A draft of this blog was written in early July 2005, when I was still in Phnom Penh. The day we went into the slums was one of the hardest I experienced in Cambodia and it took a bit of time to put all down.
Now it has been completed and hence posted...
She has a plan she explains: she wants to sell second hand clothing at the market. SHe really likes buisness and being amongst people haggling, bargining at the markets. Before her acid burn accident, she did the hair styles for brides for their wedding day. She explains all of this to use during one of the scar massage sessions - while I massage the scar on the left check and forehead, and then nurse cleans out the puss and dead tissue from the other eye socket (she lost her eye as a result of the acid burn). She has a friend that lives in Phnom Phen - actually it is her adopted mother (when she was young her parents died and this women decided to adopt her on top of her 6 other children. Jesus). She is excited and chippers away at her plans of selling baby clothing at the market. She just needs $50 to buy the initial batch. Just $50...I inquire where she will get the $50. She doesn't know. Yet. But she just needs $50 to buy the first batch and then she will sell the clothes on the market and make enough to buy food for her and her daughter...Is this part of the process I wonder? Is her ambition strong enough to over come the stares and avoidance that her scars will cause at the market? Does she know? Although everyone around realizes that the rejection she will experience at the market because of her deforming scarring, nobody steps forward to tell her that. Is it in anybody's position to make that move ?. Funny game of chess. I gently suggest that she has other ideas just in case this one doesn't work out the way she hopes. But she seems very determined. SHe will live at her step mother's place, start to sell clothes and once she is up on her feet again, she will find a place for her and her daughter to live.
I want to see where she will live with her step mothers. I feel like I am adopting this family of two...I'm not sure why but the option of turing away is not an option at this point. On a personal note, I recognize the fact that I am taking responsibility for another life. That there are wings under which some are finding shelter. My wings do not scare me, however, I am aware of the strength they need in order to nurture and provide.
The following week, in the early afternoon, the PT and I take his moto and pick up ChanNarey and her daughter at the shelter. Chan has a strong conversation with the moto taxi driver - he wants to charge her too much for the trip to the market and to where her step mother lives...I start to move away from them a little bit; I know that because there is a foreigner with them (myself), the price doubles. These are the shadows that we keep moving in, trying to find the best deal.
We turn off the familar main road onto a wide dirt road of an unfamiliar world. We twist and weave our way through the pot wholes, cars, people and dogs, following the bike in front of us so as not to get lost. But inevitably, with the congestion, we do lose them. Not focused on the bike in front anymore, my eyes begin to focus on what is immediately surrounding us - stray dogs, dirty children with ripped clothes who look at us with cool distant eyes. Some children smile shyly and quickly hide their face behind an older kids back. Buildings that seam to be leaning against one another. A cloud of orange dust hangs in the air. Adults with wild eyes and hair satured with the dust; they look exhausted. I begin to sink into my new surroundings. I am aware of my heart beat slowing down. I have no sense of smell, but I am very aware of the new sounds and the colours - everything is set against the orangy-brown dirt and takes on new tones. Lost, we decide to turn around head back the way we came. I feel like a ghost who is silently travelling and weaving through the streets the bear a particular kind of burden.
Suddenly, I see Chan - stepping out onto the road and waving at us. Re-united, we are lead by Chan down a little, windy alley leading away from the main road. The volume begins to go down and specific sounds become more audible - I can hear conversations between people, dogs barking, somebody is running, I am aware of the sound my feet make on small rocks, stepping into puddles. We are met by her step mom at the end of this alley. She is a petite woman - I am struck by the thought that this tiny female body gave birth to 6 children...my head grasps the significance of this and at the same I am in awe and wonder at the capacity of the human body.
She begins to lead us down another maze of small alley ways, and then another...further and further away from the main road and deeper into the soul of this place. I've lost track of how many times we've turned. I feel oddly eternally calm as I enter the heart of this slum with my companions. Houses are layered ontop of one another - it seems as if randomly, in no particular way or organization. Their supports are the shacks on either side. SOmetimes their is alley way leading into another maze of shacks, children, chickens and more puddles. I don't understand how they do not fall apart...they look as if they are made of popsicle sticks and any wind would blow them over. But they endure, survive, stand. This entire place takes on it's misery and poverty in appearance and function. Little children running about slow down to observe us with curiosity. Parents and adults peer out through cloth-covered doorframes, revealing a little bit of their homes to my scanning/absorbing eyes. We continue to walk. I am astonished at the fact that there are so many people condensed into this place and that it expands so deeply...from the main roads, this place disappears - to the outside world, it's as if it didn't exist.
We come the end and walk up three steps on a make shift stair case - which is really a ladder on it's side. We continue on along a narrow plank of wood and turn into one of the many doorways and then walk into one of the rooms - a room comparable to the size a nursery room or an ensuite bathroom in a family home in Canada. This room is their home - the home of the step mother, her husband and her 6 children. I am stunned. I knew about this...I've heard about this...but now, standing here, being here, I am stunned. This actually happens. People actually live and survive like this. I begin to feel the air leaving my lungs. Tears come to the surface, as I am struck with an undeniable truth. Now I understand her expression of dispair, the surrender to circumstance. I accept it and now hope to be a gracious guest.
Against one wall is a massive metal water barrel - the water used to bath, wash dishes, cook. One wall has a window and against it is a wood bed frame the size of a twin bed. Some of the planks in the middle are broken. Dishes and pillows are stored in the small spaces between wooden beams of the wall. Somehow, this family of 7 sleeps, eats and functions in this one tiny room. And they have said that Chan and her daughter can come and stay with them...the degree of love, helpfullness and wanting to help each other floods over me. Even when you think you can't, you can.
I am invited to sit on the bed frame. The physio, also my translator, sits beside me. I invite Chan's daughter to sit on my lap. I play with her hair - this with her body heat somehow calms me down. Everyone else sits on the floor around us. The mother smiles at me and Chan, playing with her hands, rubbing her right thigh. When Chan looks away, I see the expression on the mother's face change and I realize she is very afraid and sad for her step daughter. I don't know what to say or what to do. I feel like I need a few days to absorb this place before I can even begin or engage in any conversation...an ackward silence fills up the room. Chan begins to chatter, smile, laugh a little bit and this seems to melt the ice. As with any human interaction, we begin to talk about the basics - the two wedding pictures nailed to one wall, work, family, children...how hard life is. How we want something better for the future. How we want our children to have a better chance at a better life: A common thread running through the fabric of human existence.
One of her daughters is the same age as Chan's daughter. I see them eyeing one another. I ask if she goes to school. Yes, she does. About 2km from here. She walks there every day. I ask if we can go see it. As we leave the room, I look back and see Chan and her mother huddling together on the bed of broken wooden planks, comforting one another with tender jestures two women who are close to one another will do.
Back on the dirt paths, the two girls begin to talk to each other. They have a quick, brisk pace, strong eyes, determined eyes. Beautiful smiles which they do not express randomly. Their expressions are serious most of the time, very particular and true. Their instincts are fine tuned -about their surrounds and the people that they come across. They are not innocent or naive. I am amazed that such young girls can know so much already. Each one takes one of my hands and begins to lead they way to the school...they have a beautiful quality about them: they are not over-taken by grief and disappair... and I'm inspired by it. Being in their hands, I realize that their is always hope. That in something god-awful and terrible something beautiful can be found.
Friday, August 05, 2005
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Like sand slipping through my fingers
I am leaving Cambodia.
I am leaving pieces behind, for pick up when I return…I realize this on the plane and smile.
I leave Cambodia having developed a new relationship with time…its amplitudes are different; its velocity varies but defines itself by infinity. Sometimes it slips through my fingers like sand. Sometimes it feels like space full of invisible pulses….
I leave Cambodia with the smell of jasmine surrounding me. I am drawn to it and I have smelt it long enough that it has become a part of me – a smell that I always recognize and find myself lingering and drifting to inhale …that is the beauty and magic of flowers: they can make us do that.
In Cambodia I learned patients. I lost my temper once and spoke with a strong voice. The moment it started happening, it felt foreign to me, too high pitched, bouncing off everything. I realized how pointless it was – trying to fill up a space with an aggressive approach result in others retreating and shutting down, shutting you out and you end up somewhere in the periphery. It felt terrible. I hung my tail between my legs and sought out the smell of jasmine.
I leave Cambodia with a new understanding of human nature – it’s much more raw, much more penetrating, much more sensitive than I ever imagined. From the bottom up, I realize and see capitalism and democracy (the ying and the yang of it) in a new form. Cambodia is the epitomy of free enterprise…everything is for sale, everything has a price tag. Pulling people off motos to steal a purse, cutting off hands to steal a rolex, robbing a man bleeding on the ground after he’s been in a moto accident; none of it is personal, it’s all a random act aimed at possessing something. It’s amazing what we’ll do for the material possessions and the monks continue their teachings that liberation exists when we let the materialism go. It’s almost like a subtle form of anarchy that a few a try to grasp and change but most are willing to utilize and exploit.
Family. At a western dinner party, the first question is: what do you do? Whereas at a Cambodian dinner, the first questions are: are you married? how many children do you have?
Family is the beginning of self-identity and definition. The family is the social support and the social fabric upon which people rely. I don’t know what is better-being able to rely on your family or the political structure…probably something in the middle – is the middle the place where we find peace because that’s where the elements are balanced?
Prostitutes. Over some amok and ice tea during an afternoon thunder storm, a couple of Cambodian women explain to me the role of prostitutes in Cambodian society from their perspective. It’s normal for a Cambodian man to go to the prostitutes to have sex because their Cambodian girlfriends cannot (and will not) have sex with them before marriage. They explain what else is he going to do? The wonder and ponder for a moment with tricky eyes looking at me: is it better for women to be like western women that sleep with many men and are easy or let the prostitutes deal with the aspect of male nature? I laugh at my nativity. I’ve never been so close, as a western, to such perceptions of what I represent (directly or indirectly). These Cambodian girls I’m talking to laugh at my response that I would not be ok with my boyfriend having sex with prostitutes, that I’m not comfortable dancing at the night club because all of the other girls on the dance floor are prostitutes awaiting and looking for a customer. I laugh too at my social ingrained responses and behaviours! We keep talking in circles explaining to each other, and then ourselves really, the role of the prostitute in our lives. Prostitutes as a functional part of the society- this is new ground for me…my mind creaks towards another understanding, even from a distance.
I leave Cambodia freely. Amongst the chaos I have found a freedom and peace I was looking for, almost desperately, in Canada. I am thankful to Cambodia for that. In the past, exits were always so emotional, so dramatic. I would leave with nostalgia in my heart…today, now, I leave quietly, full of new wonder and curiosity, packing my bags as if for a vacation. I am not sad to leave. Perhaps because I truly feel that this is only the beginning…
I am leaving pieces behind, for pick up when I return…I realize this on the plane and smile.
I leave Cambodia having developed a new relationship with time…its amplitudes are different; its velocity varies but defines itself by infinity. Sometimes it slips through my fingers like sand. Sometimes it feels like space full of invisible pulses….
I leave Cambodia with the smell of jasmine surrounding me. I am drawn to it and I have smelt it long enough that it has become a part of me – a smell that I always recognize and find myself lingering and drifting to inhale …that is the beauty and magic of flowers: they can make us do that.
In Cambodia I learned patients. I lost my temper once and spoke with a strong voice. The moment it started happening, it felt foreign to me, too high pitched, bouncing off everything. I realized how pointless it was – trying to fill up a space with an aggressive approach result in others retreating and shutting down, shutting you out and you end up somewhere in the periphery. It felt terrible. I hung my tail between my legs and sought out the smell of jasmine.
I leave Cambodia with a new understanding of human nature – it’s much more raw, much more penetrating, much more sensitive than I ever imagined. From the bottom up, I realize and see capitalism and democracy (the ying and the yang of it) in a new form. Cambodia is the epitomy of free enterprise…everything is for sale, everything has a price tag. Pulling people off motos to steal a purse, cutting off hands to steal a rolex, robbing a man bleeding on the ground after he’s been in a moto accident; none of it is personal, it’s all a random act aimed at possessing something. It’s amazing what we’ll do for the material possessions and the monks continue their teachings that liberation exists when we let the materialism go. It’s almost like a subtle form of anarchy that a few a try to grasp and change but most are willing to utilize and exploit.
