I am the vampire
Made real from the depths of your imagination.
I lurk in the dark places during the day
Creeping slowly
From underneath your papers and books
To the insides of your clothes.
At dusk I am fearless
And the world is my kingdom.
You fear me
Because you know our bite carries the possibility
Of deadly disease.
I am always around you
Even when you think that I am not
You may kill me with smoke, flame, poison, and electrocution
But there are thousands like me to take my place
You may hide in your nets day and night
But we are always waiting just outside them.
We will always win
And you know it.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Friday, October 31, 2008
Where I Write These Things
In the evening, I usually retreat to an area under a large blue-green mosquito net in my room. In there is my bookshelf and desk, and it is the place where I write these entries at night until exhaustion overtakes me. Since electricity is very expensive in my town, I have a car battery that is connected to an am-meter. It charges my computer and cell phone. The copy of Rolling Stone magazine in this picture is from July.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
The Assignment So Far
In the four weeks now that I have lived in the Anchor district, I have had the opportunity to spend about three weeks at the high school when was in session. In that time, I have observed and noted the abilities of both the students and teachers to communicate in English, and I have come to several conclusions about each of these groups. The long and the short of it is that both the students and teachers cannot speak English very well, with the exception of my counterpart, Mr. Nou. My work as an English teacher in this community is clearly laid out for the next two years, which is not necessarily a bad thing. I do not write this entry in an effort to be condescending or overly critical of the community or its students, for I am merely trying to describe the naked truth of what I have seen and heard. In examining it, I have found that the student’s lack of English skills has to do with a lack of learning resources and some cultural elements that inhibit the pursuit of study. The latter is something that I will discuss first, because it affects my teaching most directly.
Culture is a curious subject, and understanding it is often a lesson in humility. After living here for a few months, I thought that I would move beyond the scratched surface of understanding how Cambodians think. However, this is quite the opposite. In trying to understand the cultural rules that seem to inhibit a student’s ability to learn, I have scratched my head repeatedly in trying to understand why they do the things that they do. I have yet to figure out ways of overcoming them, but my hope is that by recording and taking notes on them I can understand them a little bit better.
While observing the students during my first week, I was struck by how incredibly shy the students were. When I introduced myself in front of my new classes of students during the first few days, they looked at me with a terrified expression on their faces. I could not help but find it similar to the way that my two-year-old neighbor looks at me. The eyes are wide, the mouth stretched open or in a vague smile, the head is bent over (along with the overall posture), and all of the muscles in the face are frozen. Some of the students still look at me in this way even after I have taught in their classes several times and implored them to speak in class. The co-teachers I work with tell me that while the students welcome the idea of learning English from a native speaker, they are too shy to approach me and ask questions. Some of them have warmed to me, especially when I quoted a Cambodian proverb Khmer in class that translates into English as “If you are shy with your teacher, you will never learn. If you are shy with your wife, you will never have children.” However, for most of my classes this shyness inhibits them from speaking out loud at all.
During a class that I was observing, the Cambodian English teacher called on a female student to read a passage that was written in the book. The student refused, and said in Khmer that she could not read English. At this point, I had heard this from multiple students. In a moment of curiosity, I asked her privately if she really could not read English, or rather she was simply too shy to read in front of the class. She mumbled something unintelligible, averted her eyes, and made it clear with her body language that she had little to no interest in speaking with me any further. A little while later, I could hear her reading along with her friend from the book. In a culture where yes means no and no means yes, saying things like “No, teacher, I can’t read English” are part of an age-old tradition of saving face that is common in many parts of Asia. The student probably could read English, but she did not think that her English was sufficient enough to read in front of the class. So she claimed that she could not read English at all. I initially thought that if only this shyness was overcome, then the students would speak English well. When I gave my students an English test for the first, I was proved wrong about this theory.
A few weeks ago, I helped give a test to the entire tenth and eleventh grade class in order to test their understanding of English. Plan International, which is an active NGO in my village, recently donated several new computers and a spiffy solar powered generating system to the school, and the test was a way of determining which students should be given the opportunity to use them and learn computer skills. The test was fairly straight forward, allowing the student to conjugate English verbs and determine appropriate tenses. The students themselves are supposed to have had at least three years of English so far, and the difficulty level of the test seemed appropriate when I looked it over. Unfortunately, this was not the case.
The problem began with the word “choose.” While proctoring an tenth grade class, I had to write the test on the blackboard for the students to copy and then do. Since our school does not have the resources for generating large amounts of photocopies, simple tests and quizzes are often done this way. The word in question was in the overall instructions that required the student to choose the correct verb tense from two that were given. For example, “While Susan was driving, she was receiving/received a call on her mobile phone.” After a few minutes of looking at the word, one student finally approached me and said that he and the others could not understand what this word meant. I tried to explain it as best I could in both English and Khmer, but the students still had no idea what this word meant. It was not until I grabbed a Khmer teacher who was passing by the class that I was able to translate what this word meant. For the rest of time remaining in that period, I sat behind a desk in front of the class. The faces of the students were reduced to black in the light of an oncoming morning thunderstorm, and I stared at them in a state of bewilderment. Three years of English, I thought. Three years of English and they can’t understand the word “choose.”
It is hard to understand why this could happen unless you know something about the district’s industry and geographical location. Eighty percent of the workforce in Anchor is involved in farming. Whether they are involved with growing rice, tending the stocks in a fish farm, raising livestock, or some other activity, most of their lives are spent in the fields. For the children of the Anchor, this is ultimately their destiny whether they like it or not. Like their forefathers before them, they too will probably become farmers themselves. Siem Reap is only around 50k away, and one would think that the promise of money and better jobs in the tourist industry there would be a luring opportunity away from the back breaking work of picking rice. A lot of people who I have talked to know someone who works there, and the their success is widely circulated. While the promise of moving there and earning more money is certainly present, the reality of going there is not. For the children in towns closer to Siem Reap, it certainly is. The town of Pourk (pronounced with a silent k on the end) is close enough to Siem Reap for this dream to become an attainable reality having better human and material resources.
