Cambodian education, part 2: 1980 through 1998

In part 1 of this post, I described what I've been learning about education before the Khmer Rouge regime knocked Cambodia back to Year Zero. From monks teaching the village kids a few prayers and a bit of math, to French officials trying to duplicate French elementary schools, to Prince Sihanouk exponentially increasing school buildings without funding them or establishing standards for them or training more teachers, Cambodian education was already pretty messy before the genocide and Mao-style cultural revolution. But how have things progressed in the 35 years since the horrors of the Khmer Rouge? The title of David Ayres' book, Anatomy of a Crisis, warns us there haven't been any miracles.

When the Vietnamese defeated the Khmer Rouge regime in 1979, they also assumed temporary control of Cambodia. They saw education as a key method of legitimizing their socialist regime in Cambodians' eyes, and so they hurried to expand school enrollment, even while many children in war-ravaged communities still lacked basics like clothing, food and shelter. One school even had children attending naked. The Vietnamese administration had lofty goals of promoting socialism, Khmer-language instruction, ruralization, and adult literacy. But the curriculum continued to be largely classical, based on the original French schools. The Cambodian education officials, most of whom had served pre-Khmer Rouge under Lon Nol, didn't know how to implement most of the new goals, and simply ignored them. Likewise, schools were overwhelmed by enrollment numbers and a lack of resources. In 1981, the nation's former top high school didn't even have textbooks or instructional materials, let alone a well-trained teaching staff. Adult literacy classes were largely unfruitful for similar reasons; one report describes an evening class crammed into a musty building by candlelight.

The Vietnamese were somewhat successful in one regard: promoting socialism. Students learned to cram their essays with praises of Marx and Lenin and allusions to solidarity between Vietnam and Cambodia. However, many who reached secondary school couldn't care less about socialism. They increasingly viewed education as irrelevant and filled with propaganda. Despite the new emphasis on studying Vietnamese, Russian, and German, they still sought opportunities to study "capitalist" languages like English and French. In 1989, Cambodia officially abandoned socialism, changing its regime name, flag, and economic policies. Yet schools continued to advocate for Marxism and Leninism, reflecting the inertia in educational policy and the government's negligence of curriculum.

From 1991 to 1993, the United Nations assumed control of Cambodia in an unprecedented effort to restore peace and rebuild the nation. (Pockets of Khmer Rouge resistance troops maintained control over some areas of Cambodia, and power struggles between other leaders likewise placed Cambodia in jeopardy.) The UN helped create a fragile coalition between two major parties, implement a constitution mandating the separation of powers, and educate Cambodians about elections and the democratic process. However, it had little influence on the Ministry of Education, and the same issues continued regarding the lack of funding, resources, and quality. Impatient for an educational overhaul, many NGO's worked with local schools and districts to create curriculum and improve quality in the early and mid-1990s. However, in Ayres' view, their short-term progress in various directions actually complicated long-term development of a unified national education policy.

Meanwhile, after the UN bowed out in 1993, it became apparent that their reforms had been rather superficial. While influencing the constitution's mandates and the citizens' expectations of their leaders, the UN had not changed the culture among national leaders. Hun Sen and Prince Ranariddh were joint prime ministers under the coalition, but their unity was in name only. In practice, their power struggle led to parallel, competing party states in every realm of government as they tried to establish client networks and exert power in each ministry. Their view of power dates back to legends of Cambodian greatness in the era of Angkor Wat; every Khmer leader in the past 100+ years has alluded to that grandeur and aspired to it. Hun Sen's coup in 1997 forced Prince Ranariddh to flee the country and destroyed any illusions of cooperation and compromise - values that are absent from Cambodian culture.

Without acknowledging the rule of law, Cambodia's government could not implement the UN's goals for national development. Separation of powers existed in name only.  Regardless of the beautiful plans designed by education ministers, the World Bank, and international donors, schools remained at the mercy of the capricious Big Cheese. "There is ample evidence demonstrating that the goals, objectives, and policies of the Ministry of Education were often abandoned in the name of the immediate political priorities of those with higher authority than the policy-makers. The result was an obvious failure to improve the quality and relevance of education. A final theme was the government's lack of commitment to its agreements with the international donor community." (152) It's not as if these authorities pretended to know anything about education. Hun Sen, prime minister since 1985, never even completed elementary school. The point was, the top leaders had the final say, and they exercised his authority however he pleased.

Ayres' book is filled with cringe-worthy examples of leaders' thoughtless promises.  In one common example, a leader would visit a village just before an election.  "We're going to build you a school!" he'd enthusiastically proclaim.  The leader would order a businessman to finance a new school building in exchange for special privileges like lucrative farmland near the village or permission to illegally log Cambodian forests.  No money would be provided for educational resources or teacher salaries; perhaps someone from the village would be crazy enough to accept the tiny salary, whether or not that someone had completed much schooling themselves.  Or perhaps the building would soon fall into a state of disrepair, since no money was provided for maintenance.  Either way, the village children had a small chance of receiving slightly more education than before.

In another example, Cambodia had traditionally guaranteed civil service posts to university graduates. This policy reflected two truths in pre-Khmer Rouge Cambodia:
1. French colonists created Cambodia's first secondary schools in the mid-20th century specifically to meet their need for civil service assistants.
2. Not many Cambodians made it through elementary school, let alone university.

However, by the early 1990s, enrollment increases had made this policy an enormous drain on the budget. To decrease the bloated payroll, the government ordered in 1994 that graduates would no longer be guaranteed government posts. The need for new teachers could be easily met for a few years by transferring the civil servants who were qualified teachers but were currently working in superfluous administrative roles. Makes sense, right? Well, students didn't agree. At graduation the following spring, the student speaker pleaded that the government renew its policy of job guarantees. The two prime ministers instantly agreed in order to look like the nice guys, promising to send all the graduates to the School of Pedagogy for a year to train them as secondary teachers. Despite the Minister of Education's failed attempts to compromise (Cambodians don't do that, remember?), all 1460 graduates were sent off to this school that lacked the space, faculty, or resources to train them for jobs that did not exist. The job guarantee was renewed again the next year.

