Children

Children. The Bible tells us they are a “heritage from the Lord” (Psalm 127: 3-5). They are whimsical, carefree and downright adorable. They are innocent, trusting and unblemished from the tough lessons that we must learn as we grow older. In short, children are precious.  During my six weeks here in Cambodia, I have marveled at the children, who live joyously despite conditions that make my Western, sanitized heart rattle. The more I see this country, the more I fall in love with the shy smile and wide eyes of its children.

I have noticed, though, that the children here are more reserved than in the United States and in Guatemala (where I have done previous mission and humanitarian work). In Guatemala, children ran to me with open arms, flocked around me tugging at my blond hair and giggling at my broken Spanish. But not here; Cambodian children will watch me, their large dark eyes illuminated by curiosity, but they do not come near.  There is a consciousness that strangers may be entertaining, but only from afar.

In the United States, I have been a babysitter and part-time nanny. I have cared for twin boys (2 different sets, no less!), precious infant girls and an assortment of elementary aged tikes. They are silly, generally happy and willing to throw their love on any responsive stranger that comes their way (with a few shy exceptions). But not in Cambodia. Even after a morning of interviews and warm chatter with their mothers, children here are still shy. They are reserved and skeptical; hardened little observes that will watch you and even reward you with a smile, but rarely ever a hug or handshake.

This is a striking contrast to Guatemala where I was flooded by little Mayan babies. They loved to play, to dance, to take us by the hand and show us around. There was no bottom to the wellspring of enthusiasm that the Mayan children expressed for life. But in Cambodia, there is something that tempers this kind of reckless joy. It’s not that children are not joyous – they certainly are – but that they chose to reign in that abandonment when an outsider is around.

I am reading Samantha Power’s award winning exposé, “A Problem From Hell”: America and the Age of Genocide, which is an expertly researched and engagingly written examination of America’s response to genocide in the 20^th century. My boss lent me the book because it has a section on the Khmer Rouge and the “extermination” of the intellectual class in the late 1970s. Fascinating and heart-breaking, I have been reading about the systematic destruction that wiped about over 20% of the Cambodian population, from which children were not excluded.  In the wake of such a reign of terror, the hesitancy of families to be warm with strangers isn’t so out of place. But, why the children?

Children are resilient. They can survive trauma better than we adults give them credit for. They can imagine a world free of the shackles of the one in which they live. They dream. But, they also can pick up on and be influenced by the nuances in our adult actions and reactions. As I encounter and attempt to engage (i.e. snuggle and love) these precious children, I wonder if the trappings of fear and mistrust which are deeply women into the lives of their parents and grandparents are played out in their reserved response to strangers. And, if that is the case, how unfortunate to live with that haunted sense of mistrust bred by an all too real and horrible past.

Each child that breathes is a child of the Most High God. Each child is a precious gift, a blessing. No matter what country, what religion, what race, what gender, what language, each child is a light and a hope. In the eyes of Cambodian children, wide and silent, I see that small flicker of hope.

Word of the Day...

I’ve been learning a few words of Khmer here and there. A few essentials have helped me in awkward situations. So, I’m going to give y’all a few words of Khmer, which can help if you ever find yourself stranded in Cambodia.

Akun = “Thank you”

Som = “please”

Tuck = “water”

Muy = 1

Be = 2

Bai = 3

Boon = 4

Pram = 5

Sous-dye = “Hello” and Arron sous-dye = “Good morning”

Lee-hai = “Good bye”

Interestingly enough, Khmer doesn’t have a word for ‘no’ – they use English no do indicated dissent. Apparently before the introduction of ‘no’ into the language, if someone were to answer the questions are you hungry, they’d say “yes, I’m not hungry.” Strange, eh?

I’ll try to pick up a few more words and do another Khmer lesson in a few days!

Lee-hai!

A Christian in a Buddhist Land

It was a constant sort of hum-chanting that filled the room with a warm, radiant vibration. Four monks, ranging in age from about 20 to about 60, sat on the floor of our large conference room. Shrouded in large pieces of orange or red fabric, they chant-hummed in a cacophonic harmony which seemed to swell through the room like sweet incense smoke.  My knees hurt from kneeling on a reed mat. I was lost;  the language was foreign, then moments of bowing strange. I felt terribly out of place.