When I taught an eleventh grade class in Kampong for a week, the same sort of problems existed. The shyness, the lack of comprehension, and the inability to pronounce certain words were all there, but they were all there on a much smaller scale. In general, the student’s ability in that district was much better this one. However, Kampong is a much bigger town with greater resources for learning. The high school has many English teachers, the town has many bookshops, and it has a road connecting it to the wealth and opportunity of Phnom Penh. Anchor district is a much smaller place, with fewer resources. Here the students can barely understand the words in their books, much less the words that come out of my mouth. This may sound exaggerated, but I swear that it is true.
So, why teach children of this district English if they are just going to forget it when they have to go and work in the fields when they finish school? It is a hard question to answer, and I would be lying if I said that I had no trouble answering it. A simple way of looking at it has to do with the overall mission of Peace Corps in Cambodia itself. Essentially, what we are trying to do is improve the teaching methods of Cambodian English teachers. The reason why we teach primarily with counterparts is because we are trying to ease a shift from teacher centered learning techniques that those that are student centered. It is more of a teaching training assignment to give Cambodian teachers techniques to use in the classroom. These skills will hopefully be passed on to other teachers in the future for the benefit of the students. Aside from this, however, there is another way of possibly looking at it.
As part of the Peace Corps mission, we are charged with being unofficial ambassadors of the US in order to provide people in the world with a better image of America than what they know already. As the country director noted in our swearing in ceremony, “These are not the Americans that you have seen on television.” Part of this responsibility is explaining to our community about the positive aspects of America culture. The quest that many Americans have had to make a better life for themselves is one of these aspects that I can tell them about that could possibly have an impact. Whether or not this would create an entire generation of Willy Lomans is unforeseeable, but perhaps through teaching English to the children of Anchor, I can give them a skill that can enable them to do something more than be a rice farmer. This will probably not become a reality for many people in this community, but for a few who understand the value of education it might be.
It is difficult to determine what impact I will have on this community after I leave for America, but perhaps with a little education the people working at the bank will someday be from this town instead of one over forty kilometers away. I friend of mine recently asked me if I thought this whole thing was worth doing. I would have to say that yes, it is worth doing. There are more reasons behind this answer, but I think that having any kind of impact at all on this community will make the experience worth it because it would give the people of Anchor to have something that they would have otherwise never gotten.
Culture is a curious subject, and understanding it is often a lesson in humility. After living here for a few months, I thought that I would move beyond the scratched surface of understanding how Cambodians think. However, this is quite the opposite. In trying to understand the cultural rules that seem to inhibit a student’s ability to learn, I have scratched my head repeatedly in trying to understand why they do the things that they do. I have yet to figure out ways of overcoming them, but my hope is that by recording and taking notes on them I can understand them a little bit better.
While observing the students during my first week, I was struck by how incredibly shy the students were. When I introduced myself in front of my new classes of students during the first few days, they looked at me with a terrified expression on their faces. I could not help but find it similar to the way that my two-year-old neighbor looks at me. The eyes are wide, the mouth stretched open or in a vague smile, the head is bent over (along with the overall posture), and all of the muscles in the face are frozen. Some of the students still look at me in this way even after I have taught in their classes several times and implored them to speak in class. The co-teachers I work with tell me that while the students welcome the idea of learning English from a native speaker, they are too shy to approach me and ask questions. Some of them have warmed to me, especially when I quoted a Cambodian proverb Khmer in class that translates into English as “If you are shy with your teacher, you will never learn. If you are shy with your wife, you will never have children.” However, for most of my classes this shyness inhibits them from speaking out loud at all.
During a class that I was observing, the Cambodian English teacher called on a female student to read a passage that was written in the book. The student refused, and said in Khmer that she could not read English. At this point, I had heard this from multiple students. In a moment of curiosity, I asked her privately if she really could not read English, or rather she was simply too shy to read in front of the class. She mumbled something unintelligible, averted her eyes, and made it clear with her body language that she had little to no interest in speaking with me any further. A little while later, I could hear her reading along with her friend from the book. In a culture where yes means no and no means yes, saying things like “No, teacher, I can’t read English” are part of an age-old tradition of saving face that is common in many parts of Asia. The student probably could read English, but she did not think that her English was sufficient enough to read in front of the class. So she claimed that she could not read English at all. I initially thought that if only this shyness was overcome, then the students would speak English well. When I gave my students an English test for the first, I was proved wrong about this theory.
A few weeks ago, I helped give a test to the entire tenth and eleventh grade class in order to test their understanding of English. Plan International, which is an active NGO in my village, recently donated several new computers and a spiffy solar powered generating system to the school, and the test was a way of determining which students should be given the opportunity to use them and learn computer skills. The test was fairly straight forward, allowing the student to conjugate English verbs and determine appropriate tenses. The students themselves are supposed to have had at least three years of English so far, and the difficulty level of the test seemed appropriate when I looked it over. Unfortunately, this was not the case.
The problem began with the word “choose.” While proctoring an tenth grade class, I had to write the test on the blackboard for the students to copy and then do. Since our school does not have the resources for generating large amounts of photocopies, simple tests and quizzes are often done this way. The word in question was in the overall instructions that required the student to choose the correct verb tense from two that were given. For example, “While Susan was driving, she was receiving/received a call on her mobile phone.” After a few minutes of looking at the word, one student finally approached me and said that he and the others could not understand what this word meant. I tried to explain it as best I could in both English and Khmer, but the students still had no idea what this word meant. It was not until I grabbed a Khmer teacher who was passing by the class that I was able to translate what this word meant. For the rest of time remaining in that period, I sat behind a desk in front of the class. The faces of the students were reduced to black in the light of an oncoming morning thunderstorm, and I stared at them in a state of bewilderment. Three years of English, I thought. Three years of English and they can’t understand the word “choose.”