Family. At a western dinner party, the first question is: what do you do? Whereas at a Cambodian dinner, the first questions are: are you married? how many children do you have?
Family is the beginning of self-identity and definition. The family is the social support and the social fabric upon which people rely. I don’t know what is better-being able to rely on your family or the political structure…probably something in the middle – is the middle the place where we find peace because that’s where the elements are balanced?
Prostitutes. Over some amok and ice tea during an afternoon thunder storm, a couple of Cambodian women explain to me the role of prostitutes in Cambodian society from their perspective. It’s normal for a Cambodian man to go to the prostitutes to have sex because their Cambodian girlfriends cannot (and will not) have sex with them before marriage. They explain what else is he going to do? The wonder and ponder for a moment with tricky eyes looking at me: is it better for women to be like western women that sleep with many men and are easy or let the prostitutes deal with the aspect of male nature? I laugh at my nativity. I’ve never been so close, as a western, to such perceptions of what I represent (directly or indirectly). These Cambodian girls I’m talking to laugh at my response that I would not be ok with my boyfriend having sex with prostitutes, that I’m not comfortable dancing at the night club because all of the other girls on the dance floor are prostitutes awaiting and looking for a customer. I laugh too at my social ingrained responses and behaviours! We keep talking in circles explaining to each other, and then ourselves really, the role of the prostitute in our lives. Prostitutes as a functional part of the society- this is new ground for me…my mind creaks towards another understanding, even from a distance.
I leave Cambodia freely. Amongst the chaos I have found a freedom and peace I was looking for, almost desperately, in Canada. I am thankful to Cambodia for that. In the past, exits were always so emotional, so dramatic. I would leave with nostalgia in my heart…today, now, I leave quietly, full of new wonder and curiosity, packing my bags as if for a vacation. I am not sad to leave. Perhaps because I truly feel that this is only the beginning…
Saturday, July 09, 2005
A tender moment
She is the only acid burn patient currently at ROSE. She arrived one week ago. I first saw her during rounds sitting in the main ward, her face charred and hardened pus on her chin. Her eyes were shut from the scars. There are a some splatters of acid on her left shoulder and left hand, but most of the damage is to her face and ears. She will undergo debridement (removal of the dead skin) and then skin grafting on her face because the scars are too big and too deep.
Her mother and her husband are with her. Her mother’s emotions are effectively covered by her constant smile. Her husband looks sad and exhausted. He sits by her bed, looking at her bandaged face – only slivers for her eyes, mouth and nose. Sometimes he holds her hand. Whenever I walk into the room he quickly walks away and sits in one of the corners. I realize I have never heard his voice. I am mostly aware of his eyes (they always looking puffy, as if he’d been crying) and his tattoos – the ones that men get here to keep bad spirits away. I haven’t seen this many on one body before.
As I’m treating Chan Narey, he watches. And then he picks up his wife’s burned hand and begins to massage it, mimicking what I did. He’s shaking a little bit. I feel a little bit like a voyeur, but I stay in the shadows, watching this tender moment. I walk over and sit beside him. He quickly gives me her hand but I don’t take it. Instead I place my hand over his, and guide his hand as it touches her skin and then begins to move closer to the scars, gliding over the scars, moving into the scars. His hand is soft and picks up what I am doing quickly. I smile and nod and he smiles back. All of this in silence…not one word was exchanged.
Five days after the operation, dressing changes begin. It’s an incredibly painful process and she cries with every millimeter of bandage that is pulled off her face. I hold her hand. I fight my own tears and have to consciously control how I respond to this whole process – at which my conscious screams: it can be done better, differently, less painfully, maybe tomorrow. Maybe not. I bite my tounge until it bleeds. The graft has taken 80%. For the first time I see her eyes open – they are big, brown, moist. She is beautiful – even with her shaved head and blood streaming down her left check and dead skin hanging off the other.
Her mother and her husband are with her. Her mother’s emotions are effectively covered by her constant smile. Her husband looks sad and exhausted. He sits by her bed, looking at her bandaged face – only slivers for her eyes, mouth and nose. Sometimes he holds her hand. Whenever I walk into the room he quickly walks away and sits in one of the corners. I realize I have never heard his voice. I am mostly aware of his eyes (they always looking puffy, as if he’d been crying) and his tattoos – the ones that men get here to keep bad spirits away. I haven’t seen this many on one body before.
As I’m treating Chan Narey, he watches. And then he picks up his wife’s burned hand and begins to massage it, mimicking what I did. He’s shaking a little bit. I feel a little bit like a voyeur, but I stay in the shadows, watching this tender moment. I walk over and sit beside him. He quickly gives me her hand but I don’t take it. Instead I place my hand over his, and guide his hand as it touches her skin and then begins to move closer to the scars, gliding over the scars, moving into the scars. His hand is soft and picks up what I am doing quickly. I smile and nod and he smiles back. All of this in silence…not one word was exchanged.
Five days after the operation, dressing changes begin. It’s an incredibly painful process and she cries with every millimeter of bandage that is pulled off her face. I hold her hand. I fight my own tears and have to consciously control how I respond to this whole process – at which my conscious screams: it can be done better, differently, less painfully, maybe tomorrow. Maybe not. I bite my tounge until it bleeds. The graft has taken 80%. For the first time I see her eyes open – they are big, brown, moist. She is beautiful – even with her shaved head and blood streaming down her left check and dead skin hanging off the other.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
A day in Phnom Penh
I woke up exhausted. My eyes were burning from dryness caused by the fan going all night and the constant dirt and dust in the air. Not a good day for contact lenses. The electricity wasn’t working so I took a cold shower (very refreshing indeed) in the dark. Getting dressed with my senses sluggish, I couldn’t shake the fatigue…I resisted the temptation of caffeine – at least for now. A bowl of sea food noodle soup for breakfast and a glass of water with a powdered electrolyte concoction seems to do the trick in providing a desperately need boast of energy. My moto driver awaits outside – I hop on, drive by yet another accident in the middle of the road around the corner from house (almost a daily occurrence this week) and we take the usual route to work at ROSE Charities. I’m lost in a bit of a daydream on the way to work – I have taken on the habit of consciously noticing or discovering something new on the way, otherwise, I have adapted to the point were I am not paying attention and the sensation of “daily routine” begins to take hold adn the winds of change begin to awaken.
At ROSE, I check e-mail, write a little bit of the project summary I have been working on as my two month stay is coming to an end. I try to limit my computer time to less than one hour per day – otherwise, cyberspace crouches in on the reality here too, and I don’t want to dance with that devil here. Changing into my blue scrubs I head down stairs for rounds and to look for the PT and dressing nurse. There is one acid burn patient currently at the hospital and two others who have been discharged but come every other day for treatment and dressing changes. As the dressing of the acid burn patient is taken off and cleaning of the wounds occurs, we discuss how they’re healing, the type of scar tissue there is (inflamed, granulation tissue, infection and so on), whether or not massage can begin - if yes, what techniques are appropriate; if not, why not. Patients flow in and flow out. I still find the quiet nature of this place…odd, strange, different, slightly disturbing. The only ones who cry out in pain are the infants. For the rest, only their breathing changes and they whisper “chuj (=pain)”. After this dressing, I am in the operating room observing the reduction of an elbow dislocation. The initial incision is sobering and the rest I find fascinating – the fascia, the muscle, the brilliantly red blood colour that flows inside. I recall reading once about Michelangelo and how he dissected cadavers to understand internal anatomy in order to create better sculptures of the human body.
I spend time hovering around the PT room to see what the PT is doing with the two acid burn out-patients. I’m hovering because I do not want to “tell him” what to do – I want to see how he manages alone, without direction from me or a constant dialogue of “yes” and “no”. I’ve only worked with him for about 3 weeks now and his personality has been the most challenging thus far. I am learning his ways, his manners of learning and understanding such that the information we exchange has meaning and is not lost amongst a bunch of English words that do not make any sense to his Khmer mind. It’s a fascinating and frustrating process, but it is leaving a deep impression on me about the multiple levels of communication we have at our disposal.
After work we head off to the Olympic Market as I need to buy a new cell phone. Lyna takes on the task of haggling and looking for the best deals. Initially I found this whole processes (shopping at the markets) nerve racking and uncomfortable. However now, I enjoy…it makes the “shopping” experience more witty, more interesting. Here’s the ritual in a nutshell: You find some thing you like. You ask the price. The vendor/seller says $10. You go half of the price, $5. Usually you will settle on something in-between. If they say "no bargain", you walk away. If they can sell it for less or need to make the sale, they will give you your asking price. If they will not sell for anything but their price, then they will not call you back and if you want this thing bad enough, you have to go back to them (which signals you agree on their price)…there are variations, but this is the general way its done. Even though it’s an intense process, there is no yelling and voices are not raised. Body language is key.
After the market we head off for dinner. Today I take my Cambodian friends for “foreigner food” at Nature and Sea. We have developed this nice exchange now where I take them out for foreign food and they take me to Cambodian restaurants for real Khmer food. Lyna cannot stand hummus and burchetta. But she likes fish and chips and salad. Nimol does not like steak but she likes French crepes with butter and sugar and Coca with lime! Pizza is ok. They both do not like the cheese and both ended up with stomach aches afterwards. I like the fish, but haven’t been gutsy enough to try pig brains or the fried bugs. So much fun, so many jokes, so much laughing happens over those meals. We probe at one another, test one another, figuring out each other and the differences and similarities between us, driven by curiousity and a desire to know more and to understand more. Our differences are very obvious, but our similarities enable us to sit at a table together and talk and learn about one another. I can’t believe they are 24 and they can’t believe that I’m 30! Today they explain to me why Cambodians do not like foreigners – these are the types of cultural lessons and realities I swim in everyday. I realize that I explain others foreigners through my "canadian expereicne" but I explain my personal actions through as a result of my European upbringing. THe dichotamy I thought I had put to rest is still very much alive within me.
After dinner I head off with my roommate for an evening of reading with a group of her foreigner friends who live and work in Cambodia. As we are pulling up to the Jane’s apartment (the host of this gathering) on our moto, I a feel a hand on my thigh and somebody pulling at my small purse that was hung across my shoulders. I pulled back, the strap broke and they drove away…without my purse. I was very lucky I am told by the group at Jane's house – that I did not lose my purse, that I wasn’t pulled of the moto bike and dragged and injured. My guardian angels are present. Inside, we sit around a table that has lotus flowers and jasmine wreaths on it, reading our favorite passages from our favorite books. It was magical. I read from “Ignorance” by Milan Kundera about the definition of nostalgia. I became nostalgic for the book club in Toronto. Once again, I realize that we are all seeking some form of completion, connection, understanding of others and ourselves and sometimes we find this in books, sometimes in pictures, sometimes in friendship, sometimes in love.
Returning home, the streets are quite. I see some young people stumbling about by the trees we pass – the problem of drugs and alcohol is only now beginning to be a reality that I am aware of. The layers, the many, many layers to a place…and once again, the end is only the beginning. The destination is the journey.
At ROSE, I check e-mail, write a little bit of the project summary I have been working on as my two month stay is coming to an end. I try to limit my computer time to less than one hour per day – otherwise, cyberspace crouches in on the reality here too, and I don’t want to dance with that devil here. Changing into my blue scrubs I head down stairs for rounds and to look for the PT and dressing nurse. There is one acid burn patient currently at the hospital and two others who have been discharged but come every other day for treatment and dressing changes. As the dressing of the acid burn patient is taken off and cleaning of the wounds occurs, we discuss how they’re healing, the type of scar tissue there is (inflamed, granulation tissue, infection and so on), whether or not massage can begin - if yes, what techniques are appropriate; if not, why not. Patients flow in and flow out. I still find the quiet nature of this place…odd, strange, different, slightly disturbing. The only ones who cry out in pain are the infants. For the rest, only their breathing changes and they whisper “chuj (=pain)”. After this dressing, I am in the operating room observing the reduction of an elbow dislocation. The initial incision is sobering and the rest I find fascinating – the fascia, the muscle, the brilliantly red blood colour that flows inside. I recall reading once about Michelangelo and how he dissected cadavers to understand internal anatomy in order to create better sculptures of the human body.
