Sovann Smiles, While Surrounded by Ignorant Half-Naked Barang

I've been a tuk-tuk driver for eight years now.  It seems every year more foreigners come to my country, some to visit and some to live.  A few of them are like family to me now.  I see them often, we share meals, we visit my homeland together, I know about their lives and they know about mine.  However, the many others are the ones I want to tell you about.  Yes, I appreciate the income when they hire me.  But sometimes I wonder, do they have any idea how utterly ridiculous they appear?

What I see: 

Scandalous women everywhere, they come in hordes.  They are oblivious to the world around them.  They do not dress appropriately or act like good women.  I hope my daughters do not get used to seeing women dress like that and think it is normal.  I tell them it is not acceptable for respectable young ladies to dress in that manner. 

People who have time for only themselves.  Why do they all walk around with their headphones blaring?  We are real people, with stories to tell, lives to live, families to support.  Do people intentionally ignore the world that is around them or do they simply not want to see?  Are they afraid someone is going to jump out and bite them?  Do they think we are snakes, looking for our next victim?

Unkept foreigners with baggy clothes and messy hair, touting their LP or some other guide book.  Assuming they know it all because they came armed and "prepared" with the latest, relevant information.  They have the craziest clothes, why do people wear those skimpy tank tops and short shorts?  Are they trying to get dengue fever?  Or are they trying to turn their skin brown?  Either way, they do not seem to have much common sense. 

People with such a sense of entitlement.  Why are people who have so much so demanding?  Why do they insist on things a certain way?  If you can’t handle one ant crawling on your arm, take a taxi.  If you need to be somewhere at exactly 4 p.m., you may want to leave earlier next time.  Please don’t yell at me because of the condition of the road, the fact that it’s raining, or the insane traffic.  I have no control over these things.  This is life.  What kind of life do you have that you can afford to become so angry about such mundane issues?

What I hear: 

Oh, I hear the funniest things.  People think they are so clever or so knowledgeable because they are from the “developed” world.  You cannot imagine the pity and “compassion” we involuntarily experience.  People look at us with pity in their eyes, while criticizing our government, our history, our very identities.  Do they even know how ludicrous their words sound?  Sure I smile, offer them a ride, surprise them with my English.  But inside, I am constantly rolling my eyes, thinking “get a clue.”

What I really enjoy is when foreigners decide to “educate” me about my own country.  Oh yes, they inevitably know more about our history, our government, our economy, and our language.  They get offended if I cannot understand their rubbish attempt of the Khmer language.  I always smile, thank, and praise them.  I insist their Khmer is the best I have ever heard.  Even though I have no idea what they are saying, shouldn’t I be offended? 

These foreigners also attempt to educate me about social issues in my country.  They tell me I must look out for certain people, in order to protect my family.  They throw all kinds of information at me about sanitation and pollution.  They tell me it’s dirty and unsafe here.  They are filled with pride for their own country, and yet fail to recognize I may have pride as well.  They treat us like their own little punching bags, insult upon insult.  My pride carries me through one day to the next, it enables to put up with one more foreigner.  This pride is what I know will carry us into the future. 

Weekly, I am given the amazing “blessing” and opportunity of learning a few new words of English.  These foreigners are so happy to engage with a “local” and teach a poor Cambodian some English.  The idiots never realize they are teaching me words I already know.  But hey, I have learned to go along with whatever makes them feel good about themselves.  Because then they are more likely to tip me or use my tuk-tuk again. 

What I know:

My people are strong.  They are clever.  My family works together.  We support one another.  We do not flit about the world, on vacation, or pretending to help everyone else.  My country is courageous, it is filled with overcomers.  You can read all your guidebooks, you can watch documentaries, you can visit us with a heart overflowing with pity, but why are you really here?  If you do not care about learning from us, about improving yourself, about being calm and mindful, about making friends that you actually spend time with, I wish you would just send your money and stay home.  I never asked for your pity.  It is not “helping” anyone.