Essentially, Cambodian education has reflected leaders' complete apathy toward the needs of their people. The government used to spend only 8% of its budget on education, and committed in 1994 to increase it to 15% (a very necessary and reasonable amount) by 2000. But it never exceeded 12%, and by 1997 it had fallen back to 8%. Moreover, much of that sum never reached schools; it fattened the pockets of the few most powerful people in the ministry. Teacher salaries were often late and reduced. As a result, corruption was endemic. Teachers wasted students' time during the school day and charged fees for "extracurricular" classes where they taught the content that would appear on the exams. Students could bribe exam administrators and proctors to turn a blind eye to cheating, or even to sell them the answer sheets. Most teachers held another job because they couldn't possibly support a family on their meager wages; many sometimes missed school for their other job. Guess who suffered most? The students, who learned little except how to cheat to get ahead.

To be continued in Part 3...

Prayers I never used to pray

There's this myth that missionaries are super-Christians, the cream of the spiritual crop.  They pray all the time.  Their faith never falters, their patience never runs out, their joy never dims.  They love and give and serve like there's no tomorrow.   They haven't sinned since that time they pinched their little brother, back in first grade.

Ordinary people never become missionaries, right?  Wrong.  Super-Christians don't even exist.  Instead, it's a simple equation:

ordinary person + extraordinary situation = "fight or flight" 

When you hit trouble, either you fight to grow closer to God, or you book the next flight home.

As a Christian of the decidedly non-super variety, I was quickly bowled over by the diverse challenges of life here, some of which didn't sound like a big deal but threatened to drive me insane.  A stapler with no staples that fit.  Cheap pens that didn't write well.  Ants.  

I had to work on "praying without ceasing" (1 Thessalonians 5:16), even about this little stuff, to make it through the day.  (Eventually I got practical help with some things - I now have a functioning stapler and know which brands of pens to look for - but some sources of frustration are ever-present.)  On the other hand, I've also learned to value things that I'd previously underestimated. 

Here are other prayers that I don't remember praying before Cambodia, but that I repeat quite frequently nowadays:

1. Guide my key.  The padlock to our front gate is rusty (this happens every rainy season) to the extent that my key got bent trying to wrestle the padlock open.  My housemate taught me this prayer, à la Princess Bride, when Inigo Montoya prays to his father to "guide my sword."  

2. Thank You for bananas.  I don't think it's an accident that bananas are plentiful and cheap in the same tropical climates where bacteria and stomach critters flourish.  They and the rest of the BRAT diet - rice and toast (maybe not the applesauce) are so readily available here.  Often on days with stomach trouble, I've arrived in the cafeteria for school lunch, wondering what it is and whether I can eat it just now, and found to my relief that bananas and rice were featured prominently.

3. Heal my laptop.   I promise I never used to pray so much for inanimate objects.  However, the inconsistent power supply does a number on batteries - I'm on my fifth new one in 5.5 years.  Besides, my laptop is extra-creative in breaking with flair - it's constantly finding new ways to confound my school's awesome IT staff.  And sure, there are computer repair shops here, but who has time for that when you use your computer daily in lessons?  Especially when the last (well-respected) shop broke your DVD drive in a fruitless attempt to fix your keyboard, and the one before that (also highly recommended) left porn on your desktop.  So when the blue screen appears, or when programs crash, or when the webcam only stays fixed for 5 minutes, or when the "x" key keeps inserting itself into everything I'm typing, I've taken to praying that God will put His healing hands on my laptop.  And when issues resolve themselves, as they sometimes do, I definitely give Him the credit!

4. Thank You for rooftops.  In America, I thought of a rooftop as something that collected leaves in the fall and snow in the winter, and as Santa's landing pad.  Here, where many homes have a flat rooftop that people can walk on, I think of it as a place for stargazing, praying, and reflecting.  It has the best breezes, the best views of the sunset, the best people-watching opportunities, and the best peace and quiet. 

5. Shut the dogs’ mouths.  This prayer has two contexts.  The first relates to my landlords' dogs, which like to bark incessantly between about 9 PM and the wee hours.  Thankfully my room is mostly out of earshot, so I can sleep through it, but that's not the case for several of my housemates.  I've often prayed for the dogs to be silenced so people can get a good night's sleep.  The other context is when I'm out jogging in my neighborhood, where people's dogs roam free and sometimes chase people.  I've never needed a rabies shot, and I'd like to keep it that way.  

Don't you give me that innocent face, Khla.  You know you and Liep were howling at 3 AM as if your cage were on fire.

6. Help me slay this beast.  I get unduly excited about my improving ability to squash mosquitoes when they least expect it.  When they elude my grasp, though, I need this prayer... just as I do to take on the cockroaches lurking at the back of my sink, and the shrews that occasionally infiltrate our kitchen and living room.  I prayed it quite often as my friend and I battled against a rat in my bedroom late one evening, chasing it around and whacking at it with a broom.  Eventually, with help from my housemate's incredible Rodent Zapper machine, God granted us victory.  

At that moment, we couldn't have imagined a more beautiful sight.

7. Thank You for cold showers.  I used to think people were silly if they showered more than once a day.  Now I realize the beautiful power of showers, not only to wash the dust and mud from the roads, nor just to eliminate odors and wash away that Permasweat sheen, but also to restore sanity and a comfortable body temperature.  And the bonus of not having a water heater is that you don't waste time waiting for the water to heat up... which would, after all, defeat the purpose of cooling you down.