I spend time hovering around the PT room to see what the PT is doing with the two acid burn out-patients. I’m hovering because I do not want to “tell him” what to do – I want to see how he manages alone, without direction from me or a constant dialogue of “yes” and “no”. I’ve only worked with him for about 3 weeks now and his personality has been the most challenging thus far. I am learning his ways, his manners of learning and understanding such that the information we exchange has meaning and is not lost amongst a bunch of English words that do not make any sense to his Khmer mind. It’s a fascinating and frustrating process, but it is leaving a deep impression on me about the multiple levels of communication we have at our disposal.
After work we head off to the Olympic Market as I need to buy a new cell phone. Lyna takes on the task of haggling and looking for the best deals. Initially I found this whole processes (shopping at the markets) nerve racking and uncomfortable. However now, I enjoy…it makes the “shopping” experience more witty, more interesting. Here’s the ritual in a nutshell: You find some thing you like. You ask the price. The vendor/seller says $10. You go half of the price, $5. Usually you will settle on something in-between. If they say "no bargain", you walk away. If they can sell it for less or need to make the sale, they will give you your asking price. If they will not sell for anything but their price, then they will not call you back and if you want this thing bad enough, you have to go back to them (which signals you agree on their price)…there are variations, but this is the general way its done. Even though it’s an intense process, there is no yelling and voices are not raised. Body language is key.
After the market we head off for dinner. Today I take my Cambodian friends for “foreigner food” at Nature and Sea. We have developed this nice exchange now where I take them out for foreign food and they take me to Cambodian restaurants for real Khmer food. Lyna cannot stand hummus and burchetta. But she likes fish and chips and salad. Nimol does not like steak but she likes French crepes with butter and sugar and Coca with lime! Pizza is ok. They both do not like the cheese and both ended up with stomach aches afterwards. I like the fish, but haven’t been gutsy enough to try pig brains or the fried bugs. So much fun, so many jokes, so much laughing happens over those meals. We probe at one another, test one another, figuring out each other and the differences and similarities between us, driven by curiousity and a desire to know more and to understand more. Our differences are very obvious, but our similarities enable us to sit at a table together and talk and learn about one another. I can’t believe they are 24 and they can’t believe that I’m 30! Today they explain to me why Cambodians do not like foreigners – these are the types of cultural lessons and realities I swim in everyday. I realize that I explain others foreigners through my "canadian expereicne" but I explain my personal actions through as a result of my European upbringing. THe dichotamy I thought I had put to rest is still very much alive within me.
After dinner I head off with my roommate for an evening of reading with a group of her foreigner friends who live and work in Cambodia. As we are pulling up to the Jane’s apartment (the host of this gathering) on our moto, I a feel a hand on my thigh and somebody pulling at my small purse that was hung across my shoulders. I pulled back, the strap broke and they drove away…without my purse. I was very lucky I am told by the group at Jane's house – that I did not lose my purse, that I wasn’t pulled of the moto bike and dragged and injured. My guardian angels are present. Inside, we sit around a table that has lotus flowers and jasmine wreaths on it, reading our favorite passages from our favorite books. It was magical. I read from “Ignorance” by Milan Kundera about the definition of nostalgia. I became nostalgic for the book club in Toronto. Once again, I realize that we are all seeking some form of completion, connection, understanding of others and ourselves and sometimes we find this in books, sometimes in pictures, sometimes in friendship, sometimes in love.
Returning home, the streets are quite. I see some young people stumbling about by the trees we pass – the problem of drugs and alcohol is only now beginning to be a reality that I am aware of. The layers, the many, many layers to a place…and once again, the end is only the beginning. The destination is the journey.
Monday, June 27, 2005
I feel so ordinary
I have been thinking about writing this for a little while, but I was nervous about sharing these thoughts. I have always been nervous about sharing what I write. And then I decided that that was a good enough reason to post it! After all, these are thoughts, not written in stone, but they may mean something...
When I was younger, I wondered how one knew that you were in a particular "phase" or "stage" in life; how you knew that you had moved onto the next? What were the key markers for the various stages we travel through in our life times? What is the awareness or the psychological state of the people we become as we travel from being infants to adults and the various colours of adulthood?? What happens on the inside to change actions or attitudes or percpectives when we travel into another layer?
I'm starting to become aware of a process...once you you have completed a phase - that is, you have done the work, struggled through the self-actualization and gained a few more precious moments of patience, you are introduced to a new aspect of reality, of the human condition through your own life. Your life becomes bigger than just you and it becomes less and less about you. The rights of passage.
...I'm not sure if I am currently in the midst of finishing or beginning a new one. But suddenly, a number of things that were distant echos of others' voices are becoming forefront in my conciousness and they are becoming a knowledge base within which I'm functioning rather than only listening as a distant observer. You live in it daily and it goes beyond words on paper.
...I remember a few years ago I asked the question "is there any new, untouched themes in the human drama that can be explored"?...at that time I thought there was...actually, I was quite convinced there was. But now I'm beginning to realize that the excitement comes from depth of experience - it is exciting because it stimulates the intrinsic senses and reveals truths. The divine path was made for humans, not the gods...says the monk.
There are basic and fundamental laws (or truths if you will) and when we discover them as something that is a part of us, they take on a new meaning, provide a new filter to see the world with and enhance the depth at which we function with ourselves and with one another.
I went away to a small town of Kep this weekend, which is located at the southern end of Cambodia. I spent the weekend travelling to a couple of health centers and the one hospital in this area that aims to service a population of approximately 40,000. "What are the rehabilitation needs of the people living in this area?" I asked several individuals (ie doctors at the hospital, volunteer staff worker at the health center, medical students from Canada doing other types of health related research in Kep). Various answers, some common themes: "...anything would be good since there is little or next to nothing".
My hosts take me on a small tour to visit a village (one of 16) that makes up Kep...former Khmer Rouge soldiers live in this particular village. "THis area was opened up (for tourism) only since 1996...this is the house of the General that was responsible for killing 3 Canadians when this are first was open to tourism..." explains my host and guide as we drive down the dirt road and infront of this General's house. I shake my head at the juxtaposition of realities. We ended up at a small cluster of grass homes. At the "entrance" is a cement floor - just that, no walls, nothing else, just the floor of a house. Apparently this is where the house of the traditional healer once stood. But when he left to go to another village, he literally took the whole house with him (except for the cement floor). The people occuping this small piece of land in the middle of a field and jungle on either side are people with AIDS and their families. Initially, there were many, now there are 6 families remaining. I ask where the rest are. They've passed away quite voices explain. When they pass away, they are burned "over there" and a finger is pointed off in one direction at a large field and horizon with scattered palm trees and sillhoutes of moutains. It was striking. I wondered about the ghosts...The entire visit was layered with various aspects that are a reality-current running through Cambodia - corruption, explotation, lack of basics (ie medicine), the ability of humans to adapt to such an incredible range of circumstances and living conditions, to be able to smile and make small talk. I found myself on an internal emotional rollercoaster - the fact that people live in such conditions is phenominal. And unacceptable. But now that I've decided that, what am I going to DO about it. That is the question.
One of the patients was charged $6.50 for an IV by the local medic (when at the market it costs no more than $2). There is $5 in my pocket - I'm kicking myself for not giving it to his wife to cover the cost...and then we westerns fall into philosphical conversations about "what is the right thing to do"...it seems absurd and yet an important conversation; important because it enables us to realize the meaning behind our actions and the meaning becomes and intense motivating factor. Absurd because precious time is taken adn it often enables us to explain away and wipe our hands clean. Such an intense reality.
I ask about the lesions I see on their bodies - I thought they were from AIDS (I ask because I realize I have been with an AIDS patient only once before and he did not have any leisons)...but these leisons are actually mosquito bites. So many, one of top of the other...the group begins to explain that their mosquitto nets are very old and have wholes and the mosiquittos are extremely bad after dusk. I ask to see the nets - they have wholes, big wholes. Some are patched up. How much are mosquitto nets at the market? I ask. $3 explain, my hosts...I'm trying to understand why these people are sleeping with these old nets. The answers are simple, the processes complex...even for getting 10 mosiquitto nets. And this is one element of many...a smaller element of a much grimmer picture. They need a doctor, they need more food, they need electricity, they need for the bathrooms to be fixed...and what do I DO about it? What do WE DO about it???? I find most of us get stuck, frozen by these realities. I am all the time...but I'm also realizing that that is part of the process. The next phase is to DO - how and what is a personal decision. Something, anything. I am beginning to embrace that SOMETHING is better than nothing. And consistency in that something is the other half that needs to be present. Because many SOMETHINGS will add up to change. They will impact at least a human life...and at the end of the day that is what matters.
I'm glad that Nimol, my Cambodian friend who is a nurse, came with me this weekend. She has not seen this before. She begins to contemplate her life set against this context. Part of the process.
After this visit, we go swimming in the warm, salty waters of Kep beach. Balance is key. You can swallowed up by the despair, but then you are of no use. Balance is key, so we go swimming and tell funnies, build sand castles with the kids at the beach.
Being here- working, doing, sleeping, eating, laughing, massaging, listening, watching, learning, teaching, breathing, touching...it all feels so normal. I feel so ordinary.
When I was younger, I wondered how one knew that you were in a particular "phase" or "stage" in life; how you knew that you had moved onto the next? What were the key markers for the various stages we travel through in our life times? What is the awareness or the psychological state of the people we become as we travel from being infants to adults and the various colours of adulthood?? What happens on the inside to change actions or attitudes or percpectives when we travel into another layer?
I'm starting to become aware of a process...once you you have completed a phase - that is, you have done the work, struggled through the self-actualization and gained a few more precious moments of patience, you are introduced to a new aspect of reality, of the human condition through your own life. Your life becomes bigger than just you and it becomes less and less about you. The rights of passage.
...I'm not sure if I am currently in the midst of finishing or beginning a new one. But suddenly, a number of things that were distant echos of others' voices are becoming forefront in my conciousness and they are becoming a knowledge base within which I'm functioning rather than only listening as a distant observer. You live in it daily and it goes beyond words on paper.
...I remember a few years ago I asked the question "is there any new, untouched themes in the human drama that can be explored"?...at that time I thought there was...actually, I was quite convinced there was. But now I'm beginning to realize that the excitement comes from depth of experience - it is exciting because it stimulates the intrinsic senses and reveals truths. The divine path was made for humans, not the gods...says the monk.
There are basic and fundamental laws (or truths if you will) and when we discover them as something that is a part of us, they take on a new meaning, provide a new filter to see the world with and enhance the depth at which we function with ourselves and with one another.
I went away to a small town of Kep this weekend, which is located at the southern end of Cambodia. I spent the weekend travelling to a couple of health centers and the one hospital in this area that aims to service a population of approximately 40,000. "What are the rehabilitation needs of the people living in this area?" I asked several individuals (ie doctors at the hospital, volunteer staff worker at the health center, medical students from Canada doing other types of health related research in Kep). Various answers, some common themes: "...anything would be good since there is little or next to nothing".
My hosts take me on a small tour to visit a village (one of 16) that makes up Kep...former Khmer Rouge soldiers live in this particular village. "THis area was opened up (for tourism) only since 1996...this is the house of the General that was responsible for killing 3 Canadians when this are first was open to tourism..." explains my host and guide as we drive down the dirt road and infront of this General's house. I shake my head at the juxtaposition of realities. We ended up at a small cluster of grass homes. At the "entrance" is a cement floor - just that, no walls, nothing else, just the floor of a house. Apparently this is where the house of the traditional healer once stood. But when he left to go to another village, he literally took the whole house with him (except for the cement floor). The people occuping this small piece of land in the middle of a field and jungle on either side are people with AIDS and their families. Initially, there were many, now there are 6 families remaining. I ask where the rest are. They've passed away quite voices explain. When they pass away, they are burned "over there" and a finger is pointed off in one direction at a large field and horizon with scattered palm trees and sillhoutes of moutains. It was striking. I wondered about the ghosts...The entire visit was layered with various aspects that are a reality-current running through Cambodia - corruption, explotation, lack of basics (ie medicine), the ability of humans to adapt to such an incredible range of circumstances and living conditions, to be able to smile and make small talk. I found myself on an internal emotional rollercoaster - the fact that people live in such conditions is phenominal. And unacceptable. But now that I've decided that, what am I going to DO about it. That is the question.