Healing Haven: An Orphanage, Stories from the Inside

Dara says:

I have lived here for six years.  My aunt brought me here in 2006.  She told me why, but my memories are hazy.  I think she said they (the people at the orphanage) would take care of me, feed me and pay for my education.  Some kids here say she just dropped me off so she could receive a small fee from the director.  Those same kids say I am an orphan, but I’m not sure what that is.  Either way, I miss her.  I would give anything to live with her again.  She is the only reminder I have of my family and my village.  My life before. 

When I first arrived, I was overwhelmed with fear.  I did not know anyone.  But in the midst of that terror, I felt a twinge of exhilaration.  The new place and new faces seemed much more exciting than my life at home.  The thrill faded almost immediately.  Every day I make a secret wish that it will be my last.    

Here, I live with many other children and a couple adults.  They say we are family, but it doesn’t feel that way to me.  Maybe whoever you live with is your family, but I thought people in a family took care of each other.  I thought families shared their food, and supported each other. 

The adults act strange.  They can never afford meat, or anything except a little rice.  At least that is what they say.  I guess it is difficult and expensive to take care of other people’s children.  But when visitors come, suddenly we get to have a giant feast.  It is like a wedding, there is food everywhere and plenty for everyone.  I always eat so much I feel sick.  I always try to save some of the baguette for later.   The adults are not nice either, except when the visitors come.  I am so happy when the visitors come because they play with me and teach me English.  They sing and dance and seem so happy.  They hug me and teach me things.  They always want to take photos with me and I am  now an expert photographer myself.  It makes them happy when they get to show me how to use their expensive cameras.  I always pretend like I do not know how so they can each show me, themselves.  Sometimes I feel like I hate them.  They always smile.  They wear nice clothes.   They always have shoes.  They own expensive things.  They are fat and healthy.  I feel so ashamed of myself and wish I could be them.   I smile at them even when I feel like I hate them.  I tell them I love them.  If not, I will be sorry. 

The visitors always say they feel so sorry for me and have come to help me.  I don’t know what they are talking about.  I usually enjoy eating and playing with the visitors.  They usually treat all of us children very kindly.  I hate when they leave.  I always stay in my room for the rest of the evening without dinner.  I cry and cry and wonder why I can’t have a family like that to live with.  Why can’t I eat enough food every day?  Why can’t I learn and go to school every day?  Why can’t I have fun and play every day?  I wonder what I did to deserve this? 

I would rather be hungry with my own family than hungry surrounded by strangers.

Thoughts from Theary:

Dear Mak,

I am trying to be brave for you.  I want to learn.  I try to study, but I have no time.  I always have to work.  I am so tired.  I am always coughing, always sick, and always hungry.  Secretly, I think they want me to be sick and hungry.   The people that tell us what to do look healthy and strong.  I know they have enough food to eat and a dry place to sleep. 

Then on certain days, we have guests.   When they come I have to pretend like I am happy here.  I have to call the people that tell us what to do “aunt” and “uncle”.  First they said I have to call them mother and father, but I cried and cried and would not do it.  I said you are my only mother, nobody else is my mother.   

The visitors usually have white skin.  At the beginning, they frightened me.  Now I know that when they come I can relax.  I will have a day off work.  I may even be the lucky one who receives a pair of shoes, a jump rope, or a book to practice my writing.   My “aunt” and “uncle” insist that I tell the visitors I am sick and ask for donations from them.  I should ask for donations for medicine, for food, and for school uniforms.  If I do not ask, I will not be allowed to eat anything the next day.  Initially, I did not like to ask, but now I am used to it.  I know exactly how to say it, I know what expression to have and to look them directly in the eyes and hold their gaze.  I have learned so much. 

You used to tell me I was your clever little baby.  Now I  am a clever big girl.  I know how to earn money myself, with only my words.  But I wish I could send the money to you. 

I feel like I would rather be dead than be here.      

Why did you leave me here?  When will you come visit me?

Your baby always,

Theary

A Note from Sovanny:

Da,

I don’t know how many days I have been here.  It’s so cold.  We sleep on there floor and the roof always leaks and drips water on me at night.  I have not been feeling well, but I have to smile anyway.  The bad man always yells at me or hits me when I don’t smile.  Everyday he says I should  be thankful to have a ******* roof over my head.  He says I do not appreciate all that he does for me.  But I do, I work so hard to stay clean, prepare delicious food, and keep the house clean.  I do everything just how you taught me. 