It is hard to understand why this could happen unless you know something about the district’s industry and geographical location. Eighty percent of the workforce in Anchor is involved in farming. Whether they are involved with growing rice, tending the stocks in a fish farm, raising livestock, or some other activity, most of their lives are spent in the fields. For the children of the Anchor, this is ultimately their destiny whether they like it or not. Like their forefathers before them, they too will probably become farmers themselves. Siem Reap is only around 50k away, and one would think that the promise of money and better jobs in the tourist industry there would be a luring opportunity away from the back breaking work of picking rice. A lot of people who I have talked to know someone who works there, and the their success is widely circulated. While the promise of moving there and earning more money is certainly present, the reality of going there is not. For the children in towns closer to Siem Reap, it certainly is. The town of Pourk (pronounced with a silent k on the end) is close enough to Siem Reap for this dream to become an attainable reality having better human and material resources.
When I taught an eleventh grade class in Kampong for a week, the same sort of problems existed. The shyness, the lack of comprehension, and the inability to pronounce certain words were all there, but they were all there on a much smaller scale. In general, the student’s ability in that district was much better this one. However, Kampong is a much bigger town with greater resources for learning. The high school has many English teachers, the town has many bookshops, and it has a road connecting it to the wealth and opportunity of Phnom Penh. Anchor district is a much smaller place, with fewer resources. Here the students can barely understand the words in their books, much less the words that come out of my mouth. This may sound exaggerated, but I swear that it is true.
So, why teach children of this district English if they are just going to forget it when they have to go and work in the fields when they finish school? It is a hard question to answer, and I would be lying if I said that I had no trouble answering it. A simple way of looking at it has to do with the overall mission of Peace Corps in Cambodia itself. Essentially, what we are trying to do is improve the teaching methods of Cambodian English teachers. The reason why we teach primarily with counterparts is because we are trying to ease a shift from teacher centered learning techniques that those that are student centered. It is more of a teaching training assignment to give Cambodian teachers techniques to use in the classroom. These skills will hopefully be passed on to other teachers in the future for the benefit of the students. Aside from this, however, there is another way of possibly looking at it.
As part of the Peace Corps mission, we are charged with being unofficial ambassadors of the US in order to provide people in the world with a better image of America than what they know already. As the country director noted in our swearing in ceremony, “These are not the Americans that you have seen on television.” Part of this responsibility is explaining to our community about the positive aspects of America culture. The quest that many Americans have had to make a better life for themselves is one of these aspects that I can tell them about that could possibly have an impact. Whether or not this would create an entire generation of Willy Lomans is unforeseeable, but perhaps through teaching English to the children of Anchor, I can give them a skill that can enable them to do something more than be a rice farmer. This will probably not become a reality for many people in this community, but for a few who understand the value of education it might be.
It is difficult to determine what impact I will have on this community after I leave for America, but perhaps with a little education the people working at the bank will someday be from this town instead of one over forty kilometers away. I friend of mine recently asked me if I thought this whole thing was worth doing. I would have to say that yes, it is worth doing. There are more reasons behind this answer, but I think that having any kind of impact at all on this community will make the experience worth it because it would give the people of Anchor to have something that they would have otherwise never gotten.
Sunday Morning Laundry
Eyes open. The alarm on the cell phone is going off next to my pillowed head. Why did I set it last night? It’s Sunday, no classes to teach, no places to go. All I have to do is laundry and make lesson plans for the week. Oh hell, I have to do laundry. That’s why I set the alarm last night. Eyes open. Eyes closed. Get up, Adrian, you’ve got to do laundry before the rain comes in the afternoon. Maybe it won’t rain today? No, there’s a reason why they call it the rainy season. It rains every day. Got to do laundry now. You wait too long to do it, it’ll only have an hour or so to dry. It’ll still be wet tomorrow, and will smell for the rest of the week. Sit up. Scratch my head and look at my legs and arms. No bug bites? Good. How about the neck and torso? None there either. Mosquito net must be doing its job. These days, though, it’s the little black flea like bugs that’ll get into bed with me when I least expect it. I think they’re attracted to the white sheets. Lift up the mosquito net and crawl under it.
Feet hit the floor. Roll up the net today? No, just tuck it in under the mattress to make sure nothing gets in. Open the window and let in the damp morning air. The sun’s beginning to get up as well. Another couple of hours and the heat will be good enough to dry all my clothes out on the line. Breakfast? I’ll get it later when I’m done from that café down the street. Queet tio chia muy café dtuck dah go dah gah, my favorite kind of breakfast. Chinese noodle soup mixed with beef, with iced coffee and condensed sterilized milk to drink. That’ll be good. The girls who work there are pretty friendly as well.
Got to get started. Walk to the bathroom and open to the door. Stand with two feet apart above the porcelain Turkish toilet. Pee. Flush it with two scoopfuls of water from the reservoir. Ants are crawling in and out of one of the cracks in the wall. They just don’t know when to take a hint. Poison them with the promethren that’s tucked away in the medical kit? Wait, another spider has created a web nearby. I’ll leave the ants to them. I’ll have my breakfast and they’ll have theirs.
Open the door of the bathroom. Grab the two plastic basins resting against the wall. Set them down on the floor, and pour water into each of them. Get the detergent and pour it into one of the basins. Keep the other one for rinse water. Bring over my dirty clothes and the plastic chair that sits in front of my desk. Put on the rubber gloves I bought at Lucky Mart. The detergent will kill my hands if I let it. Too many other health concerns just from living here Better prevent one if I can.
Pick up a t-shirt. It smells god-awful. Probably one that used for biking this past week when I got caught in the rain. Dunk it into the soapy water, and get it nice and wet. With one hand over the other and the fabric in between, start scrubbing vigorously back and forth. Get the collar, then the armpits, then anywhere else that has a stain. If needed, use a sprinkle more of detergent. My host sister in Kampong taught me how to do this, though if she were here she’d give me a heap of trouble about the way that I’m scrubbing. She was never satisfied with my laundry skills, no matter how hard I tried. Can’t a barang get a break? Never.
Take the t-shirt and wring it out. Make sure all the soap gets out of there. Dunk it unto the rinse water once, twice, three times. Wring it out again, and throw it on the tiled floor of the bathroom. Just washed the floor yesterday, so it’s okay to put the finished product over there. Another t-shirt, pair of underwear, same process. Pair of white socks. Why did I ever bring a pair of white socks with me to Cambodia? I can never get the stains out of them. I swear I’ve worked fifteen minutes on the underside of a sock once, and still couldn’t get the dirt out of it. Pair of pants, and its time to use the brush. Grab the plastic handle and scrub the lining, the rear, and the cuffs. Try to get the mud stains out as much as possible. Dunk it into the soapy water a few times and inspect it to make sure that there isn’t a stain I’ve missed.