One of the patients was charged $6.50 for an IV by the local medic (when at the market it costs no more than $2). There is $5 in my pocket - I'm kicking myself for not giving it to his wife to cover the cost...and then we westerns fall into philosphical conversations about "what is the right thing to do"...it seems absurd and yet an important conversation; important because it enables us to realize the meaning behind our actions and the meaning becomes and intense motivating factor. Absurd because precious time is taken adn it often enables us to explain away and wipe our hands clean. Such an intense reality.
I ask about the lesions I see on their bodies - I thought they were from AIDS (I ask because I realize I have been with an AIDS patient only once before and he did not have any leisons)...but these leisons are actually mosquito bites. So many, one of top of the other...the group begins to explain that their mosquitto nets are very old and have wholes and the mosiquittos are extremely bad after dusk. I ask to see the nets - they have wholes, big wholes. Some are patched up. How much are mosquitto nets at the market? I ask. $3 explain, my hosts...I'm trying to understand why these people are sleeping with these old nets. The answers are simple, the processes complex...even for getting 10 mosiquitto nets. And this is one element of many...a smaller element of a much grimmer picture. They need a doctor, they need more food, they need electricity, they need for the bathrooms to be fixed...and what do I DO about it? What do WE DO about it???? I find most of us get stuck, frozen by these realities. I am all the time...but I'm also realizing that that is part of the process. The next phase is to DO - how and what is a personal decision. Something, anything. I am beginning to embrace that SOMETHING is better than nothing. And consistency in that something is the other half that needs to be present. Because many SOMETHINGS will add up to change. They will impact at least a human life...and at the end of the day that is what matters.
I'm glad that Nimol, my Cambodian friend who is a nurse, came with me this weekend. She has not seen this before. She begins to contemplate her life set against this context. Part of the process.
After this visit, we go swimming in the warm, salty waters of Kep beach. Balance is key. You can swallowed up by the despair, but then you are of no use. Balance is key, so we go swimming and tell funnies, build sand castles with the kids at the beach.
Being here- working, doing, sleeping, eating, laughing, massaging, listening, watching, learning, teaching, breathing, touching...it all feels so normal. I feel so ordinary.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Broader perspectives on Cambodia
Siem Reap is a small city in Northern Cambodia and is a key tourist attraction due to the famous Angkor Wat ruins that lie there. On Friday June17th, 4 young Khmer men entered into an International School in Siem Reap and took the students and teachers hostage. Their demands: $1000 and a car. By the end of the day and by the time all was said and done, a tank rolled in to manage the situation and a little boy was dead.
The following is a letter from my flatmate and friend Bronwyn Blue on the events of last friday in Siem Reap and general battles and problems faced by many in Cambodia - the people, the government and the foreigners working for NGOs...
I am not sure who has heard about the tragic events that took place in Siem Reap a few days ago: the shooting of a child during a failed theft/hostage taking in an international school. A mail I got today from a friend made me put down a few thoughts. Living over here is not all roses and this is example of a time when everything has to be rethought. I thought I would share it. Bronwyn
Hi Liz,
There is nothing worse then the senseless death of a child. This was a tragedy, but I would consider it a bigger tragedy if it did not force us to question the veil of stability that has descended over Cambodia and the situation here.
I was at the home of a friend last night. She has two small children, as do the other couples present, in the International Schools here is PP. Both couples have established lives here and have invested many years and dollars into the country, building businesses, lives and homes. In this context, it is frightening how quickly the events were rationalized, this sort of thing "happens everyday all around the world". However, the frequency or ‘normality’ of these tragic events should not dull our response to them.
This event was a reality check for all, questioning how effective the aid dollars and development poured into Cambodia have been, the efficiency of the NGO sector and the inefficiencies of the government in maintaining and developing services and standards. This situation certainly highlighted the lack of training and investment into public services. While the rest of the world is throwing money into anti terrorism, why was a tank brought in to take a child out of the arms of a terrified 22 year old opportunist-‘terrorist’? No matter what started the ‘crisis’, that there was no one, or group with the training and ability to diffuse the situation without the loss of a child, reveals just another flaw in Cambodia’s ‘stability’. The mismanagement of the situation is as much a tragedy as the rest.
Most of work done through the international NGOs here aims to relieve the financial and general desperation Cambodian people experience on a daily basis. Through various sectors, they attempt to create employment, industry and a sense of ownership among Cambodians. The aim at its most basic, is to avoid having people arrive at a level where they feel it is a ‘viable option’ to hold a kindergarten hostage for $1000 and a van. NGOs in Cambodia were never intended to become a permanent frame work of support to the government. The question remains, how much longer can these international organisations continue to band-aid over the unaddressed responsibilities of an ineffective government?
So what next? In the context of the tourism sector’s string of slow ‘high seasons’ due to SARS Chicken flu and now general bad publicity, this situation's direct impact on the commercial success of Siem Reap (where many have investments) ought to force those in positions to implement constructive change, to do so. On the other hand…it may not.
Recently, I have been questioning my own role as a trainer. Has the way I have been working bee the most efficient? Am I learning from my experiences? How can we find ways to be more effective? How much impact are we really having? No matter what our successes may be, there is no room for complacency. This tragic event is a harsh reminder. I guess I want to say something like “international development is everyone responsibility”, but actually mine is a simple aspiration. It would be great to know that most of us are making the most of each day to make life better, at any level that we can. What do you think? Too ambitious?
Love Bron
The following is a letter from my flatmate and friend Bronwyn Blue on the events of last friday in Siem Reap and general battles and problems faced by many in Cambodia - the people, the government and the foreigners working for NGOs...
I am not sure who has heard about the tragic events that took place in Siem Reap a few days ago: the shooting of a child during a failed theft/hostage taking in an international school. A mail I got today from a friend made me put down a few thoughts. Living over here is not all roses and this is example of a time when everything has to be rethought. I thought I would share it. Bronwyn
Hi Liz,
There is nothing worse then the senseless death of a child. This was a tragedy, but I would consider it a bigger tragedy if it did not force us to question the veil of stability that has descended over Cambodia and the situation here.
I was at the home of a friend last night. She has two small children, as do the other couples present, in the International Schools here is PP. Both couples have established lives here and have invested many years and dollars into the country, building businesses, lives and homes. In this context, it is frightening how quickly the events were rationalized, this sort of thing "happens everyday all around the world". However, the frequency or ‘normality’ of these tragic events should not dull our response to them.
This event was a reality check for all, questioning how effective the aid dollars and development poured into Cambodia have been, the efficiency of the NGO sector and the inefficiencies of the government in maintaining and developing services and standards. This situation certainly highlighted the lack of training and investment into public services. While the rest of the world is throwing money into anti terrorism, why was a tank brought in to take a child out of the arms of a terrified 22 year old opportunist-‘terrorist’? No matter what started the ‘crisis’, that there was no one, or group with the training and ability to diffuse the situation without the loss of a child, reveals just another flaw in Cambodia’s ‘stability’. The mismanagement of the situation is as much a tragedy as the rest.
Most of work done through the international NGOs here aims to relieve the financial and general desperation Cambodian people experience on a daily basis. Through various sectors, they attempt to create employment, industry and a sense of ownership among Cambodians. The aim at its most basic, is to avoid having people arrive at a level where they feel it is a ‘viable option’ to hold a kindergarten hostage for $1000 and a van. NGOs in Cambodia were never intended to become a permanent frame work of support to the government. The question remains, how much longer can these international organisations continue to band-aid over the unaddressed responsibilities of an ineffective government?
So what next? In the context of the tourism sector’s string of slow ‘high seasons’ due to SARS Chicken flu and now general bad publicity, this situation's direct impact on the commercial success of Siem Reap (where many have investments) ought to force those in positions to implement constructive change, to do so. On the other hand…it may not.
Recently, I have been questioning my own role as a trainer. Has the way I have been working bee the most efficient? Am I learning from my experiences? How can we find ways to be more effective? How much impact are we really having? No matter what our successes may be, there is no room for complacency. This tragic event is a harsh reminder. I guess I want to say something like “international development is everyone responsibility”, but actually mine is a simple aspiration. It would be great to know that most of us are making the most of each day to make life better, at any level that we can. What do you think? Too ambitious?
Love Bron
A visit to Siem Reap
As I travel out of Phnom Penh, the landscape takes on a vastly different appearance from the city: flat lands of rice patties with scattered palm trees reach towards the horizon where the round bellies of mountains look like grey-blue shadows against the sky. There are often silhouettes of people against this backdrop - kids walking from school in their dusty blue and white uniforms, lost in their own worlds singing, skipping and finding various things along their path to amuse themselves with. People walking along the ridges between the rice patties, walking cattle home, plowing fields with an ox-pulled plow.Women sitting under grass roofs to stay out of the sun selling fruits and breast-feeding their babies. People in the swamps collecting snails...hammocks and more hammocks.
My first night in the town of Siem Reap I head out to the old market. Walking about, I literally stumble upon a small concert being put on at the land mine museum. This museum is a large room with white walls and white tiles, light up with fluorescent lighting. The man that runs the museum, a Cambodian, has spent a number of years going into the jungles around Siem Reap and de-mining the region. On one of the walls is a quote of his "I want this country to be safe for all Cambodian children". Children and their parents who have suffered amputations because of these land mines which were planted during war times are putting on tonights play and concert.
The orchestra is a group of young boys who play traditional Khmer instruments. The actors are the kids and the adults...they play young Khmer Rouge soldiers (who were often kids) and prisoners (who were often young people as well), crying mothers, teachers. It is a very organic experience - there is no set boundary between the stage and the audience. No great effort is taken to disguise that they are playing roles - they change character while on stage. And somehow this make their performance more real and penetrating. I think it feels real because they are playing out pieces of themselves- they are acting out something that is a part of them. The little ones, 4 maybe 5 years old, are also a part of the play and they move in and out of the scenes or the audience and become the connection between the past and the present, the reality and the acting. Through the skits and songs, these children tell the story of their country... stories that have left remarkable marks on their bodies - missing body parts which were blown off by land mines which were scattered through out the country side and jungle, planted with the intent to hurt the inocent.
The next two days I spend visiting the Angkor Wat temples. They are stunning, unkept, raw, frozen in heaps of tumbling rocks, sunken into the jungle; tree roots of the spung tree have coiled themselves into and around the rocks. A symbiotic relationship seems to have developed between the jungle and these monuments - the trees live of the moss that grows on the rocks of the temples.
As the group of tourists moves away, the jungle comes back to life - lizards crawls around on the tree roots and temple rocks, numerous butterflies flutter about, sounds of birds become distinct as voices become echoes in a distance. Their is a sense of sinking, of calm and stillness.
As with most spectacular places, they look nothing like the pictures on postcards or in books. Their sheer size is breath taking and reality enables you to see a dimension that is never quite captured in pictures. These temples are majestic and calm, unphased and unmoving. Many of the exquisite carvings have been washed away by the elements but the expansive foundations remain. THe carving that are still present are layered, intricate and endless. A number of carvings have been hacked away by robbers to sell these artifacts on the black market somewhere.
I return to a few of the temples and realize that you take them in in layers - there is so much involved and so many aspects to draw upon and absorb that one walk through only teases the curiosity.