When people come to visit us, to bring food and teach us, we all have to wear long pants and long sleeves, so they cannot see our bruises.  We have to smile and play with them.  I hate when they come.  Every time someone visits, I get sadder and sadder because I know that I will have to be hungry and cold and get hit, again and again.  If they would just stay, I know everything would be ok.  I hate them for leaving me.

I miss you brother.  When can I come home?

Kisses,

Sovanny

Orphanages have become a profitable industry in Cambodia.  Unfortunately, the majority of children in Cambodian orphanages are not technically orphans at all.  They are in fact, being victimized, by a combination of things including the system, impoverished and uninformed parents, and a horde of well-intentioned but misguided voluntourists.  

It is incredibly easy to think only of oneself:  

• To justify the need to feel good about yourself by volunteering, without ever researching the organization or understanding it's background/expertise/legitimacy/child safe policies, etc.
• To simplify your thoughts and focus only on what you see, hear, and feel.  
• To place your needs/wants/desires before the well-being, health, and safety of a child.   

Many people assume that just one more visit, or one more tourist will do no harm.  Please, think again. Every single person, every visit contributes to this exploitative and harmful issue.  It reinforces the practices.  It encourages the unethical behavior.  It causes more and more children (with families) to become "orphans".  Institutionalization is not the answer.  And encouraging this practice to continue is definitely not the answer.  Please research for yourself.  Seek out professional opinions, valid research, and truly consider how it could be good for any traumatized child to be exposed to strangers on a daily basis. Next time you hear someone mention going on a "life-changing" volunteering adventure at an orphanage, tell them to think again.   

See:

Myths and Realities about Orphanages in Cambodia via @Friends_INTL

http://www.friends-international.org/resources/alternative-care/mythrealities_FINAL.pdf

Problems with Orphanages in Haiti and Cambodia

http://goodintents.org/orphanages/problems-with-orphanages-in-haiti-and-cambodia

*All stories fictional

Journey to Koh Preah

     These villages are hidden among the thousands of islands scattered throughout the vast waters of the Mekong.  The Mekong River runs through Cambodia, Vietnam, Thailand, Laos, Myanmar, and China, providing life and sustenance to millions of people.  The Mekong’s waters range from a pale blue to a light mud brown to a deep reddish-brown depending on several factors.  These versatile waters remind me of the continual changes in both my life and my perspective.  Our experiences change like the seasons.  This results in a constant transformation of views, beliefs and perspective.  For this I am forever thankful as stagnancy is for the boring, the ones who pretend to be content, the ones who fight change even until their final breath. 
       

     After a grueling day-long bus ride, a night in a questionable guest house, and the essential iced coffee with sweetened-condensed milk, we embark.  The trip must be completed by boat and not the safe boat that many of us might prefer, but a long and narrow weathered wooden contraption filled with ants, splinters, and holes.  The motor sits in the stern where the captain stands balancing, navigating, and most often smoking.  Throughout the ride, we take turns grabbing anything we see to scoop out the water that quickly fills the floor of the boat.  I see no life jackets, no emergency whistles, and no radio Coast Guard to call if we encounter a dangerous storm.  The combination of circumstances bring to mind an article I read a few years ago.  The world’s largest freshwater fish – the giant catfish which grows up to 660 pounds – makes its home in the Mekong.  While I know catfish are not predators, I cannot help but visualize the massiveness of the giant catfish.  I glance again at the precarious boat.    

     Upon arriving at the island of choice the captain becomes a navigator of another sort.  After quickly but carefully tying up his main source of income and pride, he grabs an ax, a machete, and another cigarette from his shirt pocket and we set out through the jungle.  The atmosphere changes in a heartbeat.  Suddenly, we are completely surrounding by luscious foliage.  The air feels dense with humidity, but pure and unpolluted.  The sounds come from everywhere.  I feel surrounded by animal chatter.  The noise is deafening and I wish I could record every chirp and every croak to remember their harmony forever.