Two more pairs of pants, underwear, and shirts and I’m done. Pick up the finished laundry pile from the floor and bring it outside quickly because it’s dripping all over me. Look at the line. Damn. All the space has been taken. Take my metal clothes rack, put everything hanging on it on the bed, and bring it outside. Take all the clothes that are wet, and put them on the rack outside in the blazing sun. Host mother is laughing at me, and though I don’t understand her I imagine that what she’s saying is some opprobrious remark. I laugh with her, sardonically. Should have looked to see if the line was full before getting started, but I’ve got no other time to do this other than now. In any case, I can bring the clothes inside in a hurry if it starts to pour. You can never tell when that’s going to be during the day, but it always happens.
Take the used water and pour it outside. Mop up the bathroom floor a bit, and make sure its clean. Change into more respectable clothes, and grab the wallet, watch, keys, cell phone, malaria pills, and a book to read over breakfast. Lock up, and head out. Exhausted, and its only 7 AM.
What did Culture Shock!:Cambodia have to say about this place? “With its incredibly cheap cost of living, Cambodia is an easy place for the less than well-heeled, underachieving, disillusioned Western male to hang out.” (96) Maybe for the less than well-heeled, underachieving, disillusioned western male this is easy, but these people probably have washing machines.
Feet hit the floor. Roll up the net today? No, just tuck it in under the mattress to make sure nothing gets in. Open the window and let in the damp morning air. The sun’s beginning to get up as well. Another couple of hours and the heat will be good enough to dry all my clothes out on the line. Breakfast? I’ll get it later when I’m done from that café down the street. Queet tio chia muy café dtuck dah go dah gah, my favorite kind of breakfast. Chinese noodle soup mixed with beef, with iced coffee and condensed sterilized milk to drink. That’ll be good. The girls who work there are pretty friendly as well.
Got to get started. Walk to the bathroom and open to the door. Stand with two feet apart above the porcelain Turkish toilet. Pee. Flush it with two scoopfuls of water from the reservoir. Ants are crawling in and out of one of the cracks in the wall. They just don’t know when to take a hint. Poison them with the promethren that’s tucked away in the medical kit? Wait, another spider has created a web nearby. I’ll leave the ants to them. I’ll have my breakfast and they’ll have theirs.
Open the door of the bathroom. Grab the two plastic basins resting against the wall. Set them down on the floor, and pour water into each of them. Get the detergent and pour it into one of the basins. Keep the other one for rinse water. Bring over my dirty clothes and the plastic chair that sits in front of my desk. Put on the rubber gloves I bought at Lucky Mart. The detergent will kill my hands if I let it. Too many other health concerns just from living here Better prevent one if I can.
Pick up a t-shirt. It smells god-awful. Probably one that used for biking this past week when I got caught in the rain. Dunk it into the soapy water, and get it nice and wet. With one hand over the other and the fabric in between, start scrubbing vigorously back and forth. Get the collar, then the armpits, then anywhere else that has a stain. If needed, use a sprinkle more of detergent. My host sister in Kampong taught me how to do this, though if she were here she’d give me a heap of trouble about the way that I’m scrubbing. She was never satisfied with my laundry skills, no matter how hard I tried. Can’t a barang get a break? Never.
Take the t-shirt and wring it out. Make sure all the soap gets out of there. Dunk it unto the rinse water once, twice, three times. Wring it out again, and throw it on the tiled floor of the bathroom. Just washed the floor yesterday, so it’s okay to put the finished product over there. Another t-shirt, pair of underwear, same process. Pair of white socks. Why did I ever bring a pair of white socks with me to Cambodia? I can never get the stains out of them. I swear I’ve worked fifteen minutes on the underside of a sock once, and still couldn’t get the dirt out of it. Pair of pants, and its time to use the brush. Grab the plastic handle and scrub the lining, the rear, and the cuffs. Try to get the mud stains out as much as possible. Dunk it into the soapy water a few times and inspect it to make sure that there isn’t a stain I’ve missed.
Two more pairs of pants, underwear, and shirts and I’m done. Pick up the finished laundry pile from the floor and bring it outside quickly because it’s dripping all over me. Look at the line. Damn. All the space has been taken. Take my metal clothes rack, put everything hanging on it on the bed, and bring it outside. Take all the clothes that are wet, and put them on the rack outside in the blazing sun. Host mother is laughing at me, and though I don’t understand her I imagine that what she’s saying is some opprobrious remark. I laugh with her, sardonically. Should have looked to see if the line was full before getting started, but I’ve got no other time to do this other than now. In any case, I can bring the clothes inside in a hurry if it starts to pour. You can never tell when that’s going to be during the day, but it always happens.
Take the used water and pour it outside. Mop up the bathroom floor a bit, and make sure its clean. Change into more respectable clothes, and grab the wallet, watch, keys, cell phone, malaria pills, and a book to read over breakfast. Lock up, and head out. Exhausted, and its only 7 AM.
What did Culture Shock!:Cambodia have to say about this place? “With its incredibly cheap cost of living, Cambodia is an easy place for the less than well-heeled, underachieving, disillusioned Western male to hang out.” (96) Maybe for the less than well-heeled, underachieving, disillusioned western male this is easy, but these people probably have washing machines.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
The Woman At The End of the Road
Every day after school, I walk to the statue of this woman on the edge of the town. She stands at the intersection between the roads that lead to Varin and to Pourk.
