Magic

Thursday July 12, 10:06 p.m., Phnom Penh, Cambodia

"I have felt so inept and useless at my hospice placement. I can't listen [language barrier], so I feel I can't share, that my being with them is not really being with.

But today was magical. I went Tuesday, at Sr. Regina's suggestion, to Boeung Tumpun to learn to make these silk flowers--as an idea for an activity for the five hospice ladies who are feeling pretty well. So I went to the hospice today. Yungsaw has gone home, and a new lady named Dany is here. I sat on Soreun's bed, and showed Chunty and her the sample flowers I made. I am continuously learning and practicing new Kemi, so I can understand and communicate superficial ideas pretty well. I asked if they wanted me to teach them. When I sat down with the materials, Phalla (who's blind from CMV retinopathy, who told Adel that being here is the first time in her life she's been happy) sat down next to me. She felt the flowers, said "sa-at" (beautiful) and motioned for me to teach her.

I guided her hands for the first part and handed her materials, but she caught on really quickly, working intently on her own as I watched. Soon, the caretakers, Saman and Hyup, came to join in, making little silk petals. Soreun and Chunty weren't feeling well, so they watched, laughing at Phalla's visible pleasure. We ended up with a community-effort bouquet, but it was mostly Phalla. she's so resourceful and sheepish at the same time. She still teases me about the way I pronounce "neak" (you), but she's getting more satisfied with my attempts. It was a beautiful afternoon with the bawng srays (ladies)."

Live...from one of the most hellish places on earth

Stung Meanchey: the Phnom Penh garbage dumps....where hundreds of families live to pick throught trash for recyclables. Imagine wading through your own waste for that one aluminum can you forgot to recycle, so you can turn it in for a few cents. Imagine doing it at age 6, barefoot, every day, instead of school, sick and hungry.

More Cambodia...

As it snows, and I again have an exam tomorrow and mountains of "important" things to do, I can't resist opening my Cambodia journal. More, by anonymous popular request.

Saturday July 14, 12:04 am

"I was at the netcafe lesson planning until 11:30 and still thinking and agonizing over plans for next week. It's so hard. Ed did Mass tonight. Gospel was on the Good Samaritan. Ed challenged us with the question the smart lawyer (as Ed was as an NYC DA) asked, "who is my neighbor?" All are our neighbors, as the children believe. Children raise the bar of compassion Ed spoke of. How far AM I willing to go in compassion? When I want nothing, no feel-good and no recognition, in return?

We went back to Stung Meanchey, the garbage dump, this morning. This time, the lady Kevin works with arranged to have 5 kg rice for each of the 70-95 families in that area. Everyone huddled as they started distributing rice. Meg & I brought candy, which we gave to the kids. A random ice cream cart went by (right next to a dump?) so for $5, we bought ice popsicles for dozens and dozens of kids.

They were all jumpy and clingy and wanted to play. I loved it. I basically wrestled with and gave piggy back rids to a brother and sister for an hour. Held a beautiful little girl with a rash around her face and sores on her arms. An older girl, maybe 11, wearing the dirtiest old McDonald's shirt, taught me hand slap games AND "If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands" in Khemi. Not kidding.

Some of them led me back through their shack homes.
I had so much fun playing with them.
But at the end, we saw the girl with the McDonald's shirt headed out to the dump to work in the filth.

She is my neighbor.

Meg and I had thought about giving the community water filters. Doy, a lay missioner, didn't recommend it--the people might sell them. We then turned to the idea of bednets and roofs. In Khemi, Kevin was talking about this with a group of St. Vincent de Paul society people. I stood nearby, hugging a little girl to my side. She said something to me I didn't understand. I asked Kevin to translate.

"Please one bednet and one roof."

Christ, this little girl asked me for a bednet and a roof.

I will make sure we do it. Roofs and bednets to the group, all the families in that cluster of hellish shacks. They are my neighbors. She's my neighbor. I am responsible for the inhumanness of her life.

