointing, acting, in English, in Chinese.   
 
 ”…Bong!!!”  Channa shouts, calling Pisey, giving up on me. 

“Pisey, Channa bA-a kao-ao moung man?” 

“Oh,” Pisey says, laughing. “She always wears clothes, Hanna.”

Blank stare from me. 

Channa is dying laughing, rolling on the floor, laughing.  

More Than “A Five-Star Hotel”

“Why are you going to Cambodia?” the man next to me on my 13-hour layover flight from Los Angeles to Taiwan asks, with furrowed eyebrows and a slow shaking of the head.  The conversation I had gotten into with the 60 year-old Taiwanese man suddenly shifts to me.  When he, my neighbor in the emergency exit row of our Eva Airlines flight, had dismissed the flight attendant’s attempt to give us a run-through of our responsibilities at the start of the flight, I had wondered if he was familiar with the flight.  Letting my curiosity get the best of me, I am now hearing about his regular choice of seat 60C for the spacious leg room and the window, during his frequent ventures between Taipei to Los Angeles.  I am  also hearing about his childrens’ successes in business and medicine in the States, his different homes in Taiwan, as well as his interest in cars—the numerous Mercedes and Lexus’ that he has owned.  Except to comment on my fluency in Chinese as an American-born Chinese, this is the first time he turns his attention to me.

I take a deep breath, not sure how to answer.  Having thought through the rationale behind this trip countless times, on numerous occasions, for a drawn-out period, all I have to show for it is a tangled web of thoughts and feelings.  I manage to articulate, “I hope that living in Cambodia will broaden my perspective towards the world for the rest of my life,” hoping that I will get the chance to explain.  But I never do, because the conversation shifts back to him as quickly as it had turned to me.  Quickly, I am listening to his view of Cambodia— lack of water sanitation, overwhelming poverty, heat, disease, corruption—that should keep me from being there.  Exhausted, several hours into the flight, I cannot help hoping—and praying—that there a significant portion missing to his narrative.  When we say our farewells at Taipei International Airport, he leaves me with an attempt at humor attempt that stick in my mind … “Cambodia is not going to be a five-star hotel.”  




                                                                    - - - - -
Day One
My host family—Pbu (host father), Ming (host mother), Pisey, Pisal, and Channa—and I sit together cross-legged on a square wooden table a foot off the ground, in front of a ten-inch television, when darkness suddenly surrounds us.  A murmur arises from the surrounding community, and Channa, my animated 15-year old sister utters something in Khmer.  Before I even realize she walks out of the home, she returns with a candlestick from a home that serves as a store.  I am confused, not just at what that is happening, but that she maneuvered the narrow winding passages of our community—of wet dirt, off-handed litter, and pointed objects—so quickly in blanket darkness.  Dinner continues as light gleams off of cell phones and the thin candlestick Channa melts onto the wooden table.  I am overwhelmed by the first couple of hours of arrival in Cambodia.  But I am mindful, after a long day, of the comfort of being with a whole family. 
                                                                   
                                                                       - - -
Pisey is one of the first people I connect with in Cambodia, a university student who is also my host sister.  In the first couple of hours in Cambodia, I try to be of some help while she washes dishes.  But a single knee-high faucet, a small space for dishes that allows water to run into the dirt ground, and a need for developed muscles in the squatting position makes me of little use.  So of course, I manage to assume the role of distractor instead.  Pisey’s fluency in English, in a context in which education is not highly valued, is telling of her family’s diligence to find good education… and makes her the perfect victim for my inherent inquisitiveness.  Rain spatters noisily on the metal roof over our heads, while we attempt to hold a conversation.  Water seeps from holes in the ceiling—where chemicals from a factory next door had eroded the roof— and Pisey and I are soaked.  But we pay little attention, as time stands still.  We are laughing.

“Bong, Hanna,” Pisey says, teaching me the word for “older” sister and brother. 

Me.  “Bong”
“Bong” ,” Pisey says more clearly, more slowly.

“Bong?”
“No… Bong”

“…that’s exactly what I said!” 