Friday, October 17, 2008
"On a Cold Night They Came"
A Quiet Town With a Violent Past
The road that leads from the villages of Daun Sva to Bott in the province of Siem Reap is a particularly pretty one. Trees of grey and white bark line one of the few paved roads in the region, and the view from a bicycle stretches across the fields of brown wheat and green rice plants to the hills of the Varin district. In Bott village itself, a Wat with a large and ornately decorated gate stands where the road curves toward the smoke colored hills in the distance. In this place of seemingly rural tranquility, however, there is a hidden danger. A few kilometers outside of Bott, there are little stone markers placed on paths leading into the rice fields. The markers are painted red and white, and have the design of a skull and crossbones painted on them to indicate the presence of mines and unexploded ordinance. The Halo Trust, a British de-mining organization that is active in Cambodia, placed the signs there some years ago, but even their warning goes unheeded by some. It is common to see farmers tending to their cattle herds or walking among their crops out there. It is still not clear to me whether or not they understand the danger that is involved in their action. I have talked to them on a few occasions using what little Khmer I know in order to gain any information about these fields. They know that there are mines out there, but they continue to go on farming despite the danger. It is the only thing that they can do to still make a living.
There are many mines in this area, and their presence is a symbol of the violence that Cambodia suffered over a period of nearly thirty years. In talking with some of the teachers at my high school, I have learned something about the violent history of Anchor. In order to explain some of it, I must of course describe briefly something of Cambodia’s history during the past thirty years. In 1970, a General named Lon Nol took power in a Coup that deposed King Norodom Sihanouk. Sihanouk in turn backed a revolutionary guerilla group named the Khmer Rouge, and supported them in their fight against Lon Nol. When the Khmer Rouge took power in 1975, they forced people out their homes all over the country to work in a gigantic agrarian genocide that caused the deaths of millions. In 1979, Vietnam invaded the country in response to attacks on Vietnamese civilians, and occupied the country until 1989. In 1992, the UN transitional government authority (UNTAC) came in to help support Cambodia’s first democratic elections that resulted with Hun Sein, the current prime minister, gaining power in 1997. From what I have gathered, the district of Anchor has witnessed a small part of many of these major events that I have quickly reviewed.
Anchor was one of the last districts to be captured by the Khmer Rouge in the 1970’s. Some of the residents have told me that when Lon Nol’s government was fighting with them, many people died here and in the surrounding areas. It also seems that almost everyone here knows someone who was killed during the time of genocide, whether it was an uncle, father, cousin, or some other kind of relative. When the Vietnamese army invaded Cambodia, the Khmer Rouge placed mines on the roads and in the fields to halt the invading army’s progress.
After the Vietnamese had conquered most of the country, fighting between the Khmer Rouge and government soldiers lasted for many years afterwards. The Khmer Rouge soldiers attacked the police and the army multiple times during this period, and civilians were in a constant state of alarm. UNTAC sent several workers to the Anchor district during the 1990’s, and two of them were killed in the ongoing violence. A mine on the road blew up underneath the car of one, and other received a fatal bullet wound in the neck. From what I am told by people in the village, the latter came from Bangladesh and lived at the Wat with the monks until he died. Until Hun Sein took power in 1997, there was virtually no peace in the area. The central town’s appearance today looks so peaceful, and it is hard to imagine the horrible things that went on here some years ago. Yet they did.
On a Cold Night They Came
This is the story of Mr. Jia Bon Tooen. He is a friend of mine who works in the office at my high school, and I have come to know him through regular visits to his cell phone shop in the market. On one such occasion, he told this story about his early days as a teacher in this district. It is a tale of survival, and the misery that the people faced in a time before the days of UNTAC. This is his story, and I have tried to put it down in writing as best I can.
When I came to this district as a secondary school teacher in 1989, I lived two different lives. By day, I taught physics, chemistry, and math. By night, I traded my chalkboard and teaching materials for a rifle and grenade belt. You must believe when I say that I never in my life wanted to become a soldier, but the situation at the time was desperate. When I arrived at the school in the beginning of the academic year, the school director told me that I would not be paid if I did not perform nightly guard duty for the local army company. Rather than face starvation and misery, I carried the gun. While the soldiers and police slept during the night, a ragtag band of teachers and office workers kept watch over the town. Every night, we were afraid that the Khmer Rouge would attack. We knew that they hid in the forested hills not far from the town in the district of Varin, and that at night they would creep through the fields to attack the town. It was only a matter of time before it did, and I will tell you how it happened.
It was a cold night when they came. At four in the morning, I was standing outside of my house near the main road that leads through the center of town. A few hundred meters away, the police and army slept at the barracks near the secondary school while I waited for my shift to be over. Another hour, and I could go back and prepare for the morning session. I crossed my arms, rested the butt of my rifle on the ground, and leaned against a post to try to maybe sleep a little while no one could see me. Just as I closed my eyes, I heard a loud whistling. I looked up, and something fell from the sky and exploded a hundred meters away with a large explosion that shook the earth. I dropped to my hands and knees as other bombs came and crashed in the same way.
During a brief pause in the shelling, I suddenly began to hear the sounds of pounding feet. I looked in the opposite direction of where the bombs struck, and I saw the soldiers of the Khmer Rouge. Hundreds of them were running down the road dressed in their Chinese made green drab uniforms. Their heads were wrapped in red bandannas, their feet protected by sandals, and their waists were clothed in ammunition. I could see them coming, but they could not see me in the darkness. I acted quickly and jumped into a muddy canal that was by the side of the road next to me. In the dark, I threw off my ammunition, grenades, and pitched my rifle into the black water. I did not dare fight the Khmer Rouge, for I knew that I would be killed if I did. I was a teacher, not a soldier. I didn’t sign up for this.
I could hear the pounding feet running by me as I breathed heavily among the reeds and muck of my watery hiding place. My head was just above the water, but despite my efforts to hide myself I still feared that the Khmer Rouge would see me. When the pounding of feet passed near me, I felt fear in the pit of my stomach. I was not a Christian man then, but if I were I would have offered God anything He wanted if He kept me alive that night.
As soon as the soldiers passed my hiding place, I began to hear gunfire. The Khmer Rouge were fighting with the soldiers near the school, but from where I was I could not see them. Slowly and carefully as to not make a sound, I crept on my belly like a snake from my hiding place through the mud to see what was going on. As soon as I reached the road, I saw that the Khmer Rouge had almost completely overrun the soldiers and police stationed at the barracks. The government soldiers were retreating, firing their guns sporadically as they went. These men constantly bullied the civilians in the town, but when it came down to actually fighting all of their bravado was stripped from them. When the shooting finally stopped, I walked slowly back to my house. I went up to the second floor, took off my wet and muddy clothes, and hid under my bed. However, the terror of the night was not yet over.
