Bible camp or labor camp?

“On the first day, I really wanted to cry and go back home…”

We took the grade 11s and 12s to a new camp this year.  Our 9s and 10s returned to a leadership development/ropes course camp where Logos has gone for years.  But since we’ve outgrown their facilities, we branched out this year.  It seemed perfect: run by a UK organization, it’s eco-friendly, affordable for our budget, and lets students participate short-term in long-term community development projects.  We booked it and told students about its great reputation with school teams from all over the world. 

Students washed their hands with water from a traditional large basin (left).  All the buildings were either sod or thatch.

Our expectations were met, but our students’ were not.  It took a few days for the truth to come out that when they heard “UK” and “international,” they interpreted it as “luxurious,” which the old camp was not.  The rumors spread like wildfire before arriving: Brick buildings!  Fans!  Running water!  Instead, they were greeted with a compost toilet, painful red ants all over the cabins, no fans, and no trees for shade…the other camp's forest location made it cool.  They knew we’d be working every day, but they hoped for lots of free time in which to hang out, and many were unprepared for the tough manual labor Tuesday through Thursday.

 

 Local students, rapt as their school's shutters are repainted

On Tuesday, it was depressingly difficult to see progress.  My group sanded a school’s wall for three hours, using 3” by 2” squares of sandpaper already worn ragged.  After lunch, everyone moved dirt for a future community center at the Buddhist pagoda near camp.  Students couldn’t understand: as a Christian school, why were we streaming sweat and forming blisters on behalf of Buddhism?  We had some good talks about which would reveal Christ more powerfully: to proclaim our beliefs to the camp directors and abstain from helping, or to do the work cheerfully, knowing the center would benefit the whole community.  (To my knowledge, the village is 100% Buddhist.)  We developed an assembly line, all 50 of us working for two hours in heat and full sun to carry dirt about 1/3 mile from a mound to a giant hole that needed to be filled.  The hole seemed no smaller when we left.  

The next two days also involved plenty of hard work – mixing concrete, tilling soil for gardens, carrying water – and many had never experienced work of that intensity.  We were sweaty and smelly by 8:30 AM, and stayed that way until 4:30 or 5 after returning.  For middle- to upper-class Asian kids, academic excellence is essential, but chores are not: they’re left for moms or house helpers.  Some students didn’t know how to hold a broom until they got a work detention at Logos, let alone a hoe or a pickaxe.  But besides the physical labor, our students also have a deep aversion to sweat, dirt, and sun.  They’re a necessary evil for many Cambodians, but I don’t think any social class embraces them.   Food vendors trudge the streets all day, but they wear long sleeves and hats, and pause often in the shade.  Laborers prefer to be crammed into a truck bed with 40 others rather than to walk to their job site.  Showering is likewise a high priority for most.  So it wasn’t 100% “rich kid” prissiness, but they sure were awfully excited about showering every evening, even from a bucket. 

 This guy pulled out his "Little Bo Peep" hat while gardening - better than to risk tanning

“I really tried hard to see God’s work being done at the work site as the teachers told me, but I still struggled to find it…" My first real sign of hope came Tuesday evening, during devotions.  My small group and others were really open and thoughtful during our discussion.  Yes, our students were disappointed with the facilities and less than excited about the side effects of hard work.  But on the other hand, they were soaking up our theme that service reveals God to us in unique and transformative ways.  As we talked about the widow who bakes her last bit of bread for Elijah, the boy who shares his loaves and fish with the crowd, Abraham surrendering Isaac, and a Cambodian general who stayed in Khmer Rouge Cambodia to advance the Gospel, they saw more and more purpose to their seemingly fruitless tasks.  

 "Pajama mamas," glad to be clean again...I couldn't believe one girl packed both these pairs for our 4 nights there.