8. Strengthen my wifi. This one often coincides with a Skype call to my sister or a YouTube video I'm trying to show in a lesson.  (If I were more organized I'd download them in advance, but I'm usually not.)  But hey, at least I *have* wifi! At school it's gotten much faster over the years, and at home, where my laptop despises our wireless router (see prayer #3), an Ethernet cable has done wonders for my sanity.

9. Protect my engine.  This prayer occurs when I'm driving through floodwaters.  Several streets in my neighborhood flood regularly during rainy season, and the dark stormwaters make it impossible to spot potholes.  (My housemate prays "Guide my moto" on this one, echoing #1.)  The trick I found out the hard way: you're probably OK as long as you can keep accelerating, but the minute you stop applying gas, water will flood your engine unless you turn it off and start walking your moto.  The other trick: Bikes never need special caution in floodwaters, except to miss potholes.  If I know I need to drive on a flooded street, I often prefer to ride a bike.

Learning the hard way... we walked our moto about a mile that day.  But I still drive that moto today!

10. Thank You for mangoes.  I pray this multiple times a day in April, when "mango season" is a euphemism for "hot season."  I think if these seasons didn't coincide, Cambodia would have lost about half its foreigners by now.  The thing I never knew about mangoes, before coming here, is how diverse they are.  You can eat sour green ones with dried chilis and salt.  You can pickle them and eat them with a main dish.  You can make mango crisp.  You can eat them frozen like popsicles, out of a bag on road trips, dried like a Fruit Roll-Up, or with sticky rice.  You can get "fragrant" ones, tiny ones, ginormous ones, and yellow-orange ones practically falling apart with sweet ripeness.  And for months, most of them cost less than 50 cents a pound... plus half your friends are giving them away from their own mango trees.  It's fantastic.

Even lizards appreciate a good sticky rice and mango combo.

My landlords' niece/helper Srey Pos loves giving me mangoes, fresh picked from trees in our yard (and our neighbors' yards)

It's always the little things, right?  It's the little things that get to you, but it's also the little things that make it all worth it.  Giving the little things to God - both the irritations and the pleasures - helps me invite Him into my day so we can tackle the bigger things as a team.  I'm no super-Christian, but praying more about even the small details has brought me a steady lifeline of supernatural aid, whether in the form of tropical fruit, a Rodent Zapper, or a peaceful heart that can withstand more than I'd ever imagined.

Cambodian education, part 1: beginnings through 1979

I’ve been reading up this semester on Cambodian education, trying to get a handle on what it’s like and how it got this way.  Often the genocidal Khmer Rouge regime of the 1970's is blamed for the downfall and current disrepair of all kinds of Cambodian institutions.  My conclusion so far: the Khmer Rouge were terrible, all right.  But education in Cambodia has been a mess for ages, and a remarkably stagnant mess at that.  

*I'll try to summarize what's stood out to me - I can't promise it's 100% accurate.*

The first book I read on the subject, David Ayres' Anatomy of a Crisis, details the history of education in Cambodia.  You know the system is in less-than-stellar shape when “crisis” in the title refers not to gender inequality, or to the dropout rate, or to corruption, or to graduates’ academic abilities, but to EVERYTHING.  In fact, Ayres doesn't even bother to argue that Cambodian education is in crisis, but focuses on arguing why.  In a nutshell, the answer is that Cambodia's leaders have never once had their citizens' best interests at heart.  Their capricious, ill-thought-through policies have reflected their true goals: to make themselves look good, to protect their status, and to divert the budget for themselves and their cronies.

Ayres begins with education prior to French colonization.  Cambodian kings never saw fit to educate their citizens.  For hundreds of years, Buddhist pagodas hosted the only education available: informal oral instruction in proverbs, folk tales, and didactic poems for young boys in training to become monks.  A lot of the activities weren't focused on learning, and monks could come and go whenever they wanted, making the schools inefficient.  Many boys spent a couple years learning from the monks, and then most were encouraged to return to the rice fields, while remained monks for years to come.  A few monks learned to read older languages like Pali in order to read Buddhist texts.  The pagodas encouraged children to accept their lot in life and not to question their status or their way of living; this fatalism is consistent with a Buddhist worldview.  For centuries during and after the Khmer Empire period, which began in 802 AD, there were almost no changes in rural Cambodian customs, work habits, or society.

A pagoda in Siem Reap - I spent a week near here on a Logos high school service trip

In 1863 Cambodia became a French protectorate (similar to a colony), but the French did little with its education.  They established a few schools to train administrative personnel, mostly from among the Cambodian elite and those of Chinese or Vietnamese heritage.  The schools were conducted in French after primary school, and their content was similar to curricula in France: very academic, and unrelated to Cambodia.  The French were not impressed by the monks' temple schools, and often reformed them - using the temple facilities with different teachers and their new curriculum for students.  By 1938 almost 60,000 students (mostly boys) were enrolled in primary school, but few stayed longer than three years, and fewer than 300 had completed primary school.  The first secondary school was accredited in 1935.  Ayres argues that while the French had little effect on the life of the average Cambodian peasant, their overtaking the temple schools served to undermine the traditional form of education without offering a solid alternative to replace it.  When they pulled out, the monks' schooling never regained its former ubiquity.

French leaders with King Norodom Sihanouk, whom they enthroned in 1941 and who remained influential until his death in 2012

After Cambodia attained independence in 1953, "Cambodianization" was supposed to happen as Cambodian leaders assumed control of the educational system.  However, no one ever implemented a thoughtful policy addressing Cambodia's needs and resources.  Ayres writes, "Particularly culpable was Norodom Sihanouk, who had slavishly pursued the expansion of educational provision to promote and ensure his uncontested legitimacy" (32).  Sihanouk, a shrewd politician who bounced between prince, king, and Socialist to maximize his political gains, saw education as a ticket to national popularity and international recognition.  