When the Khmer Rouge had taken all that they wanted from the barracks, they turned on the town. They looted everything that they could find, and I could hear them breaking down doors and smashing windows outside. One soldier came into my house, and stole my dishes. When his footsteps could be heard inside the house, I froze. The sound made it its way into my living room, and having not found anything of value in there the footsteps made their way into my kitchen. I could hear the clatter of my dishes as he dumped them into his crudely stitched sack and began to head for the door. In my misery and desperation, I decided to follow him to beg for my things back. Today, I do not know why I did this, as I could have stayed hidden where I was. I felt that it was the least I could do to protect what little I had.
I came downstairs with only a kromah wrapped around my waist, and followed the man as he left. A few steps out the front door, the soldier noticed that he was being followed. He turned around to face me with one hand holding his rifle, and the other carrying his stolen goods. The man looked like one who was deprived of even the simple comforts of life. His naked feet looked bruised and worn, and his dark and sun scorched face contrasted sharply with the red bandanna tied around his head. The green army clothes he wore were dirty and covered with mud around the ankles. He could have smelled awful as well, but I did not dare get close enough to him to tell if he did or not.
When the man looked at me with hardened eyes and a scowl, I put my hands together and pleaded with him to not take my dishes. I said that I was simple person without a lot of money. He dropped his sack and grinned, revealing a sinister smile of white broken teeth. He raised his rifle and asked me, “Why do you follow me?” and fired the gun several times. A spray of bullets struck the earth around my feet, and I thought for a moment that he would raise it and shoot me in the chest. However, he simply laughed and walked off to rejoin his comrades. I dropped to my knees in shock of what happened, and watched the Khmer Rouge wreak havoc in the town. Some of them simply robbed houses, but others did more damage. One smashed open a jewel case, and helped himself to as many watches as he liked. I retreated back to my hiding place soon after I was shot at, and the Khmer Rouge soon after retreated to theirs. The sun was coming up soon, and they knew that they were not safe in broad daylight from the government planes.
I did not go to school that day. I helped my friends and neighbors pick up the pieces of what had just happened. We knew that the Khmer Rouge would come again, but for the time being we could calm ourselves enough to avoid going mad with fright.
No one slept well the next night. No one who lived through what we did would have.
The road that leads from the villages of Daun Sva to Bott in the province of Siem Reap is a particularly pretty one. Trees of grey and white bark line one of the few paved roads in the region, and the view from a bicycle stretches across the fields of brown wheat and green rice plants to the hills of the Varin district. In Bott village itself, a Wat with a large and ornately decorated gate stands where the road curves toward the smoke colored hills in the distance. In this place of seemingly rural tranquility, however, there is a hidden danger. A few kilometers outside of Bott, there are little stone markers placed on paths leading into the rice fields. The markers are painted red and white, and have the design of a skull and crossbones painted on them to indicate the presence of mines and unexploded ordinance. The Halo Trust, a British de-mining organization that is active in Cambodia, placed the signs there some years ago, but even their warning goes unheeded by some. It is common to see farmers tending to their cattle herds or walking among their crops out there. It is still not clear to me whether or not they understand the danger that is involved in their action. I have talked to them on a few occasions using what little Khmer I know in order to gain any information about these fields. They know that there are mines out there, but they continue to go on farming despite the danger. It is the only thing that they can do to still make a living.
There are many mines in this area, and their presence is a symbol of the violence that Cambodia suffered over a period of nearly thirty years. In talking with some of the teachers at my high school, I have learned something about the violent history of Anchor. In order to explain some of it, I must of course describe briefly something of Cambodia’s history during the past thirty years. In 1970, a General named Lon Nol took power in a Coup that deposed King Norodom Sihanouk. Sihanouk in turn backed a revolutionary guerilla group named the Khmer Rouge, and supported them in their fight against Lon Nol. When the Khmer Rouge took power in 1975, they forced people out their homes all over the country to work in a gigantic agrarian genocide that caused the deaths of millions. In 1979, Vietnam invaded the country in response to attacks on Vietnamese civilians, and occupied the country until 1989. In 1992, the UN transitional government authority (UNTAC) came in to help support Cambodia’s first democratic elections that resulted with Hun Sein, the current prime minister, gaining power in 1997. From what I have gathered, the district of Anchor has witnessed a small part of many of these major events that I have quickly reviewed.
Anchor was one of the last districts to be captured by the Khmer Rouge in the 1970’s. Some of the residents have told me that when Lon Nol’s government was fighting with them, many people died here and in the surrounding areas. It also seems that almost everyone here knows someone who was killed during the time of genocide, whether it was an uncle, father, cousin, or some other kind of relative. When the Vietnamese army invaded Cambodia, the Khmer Rouge placed mines on the roads and in the fields to halt the invading army’s progress.
After the Vietnamese had conquered most of the country, fighting between the Khmer Rouge and government soldiers lasted for many years afterwards. The Khmer Rouge soldiers attacked the police and the army multiple times during this period, and civilians were in a constant state of alarm. UNTAC sent several workers to the Anchor district during the 1990’s, and two of them were killed in the ongoing violence. A mine on the road blew up underneath the car of one, and other received a fatal bullet wound in the neck. From what I am told by people in the village, the latter came from Bangladesh and lived at the Wat with the monks until he died. Until Hun Sein took power in 1997, there was virtually no peace in the area. The central town’s appearance today looks so peaceful, and it is hard to imagine the horrible things that went on here some years ago. Yet they did.
On a Cold Night They Came
This is the story of Mr. Jia Bon Tooen. He is a friend of mine who works in the office at my high school, and I have come to know him through regular visits to his cell phone shop in the market. On one such occasion, he told this story about his early days as a teacher in this district. It is a tale of survival, and the misery that the people faced in a time before the days of UNTAC. This is his story, and I have tried to put it down in writing as best I can.