It also helped to see Cambodians working hard all around us.  Much of our work was at an elementary school, where the school provides breakfast.  Even the youngest ones had chores watering their vegetable gardens and washing dishes with water from the nearly dried-up pond.  We learned from them how to use a stick to lower a bucket 20 feet down to the water’s edge, then bring it up full.  One of our tasks was to expand the gardens so they don’t need to buy any vegetables, and it was gratifying to see the progress we’d made and imagine the kids harvesting them in a few months.  At the pagoda were several orphan kids, whom the monks have been raising.  Both they and the monks were busy with physical labor alongside us: moving dirt with us or wrestling a giant vat of pond water onto a truck for showering, cooking, and drinking.  In the province, and often in Phnom Penh, work happens the hard way and the old-fashioned way.  One student wrote, “As a Cambodian…I was able to reflect on how this is actually what my family used to grow up in.  The more my friends complained about it, the more I was thankful.  I was able to experience some of the hard work that the local people had to do.”  

Making coconut milk by hand for yummy banana dessert

Maybe that’s why many Cambodian parents – even rich non-Christian families- seemed to appreciate the purpose more than many Korean families, even missionaries.  One girl, who in 9^th grade was forbidden to attend the other camp because her parents were so protective, said her family was glad to hear about the work she did this year.  (Even if they also were horrified that she’d gotten one tiny pimple.)  On the other hand, Korean parents responded, “You look like an Indian!”  “Sounds like the military.”  “Maybe next year you can break your leg right before.”  I’m hoping others affirmed their children’s work more, but I didn’t hear of any that did.  It makes me more grateful for all the students who, despite their culture’s disdain, embraced the hard work as they saw God’s presence saturate it.

Here’s some feedback from students: 

“On the first day, I really wanted to cry and go back home.  However, [on Wednesday] I realized nobody wanted to work, but they did not complain.  From then on, I tried to work eagerly.  I started to like working really hard.” 

“The work led to good conversations and it made me really question why I was doing this and what my heart was behind this.  It wasn’t only for school or because we were getting to benefit from it, or even to get a ‘thanks.’  This week was all for God’s glory.  God used my hands to serve him this week.”  

“God doesn’t always put you in places you want or like to serve.  It is actually up to God…Just because you are in a bad place doesn’t mean that we should be all grumpy and complaining about it.  If you change your perspective on things, everything won’t turn out that negative.” 

“Camp made me think about those people who dig dirt for a living, and how easy my life is.  I have things easy, but yet I still complained.  I should try to be more considerate and grateful for what I have.” 

"I would like someone to appreciate my work and honor/respect me for doing that.  But as we could see in the Bible, there was no verse or chapter that said anything about rewarding the kid [who shared his fish and bread].  I thought he could be one of the heroes that day with Jesus for providing his food for all those people, but he didn’t do that.  He just stayed quiet and let Jesus get the fame and honor.  This boy really inspired me.” 

“I can’t just shovel dirt for a week and that takes care of all my service.  Service needs to be a lifestyle.  Wherever I go as a Christian I want to leave and people say, “She was a servant.”  Camp was good because it really pushed my focus outward while still making me think about all the parts of me that God is working on.”

How to slow time

Last spring, my friend Sheryl mentioned a book, One Thousand Gifts, and its challenge to write down a thousand specific things you’re thankful for.  I took up the challenge without even seeing the book, and since then, my roommates Megan and Angela have read it and extended the challenge to their homerooms.  I love adding to my list – someone described it as a perpetual treasure hunt for God’s blessings.  Yesterday, having listed 535 items and counting, I finally opened the book.  Its author, Ann Voskamp, poetically chronicles her journey from loss and fear to gratitude, weaving in the Bible and Christian classics.  The chapter on time particularly challenged me; I'm certainly what she calls an "amateur."  Read on for excerpts:

“They say time is money, but that’s not true.  Time is life.  And if I want the fullest life, I need to find fullest time.  I wipe a water spot off the tap; there is a reflection of me.  Oh yes, I know you, the busyness of your life leaving little room for the source of your life.  I’m the face grieving.

