Last Wednesday I hung out in Club Friends at Mith Samlanh with the kids on break while I waited for Thoum to come with the cameras. Two older boys were practicing kickboxing, an astonishing show of sport as one held up a pad strapped to his arm and the other repeatedly kicked, punched, and aerial-kicked the pad. Aerial-kicking involves leaping into the air and striking the pad with one foot, then spinning all the way around and getting a good smack at the pad with the other foot, all still in the air.
One younger EC boy, Raksmey, had been shadowing their movements in the background and finally came up to ask for a go. The big boys agreed, and after Raksmey had taken his turn kicking he was set on holding up the pad for his idols to practice on. They tried to go easy, but in the end Raksmey’s skinny little body was too light and one kick shoved the pad hard into his face, knocking out two teeth and breaking one. The big boys clearly felt terrible and carried Raksmey over to his teacher, putting their hands on his head and ruffling his hair and wiping his bloody lips on their t-shirts. It was a perfect example of the atypical hierarchy of responsibility and care that develops in situations like that of street-living children, where parents are absent.
However, I was riveted by Raksmey’s reaction to his injury. I have learned to control my western instincts when one of the kids is hurt, not to rush over and expect to stem hysterical crying and pleas to go to the hospital. Instead, I have realized that kids here bear pain much like they have borne so much else in their lives—with a scowl and a few tears at first, but scraping together resilience and moving on soon after. Raksmey came and sat by me not ten minutes after his incident, an old piece of cloth stuffed under his top lip. He proudly took it out and showed me his new gaps and jagged line of a canine, then winced and quickly put the cloth back in, still with a smile.
I couldn’t help imagining how an American child his age would have reacted to having teeth knocked out and broken, even an American child with a rough life as well. The drama, the self-pity, the expectance of others’ pity and sympathy. As I pondered this my newest young protégé wandered up, the kid who used to make the archetypal begging-eyes at me when he wanted to use the camera, as if I were another tourist, and now bows nicely to ask for a camera case so he can pretend he’s filming, too. The skin under his left eye was completely split open in a line, black and pink flesh together. I pointed to it and mimed shock and an “ow!” face. He nodded but shrugged it off, grinning and bowing for the camera case around my neck so he could “document” the ongoing soccer game nearby.
Sovanna and I had a long talk after I came back from taping with Thoum. As we slouched in semi-intact desk chairs as if that could beat the heat, he quizzed me up, down, and around about the US and Cambodia. Why is it so hard to get a visa? What is a Supreme Court? Why don’t we like China? Does everyone like “Obamara the president” as much as me? Do Americans know Phnom Penh is even a place? How hard should Sovanna study for his TOEFL? Can Cambodians get scholarships to study in the US? After hearing for a good long while about the things he dreams about, like studying abroad, being freely given to his American peers if they are willing to work hard enough, he put his chin in his hand and said, “It’s not fair. You’re born in a rich place, you can work for anything. If you’re born in Cambodia…nothing. We’re all too poor.” Then he looked hard at me and added, “I could never be able to do what you’re doing.” It took a lot of willpower to look him in the eye after that.
I have gotten over needing a bit of willpower every time I head into a squat toilet. These are Asian contraptions that involve a porcelain hole in the ground with two outcroppings for the feet and a water source nearby with accompanying jug or bowl to perform “bucket flushing.” That means there is no handy, semi-sanitary button or lever at your convenience, but the responsibility of scooping and pouring however many times it takes. Toilet paper and soap for hand washing is generally an unheard-of luxury, as I promptly learned to keep a few napkins and a tiny bottle of Purell with me at all times.
I learned another local “skill” on Thursday at ANDC, as I hiked up the road earlier than usual and found a few girls in the old center sitting in the kitchen peeling vegetables for dinner. They had a big woven basket with a cloth in front of them, filled with tiny root-like unidentified legumes, all with funny protrusions and fur. The girls motioned me next to them and at first refused to let me help peel, but my entreaties and attempts to grab a knife while they weren’t looking eventually found approval. They showed me how to push the big knife down in quick jabs at the rough purple skin, almost like grating, and difficult because of the disproportion of knife to veggie. I held out my three I had managed to peel over fifteen minutes, looking over to see a small mountain in front of everyone else and the cloth ready to be emptied because of all the skin they had removed. The house nanny patted my cheek sympathetically and pointed me over to play with the younger girls back from school, an activity at which I could approach usefulness.
I realized while playing with the girls that they now come to me with issues. When they fall down and scrape their knees, they come put their arms around me for a hug. When they’re being teased, they want to be lifted up and carried for awhile. If they’re worried about studying, they tell me. It’s another of the small calls to action that I’ve begun to notice every day, a piece of them that they’re giving to me, and a piece of me that I leave with them, little things that are getting harder and harder to put in the back of my mind when the going gets rough and I wonder why I’m here. It makes me think, could I really now ever turn away from working for the opportunities that the big eyes looking to me for comfort deserve? That scares me and drives me, pushes me onwards to work harder but checks me as I wonder what I’ve done, getting to the point where I’ll never be able to forget.
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