The problem is that Sihanouk tried to "modernize" education while protecting the traditional hierarchy (and thus his power) and he implemented policies haphazardly.  Schools were built too quickly, without bothering to train teachers or fund resources, and their quality rapidly declined.  He ignored his ministers' five-year plan to slow expansion and improve quality, instead deciding to allow many new universities to open without establishing standards to which they must adhere.  He never reformed the French curriculum, based on the assumption that students would attend secondary school and beyond.  While enrollment skyrocketed, most students still dropped out after a few years, having learned no vocational skills and little that was relevant to daily life.  Schools certainly didn't prepare students for the Cambodian economy, where subsistence rice farming remained the main industry and where innovation was badly needed.  Students who completed secondary school still had the old goal in mind: to become civil servants with a lifetime of high status, powerful connections, and lucrative bribes.  Trying to curry favors, for years Sihanouk guaranteed government positions to all university graduates in certain majors...even when the supply of graduates far outpaced the demand.   

His successor, Lon Nol, pooh-poohed Sihanouk's policies without substantially changing them.  During Lon Nol's regime, insurgents were gaining control of more and more regions in Cambodia, and schools were often interrupted by military conflicts and bombings.  Many teachers, influenced by the Communist ideas popular in France at the time, invited students to secret meetings and urged students to rally and protest both Sihanouk and Lon Nol.  A few teachers went on to become leaders of the Khmer Rouge from '75 to '79.  Seeking an agrarian revolution, Khmer Rouge leaders targeted the educated (themselves excluded, of course) among others doomed to violent deaths.  Their "schooling" involved separating children from their families to indoctrinate them with propaganda and occupy them in grueling farm labor.  By 1979, Cambodian education's tentative and uneven progress had indeed regressed to Year Zero.

To be continued in Part 2 and Part 3...

Gecko-flavored coffee

ching chok house gecko

tokay gecko

Cambodia has many a gecko lizard.  They range from about two to four inches long (unless they're the scary huge tokay geckos that bite), and they're generally quite harmless.  They tend to scurry on the walls and floors of buildings, helping us out by eating mosquitoes and mostly staying out of people's way.  But about a month ago, my friend and colleague Neil was drinking coffee and found a dead one at the bottom of his coffee mug!  This of course led to all kinds of questions: Did it crawl into the mug or into the coffee pot?  How long had it been dead?  What does gecko-flavored coffee taste like?  Apparently not very different, because Neil managed to drink the whole cup before discovering the poor little guy!

The next day, I had a more serious question.  Neil became very sick and was in the hospital with confusing symptoms.  Could it be gecko poisoning?  

It turns out that the gecko was innocent in the matter - Neil's condition was unrelated.  But it *was* serious, and Neil's been at a hospital in Bangkok ever since, along with his girlfriend, my housemate Michaela.  Though he's recovering well, it will take time.

Last week, a bunch of Logos people went to the same hospital with various other health concerns, and we sent a care package with some of them.  My housemate Meagan had the brilliant idea to cut out gecko silhouettes that Logos staff could write notes on, and she even sent along a teapot to put them in.  

Continuing the gecko theme, our other housemate Annalisa wrote a limerick about Neil's gecko experience:

There once was a gecko who thought,

"That coffee looks so nice and hot!"

So he climbed inside,

And we laughed 'til we cried.

That gecko did not die for naught.

I was inspired to write my own.  Though I never came up with one as witty as hers, here's my first one.  It builds on Neil and Michaela's Scottish nationality and their love of ceilidh dancing (similar to US square dancing).

A gecko once traveled to Thailand,

Finding Neil and Michaela inside-land.

Celtic music was played

In their room every day:

Preparation for ceilidhs in the Highlands.

My next attempt references a podcast by comedian David Sedaris that I recently listened to with them both.  He describes crazy American state laws involving hunting: namely: in Texas and Michigan, blind people are eligible for a hunting license, and in Michigan they don't even have to be accompanied by a sighted person.  "If they shoot something, how will they FIND it?" he asks.

A scarred gecko who fled up to Michigan

Often feared being hunted or fished again.

Till a deer kindly said,

“You’ll not likely be dead –

Mainly blind people hunt here in Michigan.”

The hardest part

"God doesn't promise us better life circumstances.  
He promises us a better life."

-Tim Keller, "A Christian's Happiness"

Reflecting on the past five years in Cambodia, I realize how much better things have been than I might have expected. I am so aware of people's prayers for me, and I know that I have been very well protected here in the face of many risks.

• I have been bitten by thousands of mosquitoes, including probably hundreds that had striped legs (the type that carries dengue), and I have never contracted malaria or dengue fever.
• Twice on the road, guys on a moto have tried to snatch my purse, and neither attempt was successful.
• I have approached burnout many times over the years, and yet today my life has perhaps more balance than any other year in Cambodia. I teach far fewer hours per week than I did my first few years.
• After thousands of bike and moto trips through Phnom Penh's crazy traffic, including some near-death experiences, the worst injury I have ever sustained is a broken thumb.
• While many (or most?) non-religious foreigners here turn to cynicism and heavy drinking to deal with their sense of helplessness against corruption and injustice, my faith has given me hope for Cambodia to change.
• Although I arrived with no experience or training in teaching English, and although I've had few mentors here among the English staff, I've been able to learn quite a bit, gain confidence, and very much enjoy teaching it.
• Despite high turnover, I have enjoyed strong community and have always had friends who support, encourage, and listen to me.  Several of them have been here since I arrived.

I need to remember these facts and recognize their significance. They are great reasons to be incredibly grateful.

Yet, in a way, I've been through much more than these facts would suggest. I'm part of a small, tight-knit community whose members are all far from our home networks of support. When one person suffers, we all suffer. That's particularly true at Logos, but it's even true beyond that, to people I've only casually met or never even knew. By far the heaviest burdens I've carried here are those of other people's struggles. Sometimes it's been in the form of fear that it will happen to me; sometimes it's been simply compassion and concern for them; always their burdens have weighted my heart.