On Thursday of last week our office had a blessing. Here in Cambodia, inviting a local monk to come to your office or home to bless both your person and your space is a common practice. Monks are everywhere; their bright orange and rich red robes stick out. They ride on the back of mopeds, they wander around markets and yesterday I even saw a monk using the internet. I don’t know exactly why I find this weird – I mean, I am going to become a minister, yet I use a computer every single day. Perhaps it is because for me, Buddhism is still a mystical religion that has – until Thursday – stayed hidden in the pagoda.

I have never before traveled to a country in which Christianity was not the predominant religion. Guatemala is still mostly Catholic and Europe is Christian of some flavor or fashion (mostly). So, even if the form of Christianity practiced differed from my frozen-chosen Presbyterianism it was still Jesus on a cross, Mary the mother of God, and the three-in-one trinity that I could recognize. But here, in Cambodia things are different. Here, boys and men dedicate themselves to strict ascetic lifestyles relying on aid from the communities to help support them as they pray and study. They cover themselves in kashayas, or long strips of saffron and ochre fabric and shave their heads. They serve as religious instructors, community leaders and organizers, and – as what we would think of in the Christian sense –   as ministers.  There is meekness and humility about monks that is in sharp contrast to the often over-the-top charisma of Christian leaders and a sense that monks work hard to balance the need to withdraw from the world in an effort to attain enlightenment and the compassion to remain rooted in their communities as servant leaders.

In the work we have done with IRD thus far, monks, nun and achars (local religious leaders that can be compared to Deacons) have been sought out to help spread the public health message. At our very first day on the job, we attended a ceremony honoring the women who had participated in our “Model Mothers” program (which teaches and encourages good hygiene, sanitation and proper nutrition for children under 5). For many of these women, what they are being taught (like breastfeeding from birth through at least 6 months) goes against what has become the social norm. A monk sat in the first row, his orange kashaya vibrant against his dark skin, and spoke about how important nutrition and sanitation is to healthy families and communities. His presence was a blessing in many ways. The community looked to him for guidance and was encouraged by his support of the work IRD is doing.

Turning to these religious leaders to get the message about public health out is an important way to connect to this culturally distinct country. Last week, I watched as wandering monks stopped outside shops and residences, and said a few words. Some folks would come out, give them a small donation and then kneel while the monks chanted a blessing over them (Buddhist chanting, by the way, is not the peaceful, harmonious chanting of Anglican evensong or Benedictine-style monks; it is a strange nasal-off-key kind of chant that cannot be mistaken for anything else). Sitting in on a religious ritual brought into sharp contrast how different Buddhism is to Christianity. And yet, there was something familiar. Maybe it was the way we all hold our hands, pressed together for prayer. Maybe it was how, at the end of the ceremony the monks used bundles of leaves to sprinkle water on the kneeling crowd, much like the sprinkling of baptismal water on Easter. Or the way these Buddhist families welcomed us and care for us the same way Christian families back home would have. For all the remarkable and beautiful ways that we are different, in the human way we are the same.

After all, the Buddha says: “Consider others as yourself.” (Dhammapada 10:1), while Jesus reminds us: “Do to others as you would have them do to you." (Luke 6:31)

An Awfully Big Adventure and Back Before Lunch!

Today has been a very full day, and it’s only 3:30pm (at the time of this writing)! Sara and I have been across Cambodia (practically) and back, traveling with FFE (Food For Education). I have done my best to document our epic adventure, but it has been a wild ride since we first stepped onto the boat at about 7:30am.

We were told prior to this morning’s events that we would be “crossing the river” and “taking the boat” to get to the school where the drama would be performed. I thought to myself, “oh, a quaint little village across the river. Fun.” Silly Brekke, nothing is ever that easy.