     We reach our destination smiling and drenched with moisture from the precipitation in the air - the village on Koh Preah, or Island of God.  The ruddy red roads contrast strikingly with the otherwise fertile surroundings.   The village is located along the river.  I do not know if the purpose of our jungle excursion was to animate our welcome or merely to avoid a certain area of the river.  The monsoon is in full season, which means flooding occurs regularly.  Maybe it would be impossible to dock the boat near the village.

     At first glance, the village does not disappoint.  The bus ride that brought us here could easily be described as the roller coaster ride from hell.  The boat adventure was intense.  Everything it took to get to this island, which seems to exist in another time, was well worth it.  The pigs root in the dirt while roosters peck at the ground, belting out half-hearted crows that seem to stop midway.  They seem simply too tired to complete the sentence.  The children exude much shyness than city children.  They are unaccustomed to unfamiliar, and especially white, faces.  Their faces are grimy, their round brown eyes bright, their hellos animated and paired with smiles, their clothing dirty and frayed resemblances of the national school uniform. 

     The shacks built on stilts are spread out.  I am not sure how many exist, but all appear within walking distance.  The buildings sag, the tin roofs rusty, and often a board or tree appears carelessly thrown on top of the shack to keep the roof in place.  Each family has a dining table beneath their elevated home.   Hammocks hang down everywhere.  Many of the families have a variety of animals outside, mostly chickens.  The occasional “wealthy” village member has a pig or some oxen for plowing.  Foliage invades everything, but it is a welcome invasion, for it provides a bit of relief from the extreme heat and harsh rain. 

     Every person offers a smile, cautious yes, but genuine.  Life abounds here.  Everywhere I turn I see large spiders, chicks pecking, massive banana flowers, sugar palms, coconut trees, delicious food, oxen plowing small rice fields, monks, and children in white shirts and blue pants or skirts.  It is startling to see these kids so far from anywhere, dressing and scampering just like the rest of the country’s children.  Though they may be without basic sanitation, reliable income, food, transportation, and many other necessities, they are innocent and free.  Their smiles do not bely poverty or any deficiency at all.  In fact, seem more carefree than many children who have much more. 

     I meet Lim Sovannary, one of the village leaders.  She is beautiful in her tailored pants and high heels, a red and white striped beanie on her head.  We share warm smiles.  She sees visible areas on my neck and arms that have deep red bruises leftover from my recent “culture embracing experience.”  Coining, similar to cupping, is a common remedy used throughout East Asia to cure many different aches and pains.  Though it was painful, I feel it’s always worthwhile to participate in local customs.  Sovannary remains speechless for a just moment and then her face fills with joy.  A barang (foreigner) who chooses to participate in local customs or even just speak a bit of the language is soon an insider here.  She cups my face in her callused brown hands and tells me I am beautiful (in Khmer, she speaks no English).  Her smile alone is contagious.  The rest of my time here I know I am one of the family.  In a collectivist culture, hand-shaking and small talk are not the tools to build a relationship.  You can make eye contact with and talk with anyone in this country without getting strange looks.  But when you become a part of the family, the family will walk through fire for you. 

     Sleeping on the only bed in the wooden shack, I consider where I am and who I am.  This most generous family with no possessions, no savings, no “Western” hope for the future have more to give than I.  They offer all that they have, the only bed, the only blanket.  They prepare the finest food with the care of a brand new mother.  They aim to please and do not fail. 

Here I find humility, strength, and courage.  I find once again, that anytime you go somewhere or do something to “help” someone else, usually you become stronger.  Usually you receive the help.

     Once again, we board the dilapidated boat with our trusty navigator.  On this return journey, the magnitude of the river is difficult to ignore.  I cannot pull my eyes away from the deepness of the sky.  It appears moody, the clouds potent, the colors intense.  Here the endless water and colorful sky meet.  The vastness takes my breath away and reminds me of my smallness.   At some points I look out without seeing the opposite shore.  Sometimes we all must draw in a sharp breath and remember our humanity.   We must be reminded that giving is better than receiving.  We must somehow relearn that a smile remains more valuable than gold; that friendship and authenticity are more precious than any material goods.