Though I only broke my thumb on a moto, I feel the burden of my friend whose foot was run over by a car, leading to months of terrible flashbacks. I feel for my students whose best friend Yo Han died on a moto, and for the young Logos family who left Cambodia because they couldn't handle the painful memories of their three-year-old daughter who died in a moto crash. I have mourned alongside them, prayed for them, and struggled with fear because of them.

Though I've never had dengue, I remember the two weeks that my housemate missed school, lying in agony and delirium, and the months of exhaustion that followed for her. I watch her continue to feel its effects on her brain even three years later. I try not to panic whenever I squash a blood-engorged mosquito on my skin and see its striped legs.

Though I can honestly say I'm doing fine emotionally, I can't forget the downward spiral and eventual departure of friends who have crashed and burned, some of whom arrived later to Cambodia than I did. In some cases, I had no idea just how bad things were until they left. In other cases, I've known of people who know they need to get out but can't. Cambodia has been home to many a shipwreck of people's marriages, families, integrity, and sanity.  

Though I've never felt isolated here, I listen to my students who have been through so many transitions.  Some have attended school in three languages on two or three continents.  Several have at times felt alone and misunderstood to the point of suicidal tendencies.  Some of them find it hard to trust people, hard to reach out, hard to believe that new friends won't soon abandon them like everyone else they've cared about.

I mourned with my colleague who fractured her hip when purse-snatching thieves knocked her off her moto, just months after her husband passed away suddenly. I visited her during her six bed-ridden weeks and struggled for words to say to her. I was here with her foster daughters after she moved back to the US to recover and they had to say goodbye to Mom, shortly after saying goodbye to Dad, for their third set of “parents” and umpteenth set of guardians.

I've watched a friend process the trauma of being dragged behind a moto when thieves couldn't quickly sever her purse's strap. Now I drive next to her to her house every week after church, and then continue on to my house on the same streets where the purse-snatchers targeted her and me. I pray for protection for us both.

I wrestle with the needless, heartbreaking deaths of Cambodians. One man told me how his son (probably chronically hungry) ate food left outside meant to poison stray dogs. Since his family didn't have cash, the hospital refused to admit him, so he died. A student's older sister was electrocuted and died when she opened her metal front door during a flood and a severed live wire was touching the floodwaters. Street kids often go missing and nobody ever finds them or pursues justice for them. Just because I never met any of them doesn't mean I can forget their stories.

Compared to any of them, my life is so peaceful and safe. Yet because of their suffering, I too have suffered – to a lesser extent than they, but still more than I ever did in the US. Being up close and personal with others' problems has been probably the hardest aspect of my life here. In America people often sweep their problems under a rug, but in Cambodia the rugs seem smaller and fewer. People's problems have a way of spilling out to those around them.

These burdens make me tired, but they also make me grow. I'm thankful for my community's honesty about difficulties. Being confronted with problems far too big for me has made me rely on God. Trying to be supportive and encouraging to these friends has left me with no words but the Word of God. Feeling discouraged and heavy-laden has led me back to the One whose yoke is easy.  Interceding on their behalf is a privilege, and so is witnessing the healing and joy He's given so many of them.

Today is one of those times, yet again. Turning to God is not natural for me. I feel heavy-laden by the struggles I have heard about recently, and by my own, much smaller struggles. I don't want to need more faith; haven't I increased my faith enough already? When will I even find time to pray through this daunting list of needs?  

But God knows I need Him. He's urging me to come back once again and find new strength to believe that He is good and that His promises endure. Though I'm tired and grumpy, I'm deciding right now to leave these difficulties in His hands.  I know that for my hurting friends, and for all who choose to come around them, tough life circumstances are essential to God's process of improving our lives by drawing us near to Himself.

Lies mothers tell

My beloved Khmer language school, LEC, is now offering Saturday morning tutoring in addition to Mondays through Fridays.  I’ve studied there for three months during summer breaks, but this is my first time studying there weekly during the school year.  I asked my new tutor, Neakru Roth, to help me with reading and speaking related to Bible stories and Khmer culture.  Recently my reading lesson was titled:

Lies mothers often tell their children

I wasn’t sure what direction this was going.  What lies do American moms often tell their kids?  But here’s the list:

1. When there’s not enough food, the mom always tells her kids that she’s not hungry.
2. When there’s really delicious food, the mom always tells her kids that she doesn’t like it.
3. When the household is short on money, the mom always tells her kids that she doesn’t like new clothes.
4. When the work lasts from dawn until midnight, the mom always tells her kids that she’s not sleepy.
5. When the work is exhausting, the mom always tells her kids that she’s not worn out.
6. When the family goes out and can’t buy enough drinks, the mom always tells her kids that she’s not thirsty.
7. When she has a chronic illness, the mom always tells her kids that she’s fine.

The repetition of words made it pretty easy to read, but that didn’t mean it was easy to think about.  My tutor told me, “This is Khmer culture.  Is American culture the same?  Do you agree with this?”  We started discussing and debating, and I struggled to form my thoughts, let alone my Khmer sentences. 

Two things were clear to me.  Firstly, the circumstances that give way to these lies are ubiquitous across Cambodia.  When the majority of employed adults are subsistence rice farmers, and their only safety net is the generosity of their (also poor) relatives, financial crises are basically inevitable.  It’s heavy realizing how many people I see daily on my way to school, let alone all who live in the poorer countryside, face these and other struggles regularly. 

Secondly, these lies aren’t motivated by malice but by love.  My tutor said she knows her mom used to lie about not being hungry or sleepy or sick, wanting to protect her children from worries.  The US and many Western cultures value truth and honesty, but Cambodia and many Asian cultures value harmony more.  In their view, if a lie can preserve other people’s happiness and relationships with you, not only are you allowed to say it, but you probably SHOULD say it.  A corollary is that the audience may suspect the unpleasant truth, but by lying – even if the lie is unconvincing - you’re not forcing them to confront it. 