On the Saturday evening, I go to a cello concert, given by a Swiss doctor who has established 3 private, NGO children hospitals in Cambodia. His nickname is Beatocello. Between pieces he talks about the health condition of children in Cambodia - it is bad. He expresses his frustration at the fact that as the world becomes consumed with SARS a couple of years ago, which effected (not killed, but effected) less than 1000 people, 9000 children where severely ill from Denge Fever and nothing - no media, no money. He provided the reasons for this imbalance: children, especially poor children, do not have power, they do not have any lobbying power, they have no voice in the mainstream media. He talks about the fact that the West comes in after conflicts and wars that it supported or caused as acts of charity. The work that needs to be done by western countries should not be acts of charity rather they should be an obligation, an act of justice, after what is left from these wars. He picks up his cello and plays another piece by Bach.
A day prior to my arrival in Siem Reap there was a hostage taking in one of the international schools here. A group of bandits (young Cambodian men) came into the school and demanded $1000 and a car (so they can get to Thailand). Before all was said and done, a Canadian boy was dead. Bronwyn, my flat mate here, was very effected by this event...her thoughts are in the next blog.
My first night in the town of Siem Reap I head out to the old market. Walking about, I literally stumble upon a small concert being put on at the land mine museum. This museum is a large room with white walls and white tiles, light up with fluorescent lighting. The man that runs the museum, a Cambodian, has spent a number of years going into the jungles around Siem Reap and de-mining the region. On one of the walls is a quote of his "I want this country to be safe for all Cambodian children". Children and their parents who have suffered amputations because of these land mines which were planted during war times are putting on tonights play and concert.
The orchestra is a group of young boys who play traditional Khmer instruments. The actors are the kids and the adults...they play young Khmer Rouge soldiers (who were often kids) and prisoners (who were often young people as well), crying mothers, teachers. It is a very organic experience - there is no set boundary between the stage and the audience. No great effort is taken to disguise that they are playing roles - they change character while on stage. And somehow this make their performance more real and penetrating. I think it feels real because they are playing out pieces of themselves- they are acting out something that is a part of them. The little ones, 4 maybe 5 years old, are also a part of the play and they move in and out of the scenes or the audience and become the connection between the past and the present, the reality and the acting. Through the skits and songs, these children tell the story of their country... stories that have left remarkable marks on their bodies - missing body parts which were blown off by land mines which were scattered through out the country side and jungle, planted with the intent to hurt the inocent.
The next two days I spend visiting the Angkor Wat temples. They are stunning, unkept, raw, frozen in heaps of tumbling rocks, sunken into the jungle; tree roots of the spung tree have coiled themselves into and around the rocks. A symbiotic relationship seems to have developed between the jungle and these monuments - the trees live of the moss that grows on the rocks of the temples.
As the group of tourists moves away, the jungle comes back to life - lizards crawls around on the tree roots and temple rocks, numerous butterflies flutter about, sounds of birds become distinct as voices become echoes in a distance. Their is a sense of sinking, of calm and stillness.
As with most spectacular places, they look nothing like the pictures on postcards or in books. Their sheer size is breath taking and reality enables you to see a dimension that is never quite captured in pictures. These temples are majestic and calm, unphased and unmoving. Many of the exquisite carvings have been washed away by the elements but the expansive foundations remain. THe carving that are still present are layered, intricate and endless. A number of carvings have been hacked away by robbers to sell these artifacts on the black market somewhere.
I return to a few of the temples and realize that you take them in in layers - there is so much involved and so many aspects to draw upon and absorb that one walk through only teases the curiosity.
On the Saturday evening, I go to a cello concert, given by a Swiss doctor who has established 3 private, NGO children hospitals in Cambodia. His nickname is Beatocello. Between pieces he talks about the health condition of children in Cambodia - it is bad. He expresses his frustration at the fact that as the world becomes consumed with SARS a couple of years ago, which effected (not killed, but effected) less than 1000 people, 9000 children where severely ill from Denge Fever and nothing - no media, no money. He provided the reasons for this imbalance: children, especially poor children, do not have power, they do not have any lobbying power, they have no voice in the mainstream media. He talks about the fact that the West comes in after conflicts and wars that it supported or caused as acts of charity. The work that needs to be done by western countries should not be acts of charity rather they should be an obligation, an act of justice, after what is left from these wars. He picks up his cello and plays another piece by Bach.
A day prior to my arrival in Siem Reap there was a hostage taking in one of the international schools here. A group of bandits (young Cambodian men) came into the school and demanded $1000 and a car (so they can get to Thailand). Before all was said and done, a Canadian boy was dead. Bronwyn, my flat mate here, was very effected by this event...her thoughts are in the next blog.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
On the edge of violence
The acid burns and the entire culture of their occurrence is shocking me. I ingest it piece by piece. I can only take in pieces at this point because I find it disturbing in a way that leaves me stunned and at a mental crossroads. I hit points of saturation daily; at which point I need to mentally switch gears or walk away for a breath of something else because otherwise I become ineffective and get swallowed up by various thoughts and emotions that would not have any immediate benefit to anyone - the staff, the patients or you.
I'm not sure how prevalent or common acid attacks are. The statistics are varied and generally not very reliable. To clarify - acid attacks are the intentional act of pouring acid on a person to cause them harm. Although they are a criminal act, it is not common for the acid burn victims to take their assailant to court. Some reasons why (as explained to me by various individuals) are: the victim is very poor and uneducated so they are not aware of their rights. It costs too much money for lawyers and the victim is poor therefore cannot afford a lawyer. The victims are afraid that the assailant will do more harm to them. A couple cases were recalled where the lawyer ended keeping all of the money awarded to the victim. The explanation was simple - the system is corrupt. This is by no means the beginning or the end of reasons.
Talking to the acid burn survivors (through translators such as the nurses) and reading assessment questionnaires from the Acid Burn Survivors Support Group (ABSSG) here at ROSE, I begin to learn pieces of stories of these individuals. Personal stories that give a human face to impersonal statistics or numbers.
Acid attack seems to be an act based in jealousy or revenge, usual in context of personal relationships; a way of dealing with family or marital problems. Often women are the victims, however, there are also a number of men. The specific situations which have been related are: the husband has a second wife (a mistress) and the first wife is jealous or not happy with this situation and "deals" with the problem of infidelity by pouring acid on the second wife. Sometimes the husbands are the victims of such emotional reactions. Sometimes the attack is based on suspicion - the wife thinks here husband is having an affair. Sometimes it is an act of anger - the man who is denied by a woman he fancies strikes back by pouring acid on her. Or a husband who is angry at his wife because she wants a divorce pours acid on her. Sometimes the attacks are more random - a case of mistaken identity or accidental (it was really meant to strike the person next to you).
I often travel between two worlds - the one I can relate to and the one who's realities I am beginning to grasp: I cannot imagine pouring acid as a way of dealing with marital problems or problems in general. At which point does an individual cross over and become capable of this type of violence? To a person with whom you share a home? With whom you have created children? Where is this type of brutality born out of ? As I write this, it feels surreal. However, when I leave this computer and massage the extensive, deforming, life altering scars caused by the acid which had burned it's way through flesh and muscle, it is very real. I feel with and in my hands, I smell the scars, I see the eyes of these patients as they struggle to move on in their own ways.
The response of the society to acid burn victims is to look away. People are scared of the scars, disgusted with the disfigured appearance. A common trend within this group of individuals is that none of them are able to find work. Their abilities are secondary. The primary factor is that they are disfigured and therefore people do not want to work with them or hire them, afraid of the impact it would have on their businesses. I am curious to explore this prejudice, this reaction more. In a conversation with a foreigner, they pointed out that part of the reason why disabled individuals have a such a difficult time is that people believe that bad things have happened to them because of karma - they were bad in a past life and now this is what happens. I am exploring this more...
And it goes on...the scars are so extensive and the damage so deep. There is little to no social support for these individuals. Many have their families which will support them. Many do not - those will end up living out their days making money off their scars and deformities as beggars...enough money for one meal a day of rice and maybe some fish and vegetables.
The Khmer people are kind. They are soft. They do not act or carry themselves in an aggressive manner. At least that is the perception of this female foreigner. But there is an underlying edge here, a potential for violence that exists within. I think they are not inherently violent or aggressive - humans are not born to kill or hurt. We are taught the violence. Hence this edge of violence maybe a result of the violence that on a social scale these people have experienced and endured. Oppression, suppression, poverty and years of blood shed - the social wounds and scars leave their marks on generations and surface in various ways.
I'm not sure how prevalent or common acid attacks are. The statistics are varied and generally not very reliable. To clarify - acid attacks are the intentional act of pouring acid on a person to cause them harm. Although they are a criminal act, it is not common for the acid burn victims to take their assailant to court. Some reasons why (as explained to me by various individuals) are: the victim is very poor and uneducated so they are not aware of their rights. It costs too much money for lawyers and the victim is poor therefore cannot afford a lawyer. The victims are afraid that the assailant will do more harm to them. A couple cases were recalled where the lawyer ended keeping all of the money awarded to the victim. The explanation was simple - the system is corrupt. This is by no means the beginning or the end of reasons.
Talking to the acid burn survivors (through translators such as the nurses) and reading assessment questionnaires from the Acid Burn Survivors Support Group (ABSSG) here at ROSE, I begin to learn pieces of stories of these individuals. Personal stories that give a human face to impersonal statistics or numbers.
Acid attack seems to be an act based in jealousy or revenge, usual in context of personal relationships; a way of dealing with family or marital problems. Often women are the victims, however, there are also a number of men. The specific situations which have been related are: the husband has a second wife (a mistress) and the first wife is jealous or not happy with this situation and "deals" with the problem of infidelity by pouring acid on the second wife. Sometimes the husbands are the victims of such emotional reactions. Sometimes the attack is based on suspicion - the wife thinks here husband is having an affair. Sometimes it is an act of anger - the man who is denied by a woman he fancies strikes back by pouring acid on her. Or a husband who is angry at his wife because she wants a divorce pours acid on her. Sometimes the attacks are more random - a case of mistaken identity or accidental (it was really meant to strike the person next to you).
I often travel between two worlds - the one I can relate to and the one who's realities I am beginning to grasp: I cannot imagine pouring acid as a way of dealing with marital problems or problems in general. At which point does an individual cross over and become capable of this type of violence? To a person with whom you share a home? With whom you have created children? Where is this type of brutality born out of ? As I write this, it feels surreal. However, when I leave this computer and massage the extensive, deforming, life altering scars caused by the acid which had burned it's way through flesh and muscle, it is very real. I feel with and in my hands, I smell the scars, I see the eyes of these patients as they struggle to move on in their own ways.
The response of the society to acid burn victims is to look away. People are scared of the scars, disgusted with the disfigured appearance. A common trend within this group of individuals is that none of them are able to find work. Their abilities are secondary. The primary factor is that they are disfigured and therefore people do not want to work with them or hire them, afraid of the impact it would have on their businesses. I am curious to explore this prejudice, this reaction more. In a conversation with a foreigner, they pointed out that part of the reason why disabled individuals have a such a difficult time is that people believe that bad things have happened to them because of karma - they were bad in a past life and now this is what happens. I am exploring this more...
And it goes on...the scars are so extensive and the damage so deep. There is little to no social support for these individuals. Many have their families which will support them. Many do not - those will end up living out their days making money off their scars and deformities as beggars...enough money for one meal a day of rice and maybe some fish and vegetables.
The Khmer people are kind. They are soft. They do not act or carry themselves in an aggressive manner. At least that is the perception of this female foreigner. But there is an underlying edge here, a potential for violence that exists within. I think they are not inherently violent or aggressive - humans are not born to kill or hurt. We are taught the violence. Hence this edge of violence maybe a result of the violence that on a social scale these people have experienced and endured. Oppression, suppression, poverty and years of blood shed - the social wounds and scars leave their marks on generations and surface in various ways.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Acid burns - her story
Chan is a woman. She is one of the acid burn patients here at ROSE Charities that I have been treating. She is 33 years old and has a 10 year old daughter - a beautiful girl with chocolate eyes and an enchanting smile. Every time she sees me she beams a smile and laughs out "hello". Before her sister-in-law poured acid all over Chan's face, arms, torso and genitals, she was a potter with her husband. She tells her story during an interview a couple of days ago - the interview was to assess the suitability of the acid burn patients for a potential weaving-training project.