God gives us time.  And who has time for God?

Which makes no sense.

In Christ, don’t we have everlasting existence?  Don’t Christians have all the time in eternity, life everlasting?  If Christians run out of time – wouldn’t we lose our very own existence?  If anyone should have time, isn’t it the Christ-followers?

[I think back to an interview with an elderly pastor.]   What was the pastor’s most profound regret in life?  I hear the answer of the pastor ring. 

'Being in a hurry.  Getting to the next thing without fully entering the thing in front of me.  I cannot think of a single advantage I’ve ever gained from being in a hurry.  But a thousand broken and missed things, tens of thousands, lie in the wake of all the rushing...Through all that haste I thought I was making up time.  It turns out I was throwing it away."

In our rushing, bulls in china shops, we break our own lives.

Haste makes waste.

And I hear this too, words of another woman seeking: 'On every level of life, from housework to heights of prayer, in all judgment and efforts to get things done, hurry and impatience are sure marks of the amateur.' [Evelyn Underhill]

I scrub the bowl hard, try to scrape away the regret of a life lived amateur.

Because that is the way I have lived.  The time, always the time, I’m an amateur trying to beat time.  In a world addicted to speed, I blur the moments into one unholy smear.  I have done it.  I do it still.

I speak it to God: I don’t really want more time; I just want enough time.  Time to breathe deep and time to see real and time to laugh long, time to give You glory and rest deep and sing joy and just enough time in a day not to feel hounded, pressed, driven, or wild to get it all done – yesterday.

I just want time to do my one life well.

A soap bubble, skin of light and water and space suspended in sphere.  Who has time for that?

Hadn’t I?  Only because I was looking.  Because that list of one thousand gifts has me always on the hunt for one more...and one more – to behold one more moment pregnant with wonder.

The wonder right in the middle of the sink.  Looking for it like this.  I lay the palm under water and I raise my hand with the membrane of a life span of moments.  In the light, the sheerness of bubble shimmers.  Bands of garnet, cobalt, flowing luminous. 

362. Suds...all color in sun.

That’s my answer to time.

Time is a relentless river.  It rages on, a respecter of no one.  And this, this is the only way to slow time.  When I fully enter time’s swift current, enter into the current moment with the weight of all my attention, I slow the torrent with the weight of me all here.  I only live the fullest life when I live fully in the moment.  And when I’m always looking for the next glimpse of glory, I slow and enter.  And time slows.

But there’s more.   I awake to I AM here.  When I’m present, I meet I AM, the very presence of a present God.  In his embrace, time loses all sense of speed and stress and space and stands so still and holy. 

Here is the only place I can love him."

-Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts

A tale of two haircuts

I’ve only been to one hair salon since arriving in Cambodia: Mee In, around the corner from my house.  It’s run by a Korean woman whose little boy, Dong Min, attends Logos, so Logos teachers get a nice discount.  She speaks a bit of English, like all the Khmer girls who work for her, and a bit of Khmer.  Dong Min, currently in Sarah’s first grade class, is always in the salon running around or playing video games.  He’s known as a handful at school, though he behaves pretty well for Sarah.

 

Sarah went there a few weeks ago for the second time.  The first time, two years ago, they’d given her bangs against her will, and it took a while for the bangs to grow out and for her to overcome her aversion to returning.  But return she finally did.  She walked in to find Dong Min, with his back to her, screaming at the top of his lungs.  Everyone in the salon – mom, employees, customers – was trying to ignore him, except for one employee making a faint attempt to cheer him up. 

Sarah walked up and tapped him on the shoulder.  “Whatcha doin’, Dong Min?”  He whirled around sheepishly, eyes wide.  Busted! 

“I’m hungry.”

“Oh, really?  Do you think you’re going to eat soon?”

“Yeah, my dad ordered pizza, but it’s not here yet.” 