I’ve seen my students – specifically Koreans – get hurt when their parents lie to them about big things.  Lies like “Grandma’s still in the hospital” (when actually she passed away last Saturday) and “We’re going to visit Dad in Cambodia for a week” (but you’re moving in with him for two years) only damaged my students’ trust and increased their pain when the truth came out.  One of my students even wondered for months if her mom was dying of cancer back in Korea, because her mom clearly had health problems but wouldn’t tell her about them.  So my first knee-jerk reaction to the article was, “You should ALWAYS tell the truth!”  But I soon realized that even in my oh-so-forthright American culture, it’s more complicated than that.  Don’t you sometimes have to shield kids from certain knowledge, even if not through a downright lie? 

Questions flooded into my mind faster than I could spit out the words.  How old are these children?  How serious is the illness?  How much pressure do Khmer moms feel to lie even when they desperately need to admit the burdens they’re carrying?  Are they allowed to be honest with some other adult?   And what about the dads…why are they absent from this whole discussion? 

Neakru Roth said as she got older, her mom told her about more struggles, and no longer hides things from her now that Neakru Roth is a college student.  She also said that most dads don’t talk much with their kids, so they have no need to lie.  In her family, her parents both fought hard to provide for their eight children.  However, like the men in several of my other Khmer friends’ families, her dad had a drinking problem.  I wonder how many times her mom went hungry or didn’t buy new clothes because he was overspending on alcohol.  A former tutor told me she's frequently guilt tripped into giving her sister money that's too often wasted on her brother-in-law's gambling addiction instead of essentials like rent and groceries.

If I were to add an eighth lie, it would be, “When the dad beats up the mom, she always tells her kids that she fell down the stairs.”  In my mind, it’s touching if the mom is lying to protect her kids from an impersonal force like a failed rice crop, but galling if she’s lying to enable her husband’s addictions or misconduct.  It’s my impression that Khmer women are expected to do both as needed.   I’m sure some women leave abusive spouses, but it seems to be a small minority, whether due to shame, family pressure, or financial need.  Men have impunity to act in many heartless and selfish ways that women could never get away with.  I do know some Khmer men who are great husbands and fathers, but overall they have a terrible reputation because they are held to such low standards.  I have Khmer friends who say they would be afraid to marry a Khmer man.

My tutor asked me if US culture matched this list, but all I knew for sure is that many US moms never face circumstances as drastic as those that inspire Khmer moms to lie.  I’m sure more do than I suspect, and I know that even well-off, healthy parents (like my own) sacrifice more than I realize for their children.  Still, this lesson left me aching for Khmer women.  I want to pray more for them and be more aware of the load they often carry.  May they know the One who is able to make their yoke easy and their burden light!

"Did you miss me?"

That's the question Cambodia kept asking me on my first day back.  Having arrived late the previous night after two months in the US, I woke up early on Sunday, July 27, ready to run errands before starting teacher orientation started Monday.  The errands were successful, but I kept having to laugh along the way at just how blatantly...well, Cambodian my day was.  It wasn't a bad day, just full of Cambodia's idiosyncrasies.

Here's the rundown:

6-7 AM: Sunlight is pouring through my windows.  I feel worn out but wide awake.  Thank you, jet lag.

7 AM: I get up just before power drilling starts at the next door neighbor's.  Good timing!  My roommate Annalisa is already downstairs, and fills me in on some of the drama I've been missing: namely, big bags of rice and laundry soap disappeared, and our house helper Khouch was worried she'd be blamed or even fired.  We suspect it was the landlord's distant relatives who came to help with some repairs at our house while we were gone this summer.  That's one of several recent frustrations with the landlords, another being that these relatives kept turning off our water unannounced, interrupting showers and laundry, because one of our pipes was leaking on the bed that they'd set up on the landlords' driveway.  By now, it's all over: the relatives have left, the pipe has been fixed, and Khouch's calmed down about the missing supplies.

7:30 AM: I walk my bike to get its tires filled.  I can't find the friendly couple who always sit on the corner near me with their air pump, so it's about a ten-minute walk to the nearest shop with a pump. I continue on to several nearby errands, including buying new bike lights since mine were stolen from the school parking lot in May.  When I pay with a $20, the cashier asks me if I mind receiving change back in riel instead of dollars.  I've never understood that question, especially since I speak Khmer and I'm clearly not a tourist about to leave the country.  Of course I don't mind: we're in Cambodia!  I find it convenient that US dollars are as ubiquitous as Cambodian riel, especially since their largest denomination is worth only $5, but most people mix and match without thinking anything of it.  (Riel are artificially linked to USD, 4000 riel to $1.  A wallet full of hundreds means you're basically broke.)  Plus, you can't use US coins here (or any coins), so Cambodian riel are the only option for amounts under $1.  

A similar moto repair shop.
http://blog.rideforcambodia.com/

8:30 AM: Back at home, I try to start my moto, but unsurprisingly after two months of disuse it only coughs and sputters.  The next step would be to kick-start it, but I'm not quite strong/coordinated enough to pull it up onto the main stand.  Usually that's when I throw a helpless glance toward our friendly neighborhood motodup drivers, but this time Annalisa offers her assistance.  Together, we easily slide my moto into position.  It then starts great on its own without any kick-starting...go figure.

8:45 AM: My newly functional moto and I arrive at the market, where I make the rounds of vendors I always buy from: the fruit lady, the vegetable girl, the egg lady, and even the snack lady, whose cart happens to be parked right outside the market today.  I can't resist buying from her...for 1000 riel (25 cents), she sells kind of a breakfast burrito, with sugar, beans, coconut, and three types of sticky rice wrapped inside a tortilla.  Burrito in hand, I pick out a couple of dragonfruit.