She sits, bandage over the right eye socket (the right eye was removed last week because the acid had caused too much damage). She plays with her hands and looks at her knees. We ask the standard questions - how old, place of birth, how many children she has...She answers them all quitely. When we ask about what she is going to do when she leaves the hospital on friday, she begins to cry and her story comes out through her tears: she had problems with her sister-in-law and there was a family dispute of some sort, which the sister-in-law decided to settle by pouring acid over Chan. Now, because of the acid burns, her husband wants to divorce her and look for another wife. She has no family - both of her parents are dead and she has no siblings. She has no place to go now. She continues to cry, softly and quietly, while she speaks in Khmer. The nurse, Nemol, translates. She wants to die, she says. Begging is the only thing she will be able to do. She is going to go out on the streets with her daughter and will become a beggar and die somewhere on the streets because there is not other choice for her - nobody will have her. After she finishes translating this, the nurse laughs. I have been told many times that when situations are very uncomfortable or disconcerting, the Khmer response is to laugh. Half of my brain recalls this piece of information at this very moment and the other half is having a melt down at the bizzare response. I look at the nurse and explain that I realize this is a difficult situation however it is not funny, and laughing is not the response this patient needs. I think she understood because she quickly continued to inquire about further details of Chan's immediate situation.
Chan's daughter is beautiful and if they end up on the streets, she will quickly be swept up by someone and sold into some sort of child/sex trafficing situation...the idea is untolerable. She is quick, bright and lovely - like her mother. I have never met a patient as compliant as Chan- she has done everything I have asked her do regarding exercise routines, scar massage, wearing pressure garments... and her future is the streets, out of necessity, out of lack of choice. In this very moment I am greatful to have Will (an Aussie nurse) sitting across from me. It's silly really, but I'm acutely aware that although this is Cambodia, where "Cambodian" things happen, I realize that this situation is not a case of a "canadian" and a "cambodia"... what is happening here is so completely human - this has nothing to do with culture or history or nationality. This story is not uncommon in many places. These are daily occurances in many culture. Dispair, poverty, lack of basic necessities for life are the result of human activity. The places and cultures only give it a differnt colour. Helping and supporting one another is a human ability - not one determined by culture or history or nationality. I think our tolerance of violence and inaction is more cultural. I'm suddenly acutely aware of how closely and profoundly we can affect each others' lives and how most of the time we do not realize or recognize it or respect it. She is ready to slip through the very fat fingers of a system that shrugs it's shoulders at such circumstances and realities; "people here are poor and that is what happens. It's normal".
One thing I made up my mind about right now: she is not going to end up on the streets and her daughter is not going to be exploited by some sex tourists. I looked an Nemol (the nurse) and explained that we can help this woman and we are going to. Please tell her, I ask Nemol to translate, that she will have a place to live, she will find a job and her daughter is going to go to school.
The nurse translated this to Chan. Chan put her hands together to say thank you. She continued to speak softly. I know she is still in shock over all of it - how she looks, her life as she knew it is over, her husband is leaving her to find a second wife. She has no home, no money, nobody to turn to. What does she hang onto?...I don't know. I can't and won't pretend that I do. But what I do know is that for her and her daughter the streets are not the place where they will carry on their days. That is not an option.
Will and I make a few phone calls to expates working in NGOs here in Phnom Penh...we are referred to Hagar Shelter - a shelter for woman and their children. The next day we pack up Chan and her daughter into one of the trucks and head off to Hagar for an assessment interview. Will keeps the daughter close to her side and Chan hangs onto my hand. She has put on new clothes (a pajama set) and wrapped a towel around her head in the traditional Khmer way. She is wearing glasses I gave her to keep the dust and dirt out of her left eye that still cannot completely close because of the scars. Nemol does all of the talking and translating - she is fantastic. We walk around the shelter - looking at the bedrooms, the kitchen, vocational training rooms (sewing and haircutting), the shool rooms with kids couting in english. Chan's daughter counts along with them and shyly edges towards one of the rooms. Hagar shelter is an incredible place. The woman showing us around is gentle, understanding, soft spoken and very aware of what these woman go through...she knows their stories and accepts them.
Today, Chan comes into the recovery room for scar massage and dressing changes. Her scars are coming along well. Her left eye can almost close completely. Her neck range of motion is good and has maintained. She is always wearing her pressure garments. She says: I want to get fat. So when I get fat what do I do with this (pointing to the pressure garment)?". I explain she will get a new one. Nemol asks how she is. "I am happy. I don't want to die", she responds.
On a personal note: This very moment has made this entire trip worth while. This very moment is changing my life. I cannot express the happiness I feel in my heart - it is a happiness filled with relief and hope. It is a sensation where you need to take a deeper breath, your heart beats a little faster and harder, and you want to bow to what is infront of you. Chan accepts my hand as we walk back to her bed, where she has begun packing her few belongings.
She sits, bandage over the right eye socket (the right eye was removed last week because the acid had caused too much damage). She plays with her hands and looks at her knees. We ask the standard questions - how old, place of birth, how many children she has...She answers them all quitely. When we ask about what she is going to do when she leaves the hospital on friday, she begins to cry and her story comes out through her tears: she had problems with her sister-in-law and there was a family dispute of some sort, which the sister-in-law decided to settle by pouring acid over Chan. Now, because of the acid burns, her husband wants to divorce her and look for another wife. She has no family - both of her parents are dead and she has no siblings. She has no place to go now. She continues to cry, softly and quietly, while she speaks in Khmer. The nurse, Nemol, translates. She wants to die, she says. Begging is the only thing she will be able to do. She is going to go out on the streets with her daughter and will become a beggar and die somewhere on the streets because there is not other choice for her - nobody will have her. After she finishes translating this, the nurse laughs. I have been told many times that when situations are very uncomfortable or disconcerting, the Khmer response is to laugh. Half of my brain recalls this piece of information at this very moment and the other half is having a melt down at the bizzare response. I look at the nurse and explain that I realize this is a difficult situation however it is not funny, and laughing is not the response this patient needs. I think she understood because she quickly continued to inquire about further details of Chan's immediate situation.
Chan's daughter is beautiful and if they end up on the streets, she will quickly be swept up by someone and sold into some sort of child/sex trafficing situation...the idea is untolerable. She is quick, bright and lovely - like her mother. I have never met a patient as compliant as Chan- she has done everything I have asked her do regarding exercise routines, scar massage, wearing pressure garments... and her future is the streets, out of necessity, out of lack of choice. In this very moment I am greatful to have Will (an Aussie nurse) sitting across from me. It's silly really, but I'm acutely aware that although this is Cambodia, where "Cambodian" things happen, I realize that this situation is not a case of a "canadian" and a "cambodia"... what is happening here is so completely human - this has nothing to do with culture or history or nationality. This story is not uncommon in many places. These are daily occurances in many culture. Dispair, poverty, lack of basic necessities for life are the result of human activity. The places and cultures only give it a differnt colour. Helping and supporting one another is a human ability - not one determined by culture or history or nationality. I think our tolerance of violence and inaction is more cultural. I'm suddenly acutely aware of how closely and profoundly we can affect each others' lives and how most of the time we do not realize or recognize it or respect it. She is ready to slip through the very fat fingers of a system that shrugs it's shoulders at such circumstances and realities; "people here are poor and that is what happens. It's normal".
One thing I made up my mind about right now: she is not going to end up on the streets and her daughter is not going to be exploited by some sex tourists. I looked an Nemol (the nurse) and explained that we can help this woman and we are going to. Please tell her, I ask Nemol to translate, that she will have a place to live, she will find a job and her daughter is going to go to school.
The nurse translated this to Chan. Chan put her hands together to say thank you. She continued to speak softly. I know she is still in shock over all of it - how she looks, her life as she knew it is over, her husband is leaving her to find a second wife. She has no home, no money, nobody to turn to. What does she hang onto?...I don't know. I can't and won't pretend that I do. But what I do know is that for her and her daughter the streets are not the place where they will carry on their days. That is not an option.
Will and I make a few phone calls to expates working in NGOs here in Phnom Penh...we are referred to Hagar Shelter - a shelter for woman and their children. The next day we pack up Chan and her daughter into one of the trucks and head off to Hagar for an assessment interview. Will keeps the daughter close to her side and Chan hangs onto my hand. She has put on new clothes (a pajama set) and wrapped a towel around her head in the traditional Khmer way. She is wearing glasses I gave her to keep the dust and dirt out of her left eye that still cannot completely close because of the scars. Nemol does all of the talking and translating - she is fantastic. We walk around the shelter - looking at the bedrooms, the kitchen, vocational training rooms (sewing and haircutting), the shool rooms with kids couting in english. Chan's daughter counts along with them and shyly edges towards one of the rooms. Hagar shelter is an incredible place. The woman showing us around is gentle, understanding, soft spoken and very aware of what these woman go through...she knows their stories and accepts them.
Today, Chan comes into the recovery room for scar massage and dressing changes. Her scars are coming along well. Her left eye can almost close completely. Her neck range of motion is good and has maintained. She is always wearing her pressure garments. She says: I want to get fat. So when I get fat what do I do with this (pointing to the pressure garment)?". I explain she will get a new one. Nemol asks how she is. "I am happy. I don't want to die", she responds.
On a personal note: This very moment has made this entire trip worth while. This very moment is changing my life. I cannot express the happiness I feel in my heart - it is a happiness filled with relief and hope. It is a sensation where you need to take a deeper breath, your heart beats a little faster and harder, and you want to bow to what is infront of you. Chan accepts my hand as we walk back to her bed, where she has begun packing her few belongings.
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Full Circle
The operating room is very cool and smells very sterile. It is a potent smell - a little like vicks vapour rub, but with less peppermint. The patient, a little boy, lies on the operating table. A group surrounds the table - 3 physicians, two assistants, one nurse observing and myself (observing as well, although I must admit I wanted to get my hands in there too!). The surgery was a release surgery of the left hip and right foot. The little boy sustained extensive burns to the front of his body (face, torso, right arm and hand and both legs on the front) about 4 years ago. The scar grewing into a thick mass. As the wound closed after the burn, the scar that formed began to pull the edges together, causing contracturing at the hip, the left hand, and both feet such that the toes on both feet and fingers on the left hand were literally pulled backwards of the top of the hand and feet. On the ears and the left mandible, the wounds developed into massive keloid scars. This was the second surgery - a release surgery which is done to release the scar and the joints can be moved back into proper position.
Back to the operating room...I walked in towards the end of the hip release part of the surgery. The doctors where preparing to cut through the solid mass of scar tissue on the foot. First, discussion about the incisions - direction, depth, how many to make along the longitudinal lines. The boys head and torso is covered. Only the leg is exposed. They move the leg about in all directions, examining, considering. There is no resistance from the boy...I'm intrigued as I've never worked with such a limp body - I'm used the body responding, moving, resisting, releasing or contracting in response to what I do to it. Here, there is not resistance or response - it seems much more maluable....there is not personality to that leg, no sensation to guide you...only the pure anatomy dictates what must be done.
The discussion ends, the scalpel is passed from one set of hands to another and the first incision is made. At first I feel my pusle rise as the scalpel enters the flesh, but that quickly passes and I lean in a little closer. I'm surprised at how little blood there is...one of the medical students is ready with a bloody gauze to clean up and absorb up the blood that does bubble up to the surface. The skin splits and gives away quickly from the tension of the scar. The white of the underlying fascia and tendons becomes visible. The doctor releases the adhered scar from the underlying tissue with an insturment he inserts under the scar and pulls up, tearing it away from the underlying tissues. I'm amazed that no muscle was cut, no tendons nicked or damaged. The incisions are made in a Z-pattern along the dorsal surface of the foot and quick, efficient movements sew the opening up. Large needles are inserted into the toes to stablize the toe joints...how quickly and easily they go in. I wonder what type of resistance the tissue gives to the needles? What the doctor senses as he pushes deeper to guide him and ensure the needle is not damaging any bones or blood vessels...? The toes are so small and his hands so large. I'm amazed at how steady his hand is.