Sarah encouraged him to find better ways to distract himself than screaming, then took a seat for her haircut.   Dong Min’s mom is the only one that cuts hair, but several Khmer girls wash and blow it dry.  They go all out blow-drying it, at no extra charge: two girls work simultaneously for ten minutes so it looks amazing.  As they were blow-drying Sarah’s hair, a young Korean guy stood up from the chair where he’d been sitting the whole time.  “Let me do it,” he told the girls in English.

“No, only two at a time.  That’s the rule.”

“No!  Let me do it!”  He pestered them until they let him help.  Was he a visiting nephew?  A trainee?  A bored customer?  Sarah voted for “visiting nephew,” but had no way of knowing.  She went on to get an acceptable haircut: no bangs this time, thankfully.

Today was my turn for a haircut.  Last June it ended up shorter than I wanted, but it's finally long enough for a bun or a braid.  Today I was hoping for just a small trim, and for them to redo the layers, which had grown out.  The same guy was sitting there, but came and stood behind me watching them blow-dry my hair before it was cut.  Would he ask?  Nope.  He just kind of slouched around, observing everything with an emotionless expression.

As they finished, a crowd of girls gathered around me and brought me a Korean book of hairstyles.  “Which one you want?”  I flipped hesitantly to the “long” section, aware that East Asian hairstyles favor extreme layering, with hardly any hair left the longest length.  Usually, instead of a photo, I just show them the length I want and the shortest the layers can be.  Finally I pointed to one, but stipulated, “Please don’t make the layers so short.  Please have some hair this long...” (pointing to my hair) “and some that long" (pointing again).  They showed the photo to the Korean guy, who was listening intently with a skeptical look.  Dong Min’s mom consulted briefly with the Korean guy.  He laughed nervously and kept glancing at my hair, then away.  He seemed at the center of the perhaps eight people surrounding me.

Wait!  Was HE the one cutting my hair today?  Shouldn’t they ask me first?  Will I get a discount for this?  Will I need another haircut afterward?  His body language clearly indicated that he had no idea what he was doing.  I tried to maintain a neutral expression.  Koreans are perfectionists, and she's got her business at stake: surely she wouldn’t let someone cut my hair without thorough training.

Finally Dong Min’s mom picked up the scissors, and my whole body relaxed.  I wonder if that was the original plan...  My relief lasted only a minute, though: after cutting straight across the longest length I’d indicated, she began to cut the top half of my hair the shortest length, also straight across.  This wasn’t normal layering!  This was 50/50 for each length, and it looked horrible!  I *am* going to need another haircut after all!  How short will they have to make it?  I spoke up anxiously: “Please also cut some hair in between.  Please do not only cut it short or long.”  This would never happen if we were fluent in the same language... 

“Layers?”  “Yes, layers, please.”  She gave me a look that said “Duh!” and told me, “You say straight!”  I don’t remember mentioning the word “straight,” but if I did, I probably thought she meant “not curly like the model in the photo.”  I guess that explains all the dirty looks from that guy.   

She got right to work adding layers, and to my great relief, my hair started to look normal again.  No buns or braids for a while – it’s nearly as short as last time.  But in spite of everything, I think I actually like this haircut.  

Foil thy foes with joy

Some Korean moms invited us Logos teachers to a concert by a Cambodian children's choir.  It's run by a Korean NGO that works with low-income children and families.  "You won't believe how good they are!  If you love music, it will bring hope to you for Cambodia!"  they promised us.  Four of us gladly accepted tickets, but tried not to get our hopes up too much.  They'll be super-cute, and we'll enjoy it no matter what...

No, they were seriously amazing.  I haven't heard a choir that good in years. 

They sang in English, Korean, Khmer, and even Middle English: Benjamin Britten's "Ceremony of Carols."  Its text is taken from 16 Middle English poems on Christmas, and I found the words powerful and fresh.  