When I came to this district as a secondary school teacher in 1989, I lived two different lives. By day, I taught physics, chemistry, and math. By night, I traded my chalkboard and teaching materials for a rifle and grenade belt. You must believe when I say that I never in my life wanted to become a soldier, but the situation at the time was desperate. When I arrived at the school in the beginning of the academic year, the school director told me that I would not be paid if I did not perform nightly guard duty for the local army company. Rather than face starvation and misery, I carried the gun. While the soldiers and police slept during the night, a ragtag band of teachers and office workers kept watch over the town. Every night, we were afraid that the Khmer Rouge would attack. We knew that they hid in the forested hills not far from the town in the district of Varin, and that at night they would creep through the fields to attack the town. It was only a matter of time before it did, and I will tell you how it happened.
It was a cold night when they came. At four in the morning, I was standing outside of my house near the main road that leads through the center of town. A few hundred meters away, the police and army slept at the barracks near the secondary school while I waited for my shift to be over. Another hour, and I could go back and prepare for the morning session. I crossed my arms, rested the butt of my rifle on the ground, and leaned against a post to try to maybe sleep a little while no one could see me. Just as I closed my eyes, I heard a loud whistling. I looked up, and something fell from the sky and exploded a hundred meters away with a large explosion that shook the earth. I dropped to my hands and knees as other bombs came and crashed in the same way.
During a brief pause in the shelling, I suddenly began to hear the sounds of pounding feet. I looked in the opposite direction of where the bombs struck, and I saw the soldiers of the Khmer Rouge. Hundreds of them were running down the road dressed in their Chinese made green drab uniforms. Their heads were wrapped in red bandannas, their feet protected by sandals, and their waists were clothed in ammunition. I could see them coming, but they could not see me in the darkness. I acted quickly and jumped into a muddy canal that was by the side of the road next to me. In the dark, I threw off my ammunition, grenades, and pitched my rifle into the black water. I did not dare fight the Khmer Rouge, for I knew that I would be killed if I did. I was a teacher, not a soldier. I didn’t sign up for this.
I could hear the pounding feet running by me as I breathed heavily among the reeds and muck of my watery hiding place. My head was just above the water, but despite my efforts to hide myself I still feared that the Khmer Rouge would see me. When the pounding of feet passed near me, I felt fear in the pit of my stomach. I was not a Christian man then, but if I were I would have offered God anything He wanted if He kept me alive that night.
As soon as the soldiers passed my hiding place, I began to hear gunfire. The Khmer Rouge were fighting with the soldiers near the school, but from where I was I could not see them. Slowly and carefully as to not make a sound, I crept on my belly like a snake from my hiding place through the mud to see what was going on. As soon as I reached the road, I saw that the Khmer Rouge had almost completely overrun the soldiers and police stationed at the barracks. The government soldiers were retreating, firing their guns sporadically as they went. These men constantly bullied the civilians in the town, but when it came down to actually fighting all of their bravado was stripped from them. When the shooting finally stopped, I walked slowly back to my house. I went up to the second floor, took off my wet and muddy clothes, and hid under my bed. However, the terror of the night was not yet over.
When the Khmer Rouge had taken all that they wanted from the barracks, they turned on the town. They looted everything that they could find, and I could hear them breaking down doors and smashing windows outside. One soldier came into my house, and stole my dishes. When his footsteps could be heard inside the house, I froze. The sound made it its way into my living room, and having not found anything of value in there the footsteps made their way into my kitchen. I could hear the clatter of my dishes as he dumped them into his crudely stitched sack and began to head for the door. In my misery and desperation, I decided to follow him to beg for my things back. Today, I do not know why I did this, as I could have stayed hidden where I was. I felt that it was the least I could do to protect what little I had.
I came downstairs with only a kromah wrapped around my waist, and followed the man as he left. A few steps out the front door, the soldier noticed that he was being followed. He turned around to face me with one hand holding his rifle, and the other carrying his stolen goods. The man looked like one who was deprived of even the simple comforts of life. His naked feet looked bruised and worn, and his dark and sun scorched face contrasted sharply with the red bandanna tied around his head. The green army clothes he wore were dirty and covered with mud around the ankles. He could have smelled awful as well, but I did not dare get close enough to him to tell if he did or not.
When the man looked at me with hardened eyes and a scowl, I put my hands together and pleaded with him to not take my dishes. I said that I was simple person without a lot of money. He dropped his sack and grinned, revealing a sinister smile of white broken teeth. He raised his rifle and asked me, “Why do you follow me?” and fired the gun several times. A spray of bullets struck the earth around my feet, and I thought for a moment that he would raise it and shoot me in the chest. However, he simply laughed and walked off to rejoin his comrades. I dropped to my knees in shock of what happened, and watched the Khmer Rouge wreak havoc in the town. Some of them simply robbed houses, but others did more damage. One smashed open a jewel case, and helped himself to as many watches as he liked. I retreated back to my hiding place soon after I was shot at, and the Khmer Rouge soon after retreated to theirs. The sun was coming up soon, and they knew that they were not safe in broad daylight from the government planes.
I did not go to school that day. I helped my friends and neighbors pick up the pieces of what had just happened. We knew that the Khmer Rouge would come again, but for the time being we could calm ourselves enough to avoid going mad with fright.
No one slept well the next night. No one who lived through what we did would have.
The Ubiquitous Subject of Rice
In the western world, bread is a staple food that is eaten by many at all hours of the day. The same could be said of rice for those living in the Orient, but the fact of the matter is that this stuff is so much more. For Cambodians, it literally is food. The word for rice in Khmer is bai, and it is used to mean both rice and any other type of food. When one Cambodian says to another “Neeyam bai,” the phrase literally translates as “Let us eat rice.” The phrase implies the words “Let’s eat our meal,” but the use of the word for rice in daily conversation certainly suggests its immense importance in Cambodian culture.