In the recovery room the boy starts to wake up. He throws up. The next morning there is significant bleeding in the left hip region. In the dressing room, the nurse starts to take off the bandages while the boy screams bloody murder in pain...I realized he probably was not given any pain killers. The surgeon comes and it's decided that the grafting will be touched up under anasthesia because it is too painful otherwise. The parents are quite, somber, helpless.
In the afternoon, the boy starts to wake up again. He's holding down fluids. He smiles at a picture I show I took of him the other day kicking a ball.
In surgery you literally open the body up and look inside; I spend my days "looking inside" with my hands. It was amazing. I feel like I've gone full circle: in the surgery room I saw the layers, the colour, the thickness of the scar. When I look and touch now, there is a whole new dimension to my understanding of what I am palpating...now it's more tangible for my mind to capture what my hands sense...
Back to the operating room...I walked in towards the end of the hip release part of the surgery. The doctors where preparing to cut through the solid mass of scar tissue on the foot. First, discussion about the incisions - direction, depth, how many to make along the longitudinal lines. The boys head and torso is covered. Only the leg is exposed. They move the leg about in all directions, examining, considering. There is no resistance from the boy...I'm intrigued as I've never worked with such a limp body - I'm used the body responding, moving, resisting, releasing or contracting in response to what I do to it. Here, there is not resistance or response - it seems much more maluable....there is not personality to that leg, no sensation to guide you...only the pure anatomy dictates what must be done.
The discussion ends, the scalpel is passed from one set of hands to another and the first incision is made. At first I feel my pusle rise as the scalpel enters the flesh, but that quickly passes and I lean in a little closer. I'm surprised at how little blood there is...one of the medical students is ready with a bloody gauze to clean up and absorb up the blood that does bubble up to the surface. The skin splits and gives away quickly from the tension of the scar. The white of the underlying fascia and tendons becomes visible. The doctor releases the adhered scar from the underlying tissue with an insturment he inserts under the scar and pulls up, tearing it away from the underlying tissues. I'm amazed that no muscle was cut, no tendons nicked or damaged. The incisions are made in a Z-pattern along the dorsal surface of the foot and quick, efficient movements sew the opening up. Large needles are inserted into the toes to stablize the toe joints...how quickly and easily they go in. I wonder what type of resistance the tissue gives to the needles? What the doctor senses as he pushes deeper to guide him and ensure the needle is not damaging any bones or blood vessels...? The toes are so small and his hands so large. I'm amazed at how steady his hand is.
In the recovery room the boy starts to wake up. He throws up. The next morning there is significant bleeding in the left hip region. In the dressing room, the nurse starts to take off the bandages while the boy screams bloody murder in pain...I realized he probably was not given any pain killers. The surgeon comes and it's decided that the grafting will be touched up under anasthesia because it is too painful otherwise. The parents are quite, somber, helpless.
In the afternoon, the boy starts to wake up again. He's holding down fluids. He smiles at a picture I show I took of him the other day kicking a ball.
In surgery you literally open the body up and look inside; I spend my days "looking inside" with my hands. It was amazing. I feel like I've gone full circle: in the surgery room I saw the layers, the colour, the thickness of the scar. When I look and touch now, there is a whole new dimension to my understanding of what I am palpating...now it's more tangible for my mind to capture what my hands sense...
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Grandma, say hi to Buddha
A couple of days ago I received one of those e-mails that leaves you slightly numb for a few moments and then you feel a rush of blood going straight up to your head. The e-mail was entitled "Death of Grandma Stenia". It was an e-mail from my mother informing me (and my brother) that my grandmother, the one living in Krakow, had passed away. I received this on Sunday. Being in Cambodia, I felt rather ridiculously isolated from the entire thing, like there is some sort of an imaginary wall between life here and the "back home"...I wanted desperately to speak to my parents - to hear something more beyond a couple of paragraphs about her passing, funeral plans and so on...but to no avail. Perhaps I am that far away here.I cried a little. I think that is normal - to be sad, to feel that familiar empty space...I went out into the city for some sort of comfort.
Finding myself amongst unfamiliar faces which are carrying on like nothing has happened is somehow comforting. I ended up at an orphanage. Spent some time feeding, bathing, changing and playing with the little orphan babies with the nuns that run it. I brought over some baby powder and clothes a friend gave me in Canada. I dedicated my day to my grandma.
In the late afternoon I felt I needed to be somewhere holy, somewhere spiritual so I could say good bye. I ended up at Wat Phnom - a Buddhist temple on a hill in Phnom Penh. I walked around the complex until I got up to the very top. I watch what people were doing in the temple. I asked a woman selling lotus flowers and incense if I could pray to Buddha as well. She smiled, said yes, and handed me lotus flowers and incense. "Two dollars" she said with a pretty smile. I guess we humored one another-she that I wanted to pray to Buddha, I that even at teh temple everything has its price.
I lit the incense and as it smoked I placed it between my hands, knelt in front of Buddha (making sure my feet were not pointing in Buddha's direction). I thought about my grandmother...that she had beautiful wings to take her soul wherever it need to go to be at peace. I placed the incense into a large bowl, like everybody else. The bowl is full of ashes from burning incense...ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I walked a little more into the temple, a little hesitant and self conscious because I did not want to be disrespectful to Buddha or those praying. A nice man indicated that I should place the lotus flowers in a vase next to Buddha. My gift to Buddha. My gift to my grandmother on her grave. Buddhist believe that Buddha was born out of the lotus flower hence it has a very strong symbolic and religious meaning. I gave the lotus flower to my grandmother's soul. Rebirth, birth, death - a continuation of the cycle...beginning or end I don't know. I left the temple and walked back down the hill, the heat and monkeys reminding me gently where I was. I felt lightness in my heart. I did not feel sad anymore. The emptiness is still there, but it doesn't make me want to cry.
Finding myself amongst unfamiliar faces which are carrying on like nothing has happened is somehow comforting. I ended up at an orphanage. Spent some time feeding, bathing, changing and playing with the little orphan babies with the nuns that run it. I brought over some baby powder and clothes a friend gave me in Canada. I dedicated my day to my grandma.
In the late afternoon I felt I needed to be somewhere holy, somewhere spiritual so I could say good bye. I ended up at Wat Phnom - a Buddhist temple on a hill in Phnom Penh. I walked around the complex until I got up to the very top. I watch what people were doing in the temple. I asked a woman selling lotus flowers and incense if I could pray to Buddha as well. She smiled, said yes, and handed me lotus flowers and incense. "Two dollars" she said with a pretty smile. I guess we humored one another-she that I wanted to pray to Buddha, I that even at teh temple everything has its price.
I lit the incense and as it smoked I placed it between my hands, knelt in front of Buddha (making sure my feet were not pointing in Buddha's direction). I thought about my grandmother...that she had beautiful wings to take her soul wherever it need to go to be at peace. I placed the incense into a large bowl, like everybody else. The bowl is full of ashes from burning incense...ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I walked a little more into the temple, a little hesitant and self conscious because I did not want to be disrespectful to Buddha or those praying. A nice man indicated that I should place the lotus flowers in a vase next to Buddha. My gift to Buddha. My gift to my grandmother on her grave. Buddhist believe that Buddha was born out of the lotus flower hence it has a very strong symbolic and religious meaning. I gave the lotus flower to my grandmother's soul. Rebirth, birth, death - a continuation of the cycle...beginning or end I don't know. I left the temple and walked back down the hill, the heat and monkeys reminding me gently where I was. I felt lightness in my heart. I did not feel sad anymore. The emptiness is still there, but it doesn't make me want to cry.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Khmer days
The days begin very early here. The Khmer are up and about by 5:30am. By the time I'm getting on my moped at 7:30am to head off to work, the hustle and bustle on the streets has been going on for a couple of hours. As we drive through town via the main streets, around the Central market and the main temple (Wat Phnom), we pass women carrying baskets of fruits on their heads, creaky bikes loaded up with wicker baskets...a moped with thirty blue plastic chairs on the back seat with the driver somehow hanging onto them with one arm as he steers with the other... kids off to school, mini-vans stacked with things, people and animals heading out to the provinces. Between 12-2pm, in the heat of the day, everybody rests and sleeps; the heartbeat of the city slows and the heat makes the air thick...it sizzles. Having now experienced the tropical heat, I'm not surprised they have the afternoon siestas - in the heat of mid-day the slightest effort leaves one thirsty and healthfully perspiring; energy is quickly depleted and movements slow down. In the afternoon (usually when I'm heading home), it rains for about an hour or two - from a light shower to an intense thunder storm. The gray clouds are heavy, looking pregnant with rain. The rain clouds look as if they are going to sweep the earth they hover above. But the cool waters of the rain and the soft wind is a refreshing welcome after the blinding sun has been at you all day.
The plants and vegetation are beautiful. I realize that I have never really experienced the tropics before. The leaves are lush, the branches wind and twist. The large leaves provide shady refuge from the sun. The palms are huge, with long thin leaves, unmanicured - which to my eyes makes them more raw therefore more beautiful. Some have bananas - small, green and in numerous bunches at the very top. The flowers have a thick, fruity, delicious smell. I love passing by them - their smell mixes in with the gas fumes, burning garbage, cooking. That is the smell of Phnom Penh.
As I become more familiar with Phnom Penh, I am struck by the various contrasts and contradictions that exist here. These contradictions are common to large cities, but here they seem to be more striking to me. There is a lightness contrasted by the despair of the people. ...Driving down Norodom Ave., large French style homes and buildings adorn the street. As we turn the corner, the family that works the newspaper stand is sleeping on the ground and in hammocks. I wonder if they ate something before falling asleep?
...As I walk around, becoming familiar with my neighborhood, I see people have set up tent-like structures along the side walk next to the gate out of which drives out a land cruiser. They squat under there these make shift shelters, in the dirt, eating rice with their hands out of a plastic bag.
...One of the ladies I work with took me to the market - she was curious about how much money people made in Canada. I tried to explain that it is relative - it's not so much how much you make it's more about how much you need to live. I don't think it made sense to her though - she earns $200 per month as an accountant and was shocked that a Canadian can make in one month what she makes in a year.
...As I drink a capaccino at a funky cafe on street 240 (just east of the Victory Monument), there are little children outside begging. As I prowl for "the good buys" at the Russian Market, a burn victim who is grossly deformed approaches me, pan handling/begging - whatever it is called. It stops me dead in my tracks, but I am quickly reminded to only give a small amount (like the Khmer do) and that if I give to one, than "all of them" will approach you. How do you justify not giving? Or giving to one but not the other? At which point to stop and start?
As a major city with a significant foreign/expat presence, I don't think Phnom Penh is a complete representation of Cambodia and it's people. I think that exists in the provinces and the jungles. My curiosity it getting the best of me and this weekend I begin to set out into Cambodia - away from the anonymous comforts of a large city and into the multi-layered heart of a country.
The plants and vegetation are beautiful. I realize that I have never really experienced the tropics before. The leaves are lush, the branches wind and twist. The large leaves provide shady refuge from the sun. The palms are huge, with long thin leaves, unmanicured - which to my eyes makes them more raw therefore more beautiful. Some have bananas - small, green and in numerous bunches at the very top. The flowers have a thick, fruity, delicious smell. I love passing by them - their smell mixes in with the gas fumes, burning garbage, cooking. That is the smell of Phnom Penh.
As I become more familiar with Phnom Penh, I am struck by the various contrasts and contradictions that exist here. These contradictions are common to large cities, but here they seem to be more striking to me. There is a lightness contrasted by the despair of the people. ...Driving down Norodom Ave., large French style homes and buildings adorn the street. As we turn the corner, the family that works the newspaper stand is sleeping on the ground and in hammocks. I wonder if they ate something before falling asleep?
...As I walk around, becoming familiar with my neighborhood, I see people have set up tent-like structures along the side walk next to the gate out of which drives out a land cruiser. They squat under there these make shift shelters, in the dirt, eating rice with their hands out of a plastic bag.