I used to think the hundreds of Christmas songs I knew had expressed the wonders of Christ's birth pretty thoroughly.  Do we really need MORE Christmas songs?  But I'm realizing that's idiotic.  If the almighty God really did become a baby, the implications are endless.  I wonder what other gems we've forgotten over the centuries.

Here's the text of one song, "This Little Babe."  It's the second half of the poem "New Heaven, New War" by Robert Southwell.  I love the paradoxical imagery.

    (Side note: my dear friend Suzanne sent me a link to this free Christmas album by Andrew Peterson.  I love him for his creative, thought-provoking, and sometimes playful lyrics.  The album, called "Behold the Lamb of God: the TRUE tall tale of the coming of Christ," may contain the only song ever composed about the genealogy of Jesus...it's called "Matthew's Begats."  Even if you're sick of Christmas songs, these are mostly originals, and go far beyond the story of Jesus' birth.) 

        This little babe, so few days old,

        Is come to rifle Satan’s fold;

        All hell doth at his presence quake.

        Though he himself for cold do shake,

        For in this weak unarmèd wise

        The gates of hell he will surprise.

        With tears he fights and wins the field;

    His naked breast stands for a shield;

        His battering shot are babish cries,

        His arrows looks of weeping eyes,

        His martial ensigns cold and need,

        And feeble flesh his warrior’s steed.

        His camp is pitchèd in a stall,

        His bulwark but a broken wall,

        The crib his trench, hay stalks his stakes,

        Of shepherds he his muster makes;

        And thus, as sure his foe to wound,

        The angels’ trumps alarum sound.

        My soul, with Christ join thou in fight;

        Stick to the tents that he hath pight;

        Within his crib is surest ward,

        This little babe will be thy guard.

        If thou wilt foil thy foes with joy,

        Then flit not from this heavenly boy.

Beauty is in the (double) eye(lids) of the beholder

Comparing yourself to others, especially cross-culturally, can warp your self-image. After 2 ½ years in Cambodia, it makes less and less sense to me that Americans enjoy looking tan. While I don’t approve of the skin-whitening products ubiquitous here (no FDA = some are quite dangerous), my appreciation is growing for people’s natural skin tone – including my own pale skin. Sometimes I catch myself wishing my eyes and hair were darker, a thought that never really occurred to me earlier. I struggle not to envy my students’ luxurious, silky black hair that never seems to frizz. I think many Cambodian girls are truly lovely, making us American girls look commonplace and plain by comparison. Still, it’s taken me a while to realize to what extent Western standards and ideals have influenced Asians, particularly Koreans. 

Yes, the “whiter is prettier” value is pretty hard to miss, and as far as I know, it’s true across Asia. But Koreans (and other Northeast Asians?) have added a number of other criteria that yield one unified standard of beauty in Korea. The Korean girls considered “most beautiful” seem to vary in little except hairstyle. By the way, Koreans have a reputation for being naturally good-looking as a country, so it’s intriguing to me that their standards are so specific. 

*Disclaimer: in writing critically about Korean standards, I do NOT mean to let the US off the hook. Americans’ obsession with beauty has led to rampant materialism, eating disorders, etc. I’m convinced that US media are partially to blame for modern Asians’ view of beauty. However, I think the US allows for more variety in traits considered beautiful.* 

Unlike Cambodians, about 80% of Koreans have narrow eyes, which they refer to as a “single eyelid” - Korean has a specific word for it. This is considered ugly; everyone wants a double eyelid, opening their eyes wider. Double eyelids can be attained in two ways. I’ve known for a while that plastic surgery was common and a simple procedure – essentially ALL Korean stars have had it done, as well as many “ordinary” Koreans. (I’m glad I don’t know which of my students have had it done, but I’m sure several have.) “It’s not even considered surgery,” a Korean was quoted as saying in this recent article. Option #2, I just learned, is a special temporary glue that creates the same look for a few hours. This film clip shows a high school student demonstrating its use. Actors and actresses are even commonly required to wear contacts while filming that create the illusion of bigger eyes. During my last layover in Japan, my friend Yumiko and I visited a photo booth...it automatically made our skin paler and enlarged our eyes about 30%. 