 

A nearly 40 minute boat-ride later, in which Sara somehow either got engaged to or became the sister of this very chatty 17 year old girl, we arrived at this dusty looking hamlet. All the homes were thatched roof, bamboo-planked square cabin-type constructions on stilts. All the roads were a dusty red dirt pathway with assorted bumps that my behind can still feel. We unloaded the drama equipment from the boat and clambered into a tuk-tuk (“took-took”).

This is a tuk-tuk - like a rickshaw attached to a motor scooter

We departed for another nearly hour-long drive along winding streets and across flat, scorched plains. It was beautiful in a broken-hearted kind of way. It was a land naked of pretense and full of raw living truth. I think I may have fallen in love.

We arrived at the school and the drama kids immediately started to set up. They are an efficient little group!

I say “kids”, but they were more like a rag-tag group of high school students and recent high school grads. They ranged in aged from about 16 to 20, with a few speaking English (the best were the girl in green and the boy in pink).

The performances are IRD funded and are designed to teach lessons in basic hygiene (like washing your hands), the evils of alcohol and tobacco, and why eating your vegetables is essential to a healthy lifestyle. The group is hip and funny (as you can see) and I think it was a great way to engage the school children. Hopefully they’ll remember what they were taught.

The drama group then handed out toothbrushes and toothpaste (and a demonstration for correct teeth brushing techniques) to all the school children.

There we lots of neighborhood kids who milled about and watched the drama. They were terribly adorable. I couldn’t help but snap some photos. :)

We want to come to school too!

Precious! 

I got to visit the classrooms (there were only about 5 rooms) and say hello to the students. One room had a hand-made math poster that brought me back to 11^th grade Algebra III. No matter where in the world you are, some things never change!

See if you recognize the 3rd line from the bottom 

Then it was time to go, so we deconstructed the set, said our thanks to the teachers and students and piled back into the tuk-tuk, which promptly crashed while leaving the school. No joke, the motor died and we rolled downhill into a tree/fence. Sara and I screamed like the seasoned veterans of travel that we are.  After the manly boys hopped out of the tuk-tuk and pushed us to safety, we were off again. Until the motor died about 12 minutes later. So there we were, half melted in greasy puddles on the floor, stranded in the middle of rural Cambodia looking for a bottle of oil to get the motor functioning again. It was miserable hot, we were tired and hungry. The tuk-tuk wouldn’t start.

Did I mention it was hot? And Sara had decided to introduce the Cambodian teenagers to the musical stylings of Justin Bieber – which really should be a sin right up there with unwrapping cellophane candies in a movie theater. Well, the hand of God got that tuk-tuk running again, and we bumped and chugged our way back to the small river-side hamlet where our boat was moored. With the same efficiency, the drama kids unloaded the tuk-tuk, filled the boat and had us back in the water. And when I say “in” the water, I literally mean that by behind was cruising along a mere 5 inches away from this strangely green water (it looked like someone had washed a GINORMOUS paintbrush with green paint in the river).

40 minutes and some rather awesome tan lines later, we arrived back home in Kampong Chhnang. We walked into our hotel around 1:10pm – home in time for a late lunch! What a day, and it is only half over. In Cambodia, you really must expect the unexpected. 

The blogger as Frogger

Monday Sara and I traveled into Phnom Penh to meet with Cambodian HQ staff and do a little bit of grocery shopping (to pick up some home essentials and get a few western things – aka pasta and ranch dressing – that they don’t carry out in Kampong Chhnang. It’s not the city you need to watch out for, it’s the drive there.

You see, in Cambodia, most people of means (which is, oddly enough, us) hire professional drivers. And for good reason. Driving here is serious business. There are virtually no stoplights (even in the capitol), no stop signs (not a single one in KC) and no hard and fast traffic laws (let alone police to enforce said traffic laws). Throw into that mix a wide array of cars and trucks, varying moto-bikes with any number of passengers, tractors, ox-carts (no joke, carts pulled by oxen) and bicycles. Passing slower moving traffic is an art form, and our drivers seamlessly straddle the center of the road (and occasionally drive fully in the left lane) to pass slower traffic. And so, this passing-getting over- speeding up-passing dance is a bit unnerving to us Americans who are quite use to our, “stay in your own lane and pass only at the yellow dotted line  thak-you-very-much.” Which is when Sara turned to me and said,

“This is like a real-life game of frogger.”