                                                                     


                                                                  - - -
I wake up in the night, immediately aware of unfamiliar sounds and surroundings.  Cambodia, first night, I remind myself.  And… of course I need to use the bathroom.  But, how?  I remember the struggle earlier in the day, to take a shower.  “They don’t shower naked here, or use toilet paper,” Chami— my slum-experienced, effortless-Khmer-speaking, Japanese-Canadian mentor— from SERVANTS, explained to me when she introduced me to the family and showed me the workings of the home, earlier in the day.  Fear races through my mind now, as I listen to the furious scurrying and bizarre screeching.  I had seen a few rats earlier in the day, and somehow, I am imagining that they jump at people, and take huge chunks of flesh out of them.  But I have no experience and no idea.  It does not help that nothing is visible, except the humidity, thick in the air.  I hold my hand up to my face to find that it blends into the surroundings.  I grumble at being subservient to a high-maintenance bladder, and try to gain the courage to leave the mosquito net.  Failing, however, I decide to try to go back to sleep.  But I really need to go to the bathroom.  Ugh.  On second attempt, I successfully leave the mosquito net and struggle to find my way to a door three feet away.  It will not open.  Is it bolted?  Making a lot of noise, I consider just waking up Pisey, sleeping a couple feet away.  But I cannot do it without also waking up her siblings sleeping next to her, and her parents, under the wooden floor beneath us.  I breathe a sigh of relief when I finally find the bolt, feeling like I might have woken up the entire community in my attempt anyway.  I scramble clumsily down the wooden ladder, and through the dark to the bathroom.  Feeling like I have conquered the world, without any animal incidents, I climb back up the wooden ladder, bolting the door behind me.  Making sure that my mosquito net is firmly tucked, I fall back asleep, holding my aged stuffed golden retriever, Hopeful, firmly, grateful for the decision to bring along something so familiar. 

                                                                    - - - - -

Week One & Two
“Han-Naa…mao vengh howee” Ming says, greeting me.  Reassured to see her after a long day, I respond,  “Jchia, mao vengh howee,” with a sigh of relief.  This is usually the part where I attempt to give Ming a run-through of my day in Khmer, complete with actions and vocal expressions, in hopes of communicating effectively.  It is easy to get her to smile, as I tell her about my all-too-common mishaps, as well as unusual encounters during the day.  Today, I am telling her about finally being able to speak the same language as people at Khmer Language School - Chinese, with three people from China. “Tengay ni, kn’om niyey piesa Jen jieh-muy jon-jiet Jen bai nea, neu Sala Piesa Khmer” I say, excited about the conversations I had with my new friends.  Ming laughs with me, listening carefully as she shares the experience, all the while helping me to communicate what happened.

Another time, she asks me how much my moto-dop ride costs to school.  I tell her I tell every moped driver, “roal tengay, kn’om tlo-op jih dai bai powan da” when they try to make me pay more for looking like a foreigner.  Her face creases from years of being in the sun, as she smiles proudly at my explanation to the moto-dop driver that I usually get a rate of 3000 real, or $0.75. 

Every interaction with my host family is a reminder of the reward of working through Khmer.

                                                                   - - - - -

In the next five weeks, I start to learn the ways of this communal child-rearing community.  Neighborhood children become my best friends. Logistically, I learn the ways of our tree-house like home, so that I only bump my head every once in a while, and fall on the steps every now and then.  I figure out that rats are cowardly creatures that do not eat people.   And, most importantly, I find that my family fosters my sense of belonging in Cambodia.  Rats, mice, and geckos quickly fade into normal life, as cherishing life with people takes the forefront of life in this Cambodian slum.  While I never want to mitigate the realities of material poverty - realities of societal neglect, missed-opportunity, and daily hardship - I am also experiencing that both life and poverty, should never be mistaken for just material possession.  Instead, life and poverty, individually, are holistically intertwined somehow, meshed into our complex physical, emotional and spiritual beings.


















"Our physical, emotional, and spiritual wounds - the totality of weakness, vulnerability, and human frailty - are our poverty.  We are finite and limited creatures, not self-contained, never self-sufficient.  Amid our best talents, our greatest strength, we are, at base, impoverished.  Poverty is part of our story, our reality, and part of who we are in this fallen word...Brokenness is a spiritual response to my poverty.  It is to come to the end of myself - my wisdom, energies, and talents - and to know from the depths of my being that Jesus is the only hope I have for life and for holiness.  All are broken, but few embrace brokenness, yet it is an intimate part of who we are and how we are to be with each other" 
- Judith Hougen