The other “problem” with Koreans’ appearance is a bit harder to solve. Many Koreans are very self-conscious about their faces being round or square, rather than oval. They feel that their faces are just too big. There are at least two home remedies for this. One is sleeping on your side, rather than on your back, and alternating sides in hopes that your chin will become pointier. I’ve heard Korean moms sometimes recommend this to their children. The other is using cheek rollers, which supposedly smooth out your cheeks and make them less round or chubby. I know some of my students have been borrowing each other’s cheek rollers lately, so they seem to place some confidence in this technique. 

The more long-term solution is drastic: double-jaw surgery rearranging your jaw and chin. Plastic surgery is a major phenomenon, with 4000 clinics offering it in Seoul. Nose jobs are also common – many women dislike their naturally flatter noses and want ones that are more sharply defined. One in five women have undergone plastic surgery for their jaws, noses, etc. Korea is so competitive about everything - academics, music, appearance, social status – and surgery is seen as a way to get an edge. Reading this article on the topic yesterday made me sad, and also reminded me of a quote from the Korean drama I’ve been watching. “Beauty is always something you can achieve,” a teacher divulges to an overweight girl. “There are no ugly women, only lazy women.” 

At Logos, we’re encouraging girls to have confidence in their inner beauty and find their identities in Christ. Only recently have I realized that I have most of the traits they dream of – double eyelids, a pointy chin and nose, and white skin – in spite of my own insecurities about my self-image. I’m growing in my understanding of what an uphill battle they’re in, and rejoicing to realize how far some have come from these twisted attitudes. My mom says they need their own version of the “Black is Beautiful” movement: maybe “Asian is Attractive”? I’m working, one day at a time, to lead by example in accepting ourselves the way God made us – hair, eyes, chin, and all.

Being a TCK means...

Well, it means being a Third Culture Kid. What’s that? Traditionally, it’s when your parents are from one country, but you grow up temporarily in another country, planning to return to your parents’ country at some point. Therefore, two countries’ cultures strongly influence your childhood and identity.

But it can become much more complicated: I’ve known Cambodian children raised by adoptive American parents in Cambodia, Koreans who have lived in three or four countries but never spent more than a month in Korea, and even a friend in college whose parents were German and Filipino, but who grew up in Hong Kong, Brazil, and America.

To some extent, every one of my students is a Third Culture Kid, because a Cambodian attending an American school with international classmates sees the world differently than his or her Cambodian peers. TCKs have unique strengths and challenges. If you’re one of my students, here’s how being a TCK might affect you:

-The grandma that raised you for five years is in a coma in another country; you’re staying home alone with your cousins while your parents visit her.

-You want to tell your mom about Jesus, but even though you’ve studied Khmer in school and always speak it at home, you don’t know the formal language required to talk about God and royalty. When you try to use more everyday language, it doesn’t make sense to her.

-You know two or three other languages as well or better than your “native” language.

-You’re Cambodian and have never been to Korea, but you know how to write your friends notes in Korean.

-One of your Khmer friends suddenly starts staring at your face. “I’ve never really looked at an African nose before,” she tells you. You’re biracial American.

-You have to miss your senior trip for a “visa run” – a trip to the border to renew your visa.

-Your Filipino peers have started college this year, since they finish high school in grade 10. You’re just now returning to the Philippines, missing the last two years of school with your Logos friends, struggling to regain academic Tagalog after seven years away, and a grade behind your Filipino peers.

-You're Korean, Singaporian, or Malaysian, living in Cambodia, but you get nostalgic for the Dominican Republic, America, Pakistan, or Vietnam more often than for your "native" country.