I always have to guess...will my dragonfruit be pink inside or white?  I prefer white.

http://www.123rf.com/photo_14629719_dragon-fruit.html

9 AM: While the fruit stand and the "burrito"cart are along the front of the market, most stalls are inside.  To get to the main entrance, I have to weave between the motos parked on the street and the stands that reach to the end of the sidewalk, and the space between them is pretty narrow.  At one point, I see a small puddle of yellowish liquid on the concrete in front of me, but it wouldn't be easy to detour, so I decide I don't care if my ancient Old Navy flip-flops get dirty.  As my foot squelches down several inches, I realize the reason for the liquid: this concrete is freshly laid!  All the motodup drivers, waiting for customers, laugh and laugh.  That's the beauty of cheap rubber shoes on errands - you can hardly see the gray concrete stuck to my shoes' faded blue soles.  Inside, I wait while Buddhist monks in bright orange robes finish praying a blessing on the egg lady, who just donated to them.  Once they finish, they move on to another stall, and she tells me the same thing as the other vendors: "Bat p'oun yu hawie!" Literally it means "lose little sister long time already," but they use it like "Long time no see!"  It's nice to be missed.  :)

An oh-so-tasty burrito

A monk at the market.  My market is darker and more crowded.
http://contour-map.blogspot.com/2013/05/new-futures-organisation-takeo-cambodia.html

10:30 AM: I stop by Lucky Supermarket for some international groceries.  There's a funeral across the street whose music and chanting are audible throughout the entire store.  The cashier asks me if I have a Lucky card, which I've never heard of.  When I ask her for details, she points me to another employee, who explains that the card tallies my spendings and gives me one point per $10 I spend.  Earning 80 points (that's $800 of groceries) will get me a $5 voucher.  My points expire every year, I don't get any special discounts, and the card costs a dollar.  Wow, what a ... bargain.  Since she's given me some good practice speaking and listening to Khmer, and since I feel bad wasting her time, I go ahead and sign up.  I can't imagine I'll spend $800 here this year, but at least I'll find out how much I do spend.

That employee is lucky I agreed to spend a dollar.

11 AM: Putting away my groceries, I realize that of the five lights controlled by our kitchen light switch plate, only two currently work.  One is as bright as a small candle, and the other is referred to as our living room's Party Lights: brightly colored recessed lights vaguely resembling Aurora Borealis.  A third switch has never worked, but Annalisa points out that we recently replaced a fluorescent tube in the kitchen, so it shouldn't have burnt out yet.  I stand on a chair and wiggle it around, and it magically lights up.  Sweet success!

The party lights are the only lights that ALWAYS work.

11:15 AM: My clothes are damp with sweat by now and I haven't washed my hair since boarding the plane, but there's no point in doing so now.  Instead, I stay sweaty while I unpack all my luggage in my bedroom, which is rapidly heating up due to its south- and east-facing windows.  There's a reason I wore old, gross clothes this morning.  When I finally finish around 1, the "cold" water feels more like a US-style hot shower.  It's great to be clean, though.

3:15 PM: On my way to church, I stop at the first little restaurant I see and ask for an iced coffee to go.  It's completely open-air, with plastic chairs and shiny metal tables along the road.  The only employee in sight is chopping up a whole de-feathered duck.  I stare at the duck's beady eyes as the employee sets down the knife, wipes his hands on his apron, and proceeds to make my drink, reaching barehanded into an orange cooler to fill my cup with ice.  I know it's anything sanitary, but it's deliciously sweet and has the caffeine I need to make it through the next few hours at church.  I pay my 75 cents, take a big gulp of coffee before too much contaminated ice melts into it, and pray I won't get a stomach virus as part of my welcome package.  (Note: I was fine, as usual.)

Iced coffee in a bag fits perfectly onto moto handlebars.

The rest of the day: Church is great, I mostly avoid dozing off, and afterward I even manage to make a simple dinner with my housemates before crashing in bed.  Acclimating back to the heat isn't too bad - unlike last night, I'm not even tempted to use my air con.  I think back to Cambodia's question.  Did I miss it?  I was eager for a break, and two months in the US certainly didn't feel too long.  On the other hand, I'm so glad to call this my adopted home.  This country keeps me guessing, laughing, and sometimes groaning, but it's great to be back.

Growing up

This summer, it was apparent like never before that my three younger siblings are all grown up.  By Christmas, Austin will be done with college and all of us will be out of school.  (Unless I go back for a grad degree, but that’s another story.)  Moreover, each of my siblings has reached traditional milestones of adulthood that I haven’t yet.   This fact has been weird for me to grapple with, and yet I don’t necessarily think that they’re more mature or “grown-up” than I am.  Instead, I think my nontraditional experiences have grown me in other ways.

US Grown-Up Expectation #1: Finish college and get a job.  Check and check.  I’m still ahead of Austin here, though I have a feeling he’ll be joining the workforce promptly after graduation.

US Grown-Up Expectation #2: Move out. Well, in a sense my siblings and I have all done this.  We all went off to college around 18, and even Austin had an apartment in Lancaster during his internship this summer.  However, I move back in for about two months each year and was the only Cooper kid at home this summer.  While I love having long summer breaks, at times I feel like I’m getting too old to be an eternal college kid. 

My equivalent: Move far, far away…most of the time.  Ten months a year, I live nearly as far from home as is geographically possible.  I’m even away from home during holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas.  When I’m back, though, I treasure my time with my parents and try to make up for the rest of the year.

I was the only Cooper kid to join my parents in visiting my mom’s sister in Michigan this month.

US Grown-Up Expectation #3: Buy a car.  My youngest brother Austin just became the proud owner of a rusty Nissan, which used to belong to my sister.  Ironically, it would have been my car if I’d stayed stateside.  I used a family car back in 2008 when I student taught and long-term subbed, but my parents’ generosity combined with my lack of funds meant that I never took the plunge of buying my own.  When I’m back in the US now, you can mostly find me in somebody’s passenger seat, unless I’m borrowing a car from my parents.  Some people looked at me with pity the day I rode my bike to church, even though it’s faster than my commute to school and less than 3 miles away on peaceful roads.  