I later found she lives outside that little area we were in, and I don't have a picture of her or anything. Please let me be able to find her.

Do I really have compassion for my neighbors, for her?"

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Now on to the less important things I'm supposed to do.

Here's what matters...

I just opened my journal, and out of 140 pages to choose from, randomly, this is what I read. Here is some meaning, I think. I can't forget, never will.

Friday August 3:
"...The best moment, perhaps of the summer, came from my personal exhaustion this morning. I was not on my game. My dear Phalla was feeling sick today, headache, and dozing on her bed. I got up from my seat by Malis and lay on Phalla's small bed. Immediately and without a single word, Phalla wrapped her arm across my stomach and pulled me close. She could feel my diaphragm and I could feel her fresh soft breath on my cheek--a centimeter from her mouth. We lay there, holding hands, cuddling, dozing, breathing together for half an hour. That time was love.

I said goodye to Svay Phalla as she took those life-giving medicines that keep making her stronger. Told her I didn't want to leave Kampuchea.

Srey Pao invited me in her room to her bed. I have barely spent time with her, but when I told her I was leaving, she burst into tears and embraced me with her stick arms. We kissed each other and exchanged 'I'll miss you.' 'I love you.'
I'm amazed that my brief presence meant something to her.

Phalla was lying by the TV when I said goodbye. I hugged her and told her I loved her. I was--and am--sad. I will miss my dear friend, my sister. But Phalla put on a good face, though I got the feeling she felt as I did. She said she loved me. But when I started to say 'thank you' (for her presence and companionship), as if to stop me from being too sentimental, she simply said 'sok sapbaay' (be happy). Kept her gaze (which goes beyond her eyes) on the ceiling as I walked away. That woman defines courage to me."

What matters

So it's been far too long since I've posted. The fall has been different: a rocky start from missing school, difficult classes, accomplishing less than I think I should, and perpetual fatigue. The endless self-criticism...I am not good enough, and I never will be.

"We had the experience, but missed the meaning." T.S. Eliot.

I don't want that to be me. For the meaning is far beyond what I can comprehend. And the only way to approach it is to get outside myself and into someone else.

It's snowing outside, dome shining against the grey-blue sky.
I understand some of the dome's tarnish.
Freedom should start here.
My friends are playing Christmas Carols across the hall.
The Khmer Rouge tribunals started last week with Duch's testimony.
I'm going to Haiti over Christmas break.
We're already deciding on next year's Cambodia students...so many would give so much to the experience.
I spent Thanksgiving with 84 family members, two of whom fought breast cancer.
Through various experiences this fall, I've seen disparities in the U.S. healthcare system.
I have a physiology test that I'm not prepared for on Tuesday, and three papers, and a presentation to high-schoolers.
I'm writing about humanitarian aid in Darfur, and health care justice in the U.S.....finally, things that matter.
On my 21st birthday, I might get to hear Dr. Jim Yong Kim speak about the implementation gap in health care delivery.
This blog wasn't/isn't intended to be biographical.
But I need to reflect on the meaning in everyday life.
I'm wasting time...or am I?
I understand the homeostatic compensations our bodies try to make to compensate for diahhrea. People are dying from diahhrea right now.

I miss Lem Phalla and Sothearith.
I wish Men Malis hadn't died.

Two Haitians and one Cambodian sent me emails to wish me a Happy Thanksgiving. The beginning of our colonialism...wouldn't Haiti have been better off without pilgrims?

What matters?
Where's the meaning?

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

This is a poem by Wendell Berry. A friend introduced me to it last week. Best read aloud, in groups, considering the truth of each phrase.

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.

So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion - put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

Dr. Tom Dooley

"I am only one, but I am one.
I cannot do everything, but I can do something.
What I can do, I ought to do,
and what I ought to do,
by the grace of God,
I will do."

Dr. Tom Dooley
Notre Dame alum, who built hospitals throughout Southeast Asia in the 1950s and 60s.