-Your parents live in a town with no international school, so you’ve been living on your own with your siblings for years to attend Logos. When the school gives your parents an ultimatum – find you a host family or withdraw you from school – they send you to New Zealand to live with Koreans that you’ve barely met. After a year, you’re back at school again, living with a Filipino friend and his family.

-You’re considering college in three different countries, and you can’t agree with your parents on your preferred country. Their applications, expenses, and environments are all completely different. Scholarships determine everything. One year from now, you have no idea what your life will look like.

-Many of your closest friends live in other countries, some in countries you’ve never been to. 

-Spending years in Honduran public schools, surrounded by Latino classmates and friends, means your attitude toward time is diametrically opposed to the attitude of your Korean parents.

-You get – or have– to decide which culture’s definition of success you’ll judge yourself by.

-You get in trouble when you visit relatives because you keep accidentally offending them.

-Your parents are divorced, and one parent lives in a country you haven't been to in over five years.

-You feel to some extent like you belong in neither your host nor your passport country/countries, but are only truly at home among foreigners.

-You have no idea where you’ll live when you grow up.

Raindrops keep falling on my...bed?

The leaky roof/dripping ceiling is nothing new, but it’s always landed on my floor near the bed. Thankfully it's just the edge of the bed now, not quite touching my mattress. Good thing the bed is too big for my mattress, so there are a few inches of bare frame! I'm hoping the leaky area doesn't expand much more, and that the landlords will fix the roof again once rainy season is over. Last time, the repairs kept the water out for several months, if not a year.

In related news, my tile floor is very slick, despite the bucket catching 80% of the water and the towel sopping up another 10%. Maybe I should add more towels before I break my leg and wipe out on a wet spot. I love rainy season...but it does make things interesting.

I'd be a fool, though, to complain about my mostly-dry room and very-dry house. While Phnom Penh has had its share of rain, Cambodian provinces have experienced the worst flooding in ten years, and the puddles on my floor are...pardon my pun...a drop in the bucket. Several of my Khmer friends visited relatives out in the provinces during the Pchum Benh holiday two weeks ago. "How was it?" I asked Thavy, my Khmer-English conversation partner and colleague at Logos.

"Great, I loved it!" she replied. "Well, it was a little complicated. One time we woke up all wet in the middle of the night because the water had risen to our beds. [In traditional Khmer houses, you sleep on a platform underneath the house, which is on stilts.] And we had to keep throwing snakes out of the house. They're only a foot long, but they're poisonous enough to kill you if you don't get treatment within 24 hours."

"What was great about all that?"

"I got to go swimming a lot since the water was up to my shoulders! [Gross - what's IN that water?!] And we went fishing without even leaving our house. Traveling around everywhere in a boat was fun too."

Over 150 have died this month due to the flooding. 170,000 families were displaced as of Monday, and the destroyed rice crops throughout the country are raising concerns about food shortages in the coming months. A rice paddy is ruined if it's submerged for more than ten days. So many Cambodians are subsistence farmers whose food, even in a good year, barely lasts until the next harvest. If you lose your rice crop, you watch your family starve.

I read an article today that in typical fashion, the Cambodian government has been dragging its feet. It's promised relief funds - I think $250 million? - but hasn't explained HOW it plans to allocate them. And NGOs, eager to respond to those affected, are frustrated that it won't share information about which families have been overlooked by aid thus far. They want a coordinated strategy, which the Disaster Management Committee is in charge of, but this committee sent only a low-ranking official to a recent meeting with key NGOs. (I think my details are mostly correct, but I can't find the article online to verify.) The flooding started in August - it's not an issue of lacking time to plan.

Basically, the government doesn't care (surprise!), and its pledged funds will likely never see displaced families. NGOs are left addressing the disaster piecemeal. I'm proud of three former students - Tia, Krumm, and Veassna - for mobilizing Logos to collect funds to help one small village, about an hour from here. It may be another illustration of "drop in the bucket," but it's better than sitting by and listening to the drips from my ceiling.