Rice is served with almost every single meal, with the exception of sometimes breakfast, and it is the central part of the repast. I can recount what I have eaten today on October 10th, 2008 of what this means. This morning I arrived at the breakfast stand in front of my house to eat a meal of bo boah. The lady who works there served me a bowl of watery rice porridge with some wild onions, garlic, and pieces of chicken that floated near the top of it. After adding a few drops of chili sauce for an extra punch of flavor, I swirled the mixture before eating it with a single spoon. At lunch, the family I lived with served me sñou tralop tah goo an with kong kaip and rice. The two former dishes were a stew of green beans and sprouts, and a plate of boiled frogs. Some who read this may balk at the notion of eating frogs, and I assure that it was no different for me the first time. I have learned, however, to follow the advice of what my former Khmer teacher told me about eating strange new food in Cambodia. He said to me once, “Adrian, don’t look. Just eat,” and I have never thought otherwise since then. Dinner that evening was a meal of rice and a curry stew with pork. Sometimes I have noodles at breakfast, but for the most part my diet consists of having rice at meals three times a day.
One would think that I would be tired of eating it by now, but my attitude is the exact opposite of this. By the end of my first two weeks here, I was sick of eating rice. Now, I am hooked on the white stuff. If I do not get my rice sometimes in the morning, I quickly become very cranky. My stomach and digestive system have adapted themselves very well to this diet, for which I am very proud of them, but I have noticed that they cannot handle western food as well as they used to. Several slices of pizza and glasses of beer is not a familiar site for them anymore, and sometimes this means trouble. This quick and troublesome change in diet is almost proof enough to demonstrate that rice is an all-important substance in Cambodian cuisine.
At the same time, it is so much more important that this. I have written here already about the ocean of green rice fields that surrounds the town of Anchor, but I have yet to touch on the people who work there. Riding my bicycle through this expanse, I can see men and women who have toiled their entire lives in the fields. The young men are usually shirtless, lean, muscled, and have the darkest of skin and hair of anyone in this country. They sometimes smile and shout “Hello!” as I ride by, and their smile reveals a gallery of white teeth. The young women usually have their heads wrapped in a long scarf and a straw hat, and have a haggard and sun worn face. They stare at me, and do not smile. The older people are almost indistinguishable from each other. Rail thin and white haired, they sometimes laugh crazily or stare in amazement at the spectacle before their eyes. Their entire life has been spent working hard in the fields to feed the people of Cambodia, and there is no telling what they remember from the days when the country was at war. It is they who I think of when my bowl is filled with rice everyday.
Rice is also a frequent topic of conversation. Whether it is used as an offering for the monks, one’s dead ancestors, or for everyday consumption, the supply of rice is talked about frequently. The grandfather of my host family, who works for an agricultural NGO in the area, has told me that there has not been enough rain this year for a good harvest in the dry season. With rising food prices in the world, this is not good news for Cambodia. ABC radio, which broadcasts from Australia, has reported that the consumption of dog meat has increased over the last couple of months. I have yet to see this myself, but I would not be surprised if some of the people out in the country were eating it as a source of protein.
I am curious to see how this will affect my diet. I have every confidence that I will be able to eat enough to sustain my health over the next two years, but there might be less of the food I eat for everyone around me.
Rice is served with almost every single meal, with the exception of sometimes breakfast, and it is the central part of the repast. I can recount what I have eaten today on October 10th, 2008 of what this means. This morning I arrived at the breakfast stand in front of my house to eat a meal of bo boah. The lady who works there served me a bowl of watery rice porridge with some wild onions, garlic, and pieces of chicken that floated near the top of it. After adding a few drops of chili sauce for an extra punch of flavor, I swirled the mixture before eating it with a single spoon. At lunch, the family I lived with served me sñou tralop tah goo an with kong kaip and rice. The two former dishes were a stew of green beans and sprouts, and a plate of boiled frogs. Some who read this may balk at the notion of eating frogs, and I assure that it was no different for me the first time. I have learned, however, to follow the advice of what my former Khmer teacher told me about eating strange new food in Cambodia. He said to me once, “Adrian, don’t look. Just eat,” and I have never thought otherwise since then. Dinner that evening was a meal of rice and a curry stew with pork. Sometimes I have noodles at breakfast, but for the most part my diet consists of having rice at meals three times a day.
One would think that I would be tired of eating it by now, but my attitude is the exact opposite of this. By the end of my first two weeks here, I was sick of eating rice. Now, I am hooked on the white stuff. If I do not get my rice sometimes in the morning, I quickly become very cranky. My stomach and digestive system have adapted themselves very well to this diet, for which I am very proud of them, but I have noticed that they cannot handle western food as well as they used to. Several slices of pizza and glasses of beer is not a familiar site for them anymore, and sometimes this means trouble. This quick and troublesome change in diet is almost proof enough to demonstrate that rice is an all-important substance in Cambodian cuisine.
At the same time, it is so much more important that this. I have written here already about the ocean of green rice fields that surrounds the town of Anchor, but I have yet to touch on the people who work there. Riding my bicycle through this expanse, I can see men and women who have toiled their entire lives in the fields. The young men are usually shirtless, lean, muscled, and have the darkest of skin and hair of anyone in this country. They sometimes smile and shout “Hello!” as I ride by, and their smile reveals a gallery of white teeth. The young women usually have their heads wrapped in a long scarf and a straw hat, and have a haggard and sun worn face. They stare at me, and do not smile. The older people are almost indistinguishable from each other. Rail thin and white haired, they sometimes laugh crazily or stare in amazement at the spectacle before their eyes. Their entire life has been spent working hard in the fields to feed the people of Cambodia, and there is no telling what they remember from the days when the country was at war. It is they who I think of when my bowl is filled with rice everyday.
Rice is also a frequent topic of conversation. Whether it is used as an offering for the monks, one’s dead ancestors, or for everyday consumption, the supply of rice is talked about frequently. The grandfather of my host family, who works for an agricultural NGO in the area, has told me that there has not been enough rain this year for a good harvest in the dry season. With rising food prices in the world, this is not good news for Cambodia. ABC radio, which broadcasts from Australia, has reported that the consumption of dog meat has increased over the last couple of months. I have yet to see this myself, but I would not be surprised if some of the people out in the country were eating it as a source of protein.
I am curious to see how this will affect my diet. I have every confidence that I will be able to eat enough to sustain my health over the next two years, but there might be less of the food I eat for everyone around me.
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