...One of the ladies I work with took me to the market - she was curious about how much money people made in Canada. I tried to explain that it is relative - it's not so much how much you make it's more about how much you need to live. I don't think it made sense to her though - she earns $200 per month as an accountant and was shocked that a Canadian can make in one month what she makes in a year.
...As I drink a capaccino at a funky cafe on street 240 (just east of the Victory Monument), there are little children outside begging. As I prowl for "the good buys" at the Russian Market, a burn victim who is grossly deformed approaches me, pan handling/begging - whatever it is called. It stops me dead in my tracks, but I am quickly reminded to only give a small amount (like the Khmer do) and that if I give to one, than "all of them" will approach you. How do you justify not giving? Or giving to one but not the other? At which point to stop and start?
As a major city with a significant foreign/expat presence, I don't think Phnom Penh is a complete representation of Cambodia and it's people. I think that exists in the provinces and the jungles. My curiosity it getting the best of me and this weekend I begin to set out into Cambodia - away from the anonymous comforts of a large city and into the multi-layered heart of a country.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Observing, Absorbing
The brown iodine that is put on wounds mixes with the lotion I use to massage the scars. It makes a funny yellow colour that reminds me of runny mustard. The tissues (scars, skin, musles) are very human but there is one distinct difference - I feel much more bones because there is much less fat. The scars are much thicker and the contractures severe. The deformites none like I have ever seen before. But the tissues and scars and people respond to my hands, to the massage. The scars begin to move, become more mobile. Limbs begin to move. There is less discomfort in their eyes.
There is a very specific smell in the air. A smell that is common here because it is mix of food, bodies, urine under the bed, and open wounds. It is a pungent smell to me - one that I neither like or find disgusting. But it is a smell that I know I will become used to and next week I will not smell it anymore.
My eyes are not used to the fact that there are no IVs or multiple bottles of medicines by the patient's beds. Families of patients continously migrate from one bed to another, or one room to another, to observe what is being done to patients. They don't say very much, just look. My new roommate explained that that is part of the shock the country is still after the atrocities the population here suffered - in the face of something tragic people simply stare. Their gazes follow me as I travel between one room and another. Their faces are serious, their eyes dark and intense but when I smile and say hello, they break out into the most beautiful warm smiles and laughs. I guess sometimes that is all it takes.
I am amazed at how well we (patinets and I) can communicate given a significant language barrier. They are very happy to tell me words in Khmer - "ocun" (thank you), "tee" (no), "paan" (yes). THe staff all speak english and are all very welcoming. I can't believe how well they speak given that many have not taken english lessons for a while now.
I don't know if I'm in culture shock. I'm in purgatory I think. I travel between the "western world" here and "the Khmer world";I have found a beautiful apartment downtown and share it with a lovely Australian woman who has lived here for 18 months. The apartment is something I have dreamed of (and I found it here, in Phonm Penh!!). The Khmer office staff at ROSE are also lovely and have helped me a tremendous deal in setting up a daily moped driver and finding various things - so that has not been a struggle. It has simply been one of those classic cases - ask and you shall receive! I am not used to the poverty, the dirt on the streets, the run down buildings, the lack of safety precautions, the exotic fruits, the bread tasting different. But it would ridiculous to describe this place based on only those variations. I am determined to expand the filters and lenses through which I live the world.
There is a very specific smell in the air. A smell that is common here because it is mix of food, bodies, urine under the bed, and open wounds. It is a pungent smell to me - one that I neither like or find disgusting. But it is a smell that I know I will become used to and next week I will not smell it anymore.
My eyes are not used to the fact that there are no IVs or multiple bottles of medicines by the patient's beds. Families of patients continously migrate from one bed to another, or one room to another, to observe what is being done to patients. They don't say very much, just look. My new roommate explained that that is part of the shock the country is still after the atrocities the population here suffered - in the face of something tragic people simply stare. Their gazes follow me as I travel between one room and another. Their faces are serious, their eyes dark and intense but when I smile and say hello, they break out into the most beautiful warm smiles and laughs. I guess sometimes that is all it takes.
I am amazed at how well we (patinets and I) can communicate given a significant language barrier. They are very happy to tell me words in Khmer - "ocun" (thank you), "tee" (no), "paan" (yes). THe staff all speak english and are all very welcoming. I can't believe how well they speak given that many have not taken english lessons for a while now.
I don't know if I'm in culture shock. I'm in purgatory I think. I travel between the "western world" here and "the Khmer world";I have found a beautiful apartment downtown and share it with a lovely Australian woman who has lived here for 18 months. The apartment is something I have dreamed of (and I found it here, in Phonm Penh!!). The Khmer office staff at ROSE are also lovely and have helped me a tremendous deal in setting up a daily moped driver and finding various things - so that has not been a struggle. It has simply been one of those classic cases - ask and you shall receive! I am not used to the poverty, the dirt on the streets, the run down buildings, the lack of safety precautions, the exotic fruits, the bread tasting different. But it would ridiculous to describe this place based on only those variations. I am determined to expand the filters and lenses through which I live the world.
Saturday, May 14, 2005
Pictures Come to Life
I have seen pictures of Cambodia, but now it's 3 dimensional. It's REAL, I can't turn it off… I don't want to turn it off. These people are real- I can see them dusty on their mopeds, or through the wholes in the walls of their homes. Their smiles are warm, their eyes are big, shy, and very penetrating. They are curious but soft in their curiosity - I feel I am invading their space. I am quickly taking on their body language-bowing every time you say thank you, voice becomes a little softer. I feel that every time I step out I sink a little deeper into my new surroundings…
I went to ROSE (the NGO hospital where I will be working) with the Physical Therapist, Mr. Ath, for about 15 minutes when I arrived here to get a sense of it (Mr.Ath is away for 4 weeks on a mission with the army and I am being handed the keys to the physical therapy room). As he is away there is not physio for that time. I hope I can be of help (idea seems to be liked)...Driving across the Japanese bridge, surrounded by mo-peds that have 2 or 3 people on them, riding in streets that have congested traffic, we turn right onto the dirt road that leads to ROSE. Again, I recognized it from pictures, but it breaths, it has it’s own presence, a lightness of sorts created by the whispers and breathing of its patients. It has a sense of peace too I think I have always felt and appreciated this about hospitals – as it is a place where people are safe because they are being looked after. There were not very many patients there because it is the weekend and there is no surgery on the weekends. In one main room there are 3 patients with their families sitting about their beds. In the next room, slightly smaller, there are 2 burn victims. A man and a woman. One was an extensive burn – face, torso, limbs. There was a little girl sitting by her, waving a make shift fan over her face from time to time. I was nervous at first because her injuries were so extensive and her face was completely altered from the burn, but when she spoke to tell us that the third patient was out for a walk, my nervous melted and suddenly I just wanted to help. She is a human being. That’s all I saw. The other patient, a man was lying on his side, sleeping I think. It was hot. It was very hot in the room. I cannot imagine how they were tolerating their injuries and the pain, in this heat with minimal pain killers…and so quite...suffering in silence. I imagine after a while you just do not have the energy to express the suffering one feels.
A quick introduction to where I will be spending the next couple of months. Leaving and weaving back into the traffic, we head towards Dr. Jim's and Kanya's home. The traffic as many had warned and cautioned me about is truly crazy - there are some lights, some lanes when the roads are paved, but otherwise, there is not rhyme or reason and I quickly realized that the less I thought about it, the safer you become because you stop jerking about to every sudden passing car, bike, mo-ped or pedestrian. It is bizarre - the kind of bizarre where you compelled to laugh, because taking it seriously seems ridiculous. But I'm too tired right now to recount it in a "funny" way.
The jet lag comes and goes. I'm still in a bit of a time warp...I don't have a sense of time or days. I feel like every moment counts though and I don't want to waste a single one.
I feel like I have taken the final steps from being an idealistic "student" who is constantly up in arms with the world and the order of things to becoming someone who accepts the fact that that's the way it is and human nature is complex in it's simplicity; that smaller changes over a period of time are more meaningful than grand dreams with no action to follow...I am becoming a realist. My romanticism is reserved for the more private moments...
I went to ROSE (the NGO hospital where I will be working) with the Physical Therapist, Mr. Ath, for about 15 minutes when I arrived here to get a sense of it (Mr.Ath is away for 4 weeks on a mission with the army and I am being handed the keys to the physical therapy room). As he is away there is not physio for that time. I hope I can be of help (idea seems to be liked)...Driving across the Japanese bridge, surrounded by mo-peds that have 2 or 3 people on them, riding in streets that have congested traffic, we turn right onto the dirt road that leads to ROSE. Again, I recognized it from pictures, but it breaths, it has it’s own presence, a lightness of sorts created by the whispers and breathing of its patients. It has a sense of peace too I think I have always felt and appreciated this about hospitals – as it is a place where people are safe because they are being looked after. There were not very many patients there because it is the weekend and there is no surgery on the weekends. In one main room there are 3 patients with their families sitting about their beds. In the next room, slightly smaller, there are 2 burn victims. A man and a woman. One was an extensive burn – face, torso, limbs. There was a little girl sitting by her, waving a make shift fan over her face from time to time. I was nervous at first because her injuries were so extensive and her face was completely altered from the burn, but when she spoke to tell us that the third patient was out for a walk, my nervous melted and suddenly I just wanted to help. She is a human being. That’s all I saw. The other patient, a man was lying on his side, sleeping I think. It was hot. It was very hot in the room. I cannot imagine how they were tolerating their injuries and the pain, in this heat with minimal pain killers…and so quite...suffering in silence. I imagine after a while you just do not have the energy to express the suffering one feels.
A quick introduction to where I will be spending the next couple of months. Leaving and weaving back into the traffic, we head towards Dr. Jim's and Kanya's home. The traffic as many had warned and cautioned me about is truly crazy - there are some lights, some lanes when the roads are paved, but otherwise, there is not rhyme or reason and I quickly realized that the less I thought about it, the safer you become because you stop jerking about to every sudden passing car, bike, mo-ped or pedestrian. It is bizarre - the kind of bizarre where you compelled to laugh, because taking it seriously seems ridiculous. But I'm too tired right now to recount it in a "funny" way.
The jet lag comes and goes. I'm still in a bit of a time warp...I don't have a sense of time or days. I feel like every moment counts though and I don't want to waste a single one.
I feel like I have taken the final steps from being an idealistic "student" who is constantly up in arms with the world and the order of things to becoming someone who accepts the fact that that's the way it is and human nature is complex in it's simplicity; that smaller changes over a period of time are more meaningful than grand dreams with no action to follow...I am becoming a realist. My romanticism is reserved for the more private moments...
Monday, April 18, 2005
Why
The last time I returned from a trip, I made a decision: From now on, travel will be more involved such that the trips are not only focused on fun and relaxation, but rather to truly explore the world by doing something and contributing in a way other than spending american dollars.
As such, this trip to Cambodia is focused on a project - working through a burn hospital and teaching scar massage to one or two individuals who will be able to provide at least some post-operative therapy to burn victims. The work will also involve treatment provision. I leave May 11th and will be in the region for 3 months.
As I travel from one world to the next, embark on a solo trip (a very first in my life), and contemplate how to actually do this (teach, live and treat in a place such as Cambodia), I've decided to keep a log. I would like to be able to share this experience - although I'm not sure exactly what I will be sharing. However, the process of writing makes me stop long enough to process what I'm involved with directly and indirectly - so it goes beyond being a passive observer to realizing that there is impact from being present.
As such, this trip to Cambodia is focused on a project - working through a burn hospital and teaching scar massage to one or two individuals who will be able to provide at least some post-operative therapy to burn victims. The work will also involve treatment provision. I leave May 11th and will be in the region for 3 months.
As I travel from one world to the next, embark on a solo trip (a very first in my life), and contemplate how to actually do this (teach, live and treat in a place such as Cambodia), I've decided to keep a log. I would like to be able to share this experience - although I'm not sure exactly what I will be sharing. However, the process of writing makes me stop long enough to process what I'm involved with directly and indirectly - so it goes beyond being a passive observer to realizing that there is impact from being present.
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