My equivalent: Learn to drive in another country.  I have a scooter and a bicycle in Cambodia, and have become proficient in its unofficial Road Rules and Tips.  I’ve learned Khmer vocab that helps with maintenance and repair, like how to ask for an oil change or a new inner tube, or how to explain that my lights or brakes don’t work well.  I’ve also become comfortable traveling solo with a range of public transportation, from motodup taxis to international flights.

Grown-Up Expectation #4: Get married.  This expectation is especially strong in US Christian subculture, which frowns upon alternatives like moving in with a significant other and/or having kids out of wedlock.  2013 featured two Cooper weddings – my younger sister Julia’s in January and my younger brother Lucas’ in October.  Two of my younger cousins both married earlier this year.  But in Cambodia, single Christian girls far outnumber the guys among both foreigners and nationals.  I have dozens of single Christian female friends in Cambodia, and there seems to be a pretty strong correlation for females between staying in Cambodia and staying single. 

My equivalent: Live harmoniously with lots of diverse roommates.  As I understand it, a primary reason that marriage grows you up is that you’re bound closely to another person, which reveals and impedes your selfishness.  Marriage involves communicating carefully and making crucial life decisions in unity with another person.  As a single, I have the freedom to make many life decisions on my own (like whether to stay in Cambodia or how to spend my money) but I also live in close quarters with four roommates at a time: a total of 8 women from five different countries in the last five years.  Living on the same property as my landlords also decreases my privacy: their niece Srey Pos routinely watches me through the kitchen and living room windows, inquiring about everything I’m doing.  (Sometimes their daughter Nana also joins her.)  Learning to live in community has taught me to value the strengths of roommates who differ sharply from myself and to honor their needs and preferences.  It has taught me about communicating gently and clearly and appropriately within a range of cultures.  And let's not forget the importance of laughing together!

Housemates in 2010 (1 not pictured) with our Christmas gifts

Housemates in 2011: we were going for "awkward family photo"

Housemates in 2012...maybe "Sound of Music" style?

Housemates in 2013 - see, it IS possible for us to take a "normal" photo.  :)

US Grown-Up Expectation #5: Buy a house.  My sister Julia reached this milestone by age 25, buying a house with her husband Scott in his native Carlisle, PA last winter.  However, it’s nearly impossible for foreigners in Cambodia…even those planning to stay long-term and raise a family.  That’s partly due to the stipulation that a Cambodian citizen must own at least 51% of your home (AKA you have to find a trusted Cambodian to go in on the sale with you), and partly due to badly enforced property ownership laws that have allowed an epidemic of land-grabbing.  Can you imagine if a rich, well-connected neighbor suddenly showed up with a deed to your house or a document claiming half your land?  It happens far too often here.  The one family I know that’s ever owned a house in Cambodia subsequently sold it, swearing “Never again,” and returned to renting. 

New homeowners

My equivalent: Become an employer.  I do pay my own rent – all $100 per month! – but that can’t really compare to the responsibility of being in charge when the septic tank leaks or the furnace breaks down.  Maybe a better comparison would be the responsibility I have as an employer, since this house came with a “house helper” who cooks dinner and cleans for us on weekdays.  In Cambodia, it's not as cut-and-dried as a US employer/employee relationship: the employee is expected to be very loyal, and the employer is expected to provide for the employee in ways beyond the monthly paycheck.  For example, I helped Khouch sign up her son for the free after-school program at Logos and found a low-cost clinic to treat her mom’s eye trouble.  When her cousin got into a bad car crash, Khouch asked us for an emergency loan.  We’re now trying to help her start a savings program, rare among Cambodians.  Khouch has shared prayer requests and difficulties with us that she says she doesn’t really tell other Cambodians.  Some of my most uncomfortable moments have occurred while attempting sensitive conversations with her across boundaries of culture and language.  Khouch has also been an AMAZING help – from cooking tasty dinners to helping me practice Khmer – and I’m very thankful for her hard work and her friendship.  But at times it’s sobering to have so much influence over her well-being.

Last summer, Khouch taught me Khmer recipes, like lok lak (flavorful beef with vegetables)

US Grown-Up Expectation #6: Have kids.  A number of my friends back home have attained this one in the last two years.  Lucas and Audrey announced this summer that they’re expecting identical twins around New Year’s.  If that doesn’t catapult you into the realm of adulthood, I don’t know what would!  They’re nervous but very excited, and though they’re only 24ish, I’m convinced they’ll be awesome parents.  I’m delighted about becoming an aunt, but the charms of single motherhood haven't quite won me over yet.

Surprise!

My equivalent: Have a hundred kids…in my classes.  I love all my students and spend lots of time with them.  I pray for them, sit with them at lunch, coach them on assignments, offer them advice, listen to them.  One of them even used to call me her “Cambodian mommy,” since her mom lived in another country.  But I am only in charge of them when they are in my classroom, and except for Bible camp and the high school retreat, I have nights and weekends off.   Which is just fine with me. 

My friend Adrianne commented recently that the whole way through high school, you follow a similar timetable to your peers.   Everyone enters middle school on the same day.  Everyone’s summer break lasts the same length of time.  Everyone expects to graduate on the same day, barring disaster.  But after that, paths soon diverge until there’s no longer a “normal” time to reach milestones.  In my generation, that’s far truer than sixty years ago, when nearly everyone was married by 25 and had a house and kids by 30.  Sometimes I tend to envy people who are reaching milestones before me, or I feel insecure about taking too long to attain them.  But I guess the key to growing up is to keep maturing, whether or not your newfound maturity comes with a house or a car or a spouse.  Instead of ranking myself compared to my friends and siblings, I can toss out the checklist of expectations and concentrate on just plain growing.