Frogger –the early ‘90s video game of getting your little frog across the busy industrial highway unscathed. Suddenly I saw myself as a little frog, hugging the pavement and fearfully watching the enormous monstrosities of semi-trucks wiz by, unnoticing of my trepidation as some unnamed god-figure moved me across the screen toward what could be my impending death.

As that scene flashed before my eyes I looked through the front window to see a large white truck zooming toward us at break neck speed. We were in the left lane, trying to pass a stubborn blue minivan.  The white truck drew nearer and that minivan with about 12 people and two weeks worth of fruit bulging from the windows and back hatch went just fast enough that we couldn’t quite pass it. We were still in the left lane and that white truck was unyielding and absolutely not going to slow down. We inched past that minivan only to discover a slower motorbike had left only a very narrow – and I mean very narrow – gap. The white truck was upon us and I could see the outline of their driver and the dangly thingys around his rearview mirror. It was all so sudden: we were in the left lane, the white truck was in the left lane, the motorbike was blocking our return to the right. There was a narrow gap, and the motorbike and the blue minivan and…

We slide seamlessly into the gap and slowed down just enough to not ram the hell out of the moto and went just fast enough not to be rammed like hell by the blue minivan. I turned to Sara and said,

“I, like my uncle, am praying to make it out of Southeast Asia alive.”

(My uncle served in the Vietnam War)

This is typical Cambodian driving. Flirting with death. Speeding along the highways. Most people don’t wear helmets when they ride motos or bicycles. In fact, last week an IRD staff member was killed in a northern province because he was in a moto accident and wasn’t wearing a helmet. Because there aren’t enough good hospitals in Cambodia – and only ONE brain surgeon in the whole country – he was transported to Vietnam. He died on the border as they tried to get him to the hospital. IRD has since taken a VERY strict policy of requiring all staff to wear helmets whenever they’re on a moto. It was required before – and he died while on a personal trip – but they have taken a very stern stance about employees wearing helmets always, not just at work.

But still, culture remains. And now every time I get into a truck for a long car ride, I will imagine myself as a frightened and helpless frog, clutching the curb and praying a little froggy prayer.

Race, privilege and why I’m glad I’m not “Brangenlina”

White people are scarce in Cambodia. Outside of the Capitol at Phnom Penh and the two major tourist hot spots – Siem Reap (Angkor Wat) and Shionkville (beaches) – Anglos are few and far between.  Ex Pat communities thrive in tourist areas precisely because tourists, after a few days reveling in the “strangeness” of a new country, long for a little bit of home. So, here in Kampong Chhnang, Sara and I are two of three Anglos (the third being a mysterious Peace Corps volunteer named Greg who we haven’t met yet). So you can imagine that we stand out. Sara, if she wears sunglasses and doesn’t say anything, could probably pass as just a fair skinned Cambodian. But not I. My blonde hair has drawn more curious looks than I can count. We are obviously new in town (and way better equipped to adjust than Renee Zellwiger in that terrible Romantic Comedy).

But, everyone is kind to us. A little distant, but friendly. They return our smiles, sneak looks at us as they ride by on bikes and allow their little children to unabashedly wave and call to us. It’s a bit like being a celebrity, and reminds me of a visiting a school in Guatemala where the students wanted our autographs because we were American. But, for all that this seems harmless, it really points to much bigger issues – race and privilege.

 

I can’t make many astute comments on the racial dynamics at work in this former French colony that has only in the past 20 years come out of a terrible genocide (which wiped out all of the intellectual class, but more on that in a future post). But I can speak about what I’ve observed – that to be fair skinned and western is to be the most respected and most coveted. It’s a little uncomfortable to know that the children that wave to us and say “hello” – a word that is not used too often in everyday Khemer – are doing so because to them, being Western makes us quasi-celebrities. I don’t like the feeling of privilege, which in many ways I feel is undeserved on my part – that comes from merely being blond haired and blue eyed.  What does it mean to have to learn English in order to hold a non-tourist related job? What does it mean to have to learn someone else’s language in order to host an intern in your own country? I recognize that being a white American woman has given me HUGE advantages, but I also feel that from my place of privilege comes huge responsibilities. But how do I honor the dignity of the precious Cambodians that I meet every day while not seeming to condescend or patronize?

It’s difficult. It’s certainly a journey. I am reminded why I never want to be famous. I don’t want people constantly watching where I’m going, intruding on my personal life and being fascinated with every single thing I do from what I eat from breakfast to when I have my first bathroom break! No, leave the fame for the Bennifers and Brangelina’s of the world, and give me a good, honest Cambodian smile.

Burn, baby, burn!

Today Sara and I went adventuring. It was quite a good little adventure on our Saturday off. We saw the local pagoda complex, waved at some monks, were “hello-ed” by about 50 children, and managed not to sell ourselves into marriage by accident.

However, no adventure comes without some kind of hiccup and mine is a particularly purplely-red hiccup. That’s right, friends, I have a lovely stripe of sunburn from where I somehow missed applying my SPF 50 sunscreen.  It’s on my shoulder and – don’t let the camera fool you – it’s a deep reddish purple. It doesn’t hurt yet, which is actually a little concerning.

The arrow indicates where the said burn took place. Evidence of the burn in the very act.

Here is a video showing you the damaged the sun has wreaked upon my skin. It's a lovely crescent shape and is going to give me hours of grief when I have my backpack on. You haven't really lived until you've been sunburned in Southeast Asia, right? :/   

EDIT:

If the above wasn't proof enough, here is another awesome picture of my lobster-burn.

OUCH!

Good Morning...CAMBODIA

Yesterday I watched as Mason, the Country Director for Cambodia and the only American here besides myself and Sara, walked out of my office door and left Kampong Chhnang. He’s back in the capitol – Phnom Penh – until Friday when he leaves for a 3 week vacation back in the US. So, the only native English speaker that we know in the whole of Cambodia is leaving. It was an overwhelming thought, watching this person that I really don’t know at all but feel remarkably attached to, walk away and leave Sara and I stranded in the middle of rural Cambodia. We don’t speak a word of Khemai (well, I take that back, I’ve learned two words). Some of the staff speak English of varying levels, but between the accent differences and the lack of vocabulary there has been some communication discord. And, unless they are speaking to Sara or me, the staff communicates exclusively in Khemai, which only serves to increase this feeling of isolation and foreignness. This certainly promises to be an adventure!

 The IRD sign outside our "office" building

But everyone is friendly and welcoming! Although there are language barriers and cultural divides, the Cambodians we work with have been gracious and hospitable in every way. They answer questions, they return our smiles and they seem to be thoroughly glad that we are interning with them.  There is much to do – the Kampong Chhnang office is the hub for Child Survival and Food for Education projects – from project analysis, to field visits, to development and review of new proposal ideas. And, being a native English speaker, my editing skills will be put to good use (and have already been used!) as I look over official documents that are sent out from this office.

 Where I work!

We’ll also be spending a rather significant chunk of our time out in the field. We went to a “Model Mothers” celebration yesterday where women who were exemplars in breastfeeding, nutrition and child-rearing were honored and nutrition kits awarded. These celebrations mark a transfer of IRD leadership in these projects to local leadership as IRD’s grant is set to wrap up in September.

Model Mothers and a Model Father

A not-so-model little boy getting ready to make a run for it!

There’s so much to say about this wild and wonderful country. It’s a colorful place of welcoming people. Here there are pagodas and shrines to Buddha doting the road and standing brilliantly painted against the backdrop of a dry, weathered landscape. It’s a place where cars and mopeds zoom alongside ox-drawn wagons. It’s a place where people gather around a color tv in a thatched-roof hovel, drinking rice wine and trying to escape the pervasive heat. It’s a humbling and heart-breaking country with a willingness to give and a great need to receive. I feel very lucky to be here – I still can’t believe this is my life sometimes! At the same time, I’m anxious. This is a big step outside of my comfort zone, and there is something intense and lonely about knowing that you are a stranger in a strange land. 

some of the guys I work with

10 Reasons Why Washington DC Is NOT the South

Today was a day filled with information and revelation. IRD is a complex organization with diverse facets and functions. Our day was a string of short meetings with team leaders from the nine core sectors in which IRD works. I felt overwhelmed by the sheer amount of information slung at me, and awed by the massive scope in which IRD has the capacity to respond to disaster, crisis and human need. It’s absolutely amazing! Especially after talking with the team leaders for the Haiti sector and the Relief and Humanitarian Assistance sector, I am now so excited and anxious to be off to Cambodia, working on the ground and seeing firsthand how IRD works with and in local communities. There are so many places of conflict/post-conflict that have needs; I cannot wait to get my hands dirty working toward building sustainable peace and prosperity with these communities.

Sara enjoying a bite to eat at Madam's Organ

But all that informative and impactful morning business aside, I realized something that changes how I view our great capitol, and perhaps even America as a whole. Washington DC is not the South. This profound realization hit me while eating a pulled-pork sandwich at Madam’s Organ – an infamous local haunt similar to the Vortex in Atlanta.  As me and my four other colleagues mused this revelation over, we came up with ten reasons why Washington DC is NOT the South. 

Washington DC  is not the South because…

10.  it has public transit that actually goes to useful locations at regular, calculable intervals

9.  people avoid using expressions like “bless her heart”, “good Lord willin’ and the Creeks don’t rise” and “I wouldn’t piss on her if she was on fire” in public discussion

8. the only tea on restaurant menus is from Long Island

7. public transportation is used by all members of the socio-economic public (like poor IRD interns!)

6. after walking nearly six blocks I still did not encounter a single church, house of worship, church sign or street evangelist

5. there are no old folks in rocking chairs on front porches…because there are no front porches

4. people do not stroll, they power walk

3.  cars actually stop for pedestrians without giving the finger, screaming obscenities and/or having to slam on the breaks halting just inches from where you have legally proceeded into the cross walk

2.  people do not embrace proper grammatical contractions like y’all which make English more efficient and less gender-biased instead they stubbornly insist on “you guys”

And finally, the number 1 reason Washington DC is NOT the South…

People have legitimate, non-fashion related reasons to wear scarves after Easter.

It's been fun so far. I'm excited to see how all the sectors interact and what kind of work is being done on the ground level. And, you know, adventures are fun too. :) 

The Adventure Begins...

I am less than 11 hours away from the beginning of one of the most exciting adventures of my life! I leave tomorrow at 7am to fly to Washington DC where me and my fabulous partner Sarah will be prepped by IRD (International Relief and Development) for a week before traveling 12 time zones ahead of east coast America to Cambodia. I have never been so far away from home before! What an awfully large adventure!


I’m really excited, not just for the adventuring aspect of the trip, but also because it will be a learning and growing experience. Cambodia is a country I know very little about. It is a culture wholly different from my own. It is a nation with a bittersweet past – one that as an American I am intimately connected to – and a timidly hopeful future. I am excited to see and experience local customs, to take part in local worship (which promises to be absolutely different than my traditional Presbyterian Sunday service), and to peer into the daily lives of regular Cambodian people striving to survive in substandard living conditions.

I have been on mission trips before. I have twice gone to Guatemala and each trip taught me something profound about God’s love and human endurance. I know that those trips were essential in forming my call to seminary. But, I will be in Cambodia for two months! That’s quite a difference than the 10 day alternative Spring Breaks I participated in as an undergrad. The nature of my internship – interviewing families who have taken part in a malnutrition prevention program – means getting to spend lots of personal time with local Cambodians. There’s no glamour to this job! And, that’s exactly why I so badly wanted to do it. It will be a trial-by-fire in the best (and maybe worst?) ways. I guess this is good practice for being in England for a year. :)

I pray that this opportunity allows me to grow as a Christian woman. I pray that this internship allows me to see the world how Christ sees it and to love those who are so completely different than myself in the way that Christ loves them. I pray daily that I may become the hands and feet of Christ; perhaps this grand adventure will be a refiner’s fire in my formation.