It's been an intensive week for us. We are working feverishly towards the construction day of the new community center. Every day we go out parading around Chi Phat and the neighboring villages, handing out flyers and balloons and talking to whoever is willing to listen. We need to create a big buzz around this thing, because we need to get the community's support and cooperation for something which is unlike anything they have ever done before.

It's so very different trying to do these things in a Cambodian village. I don't think it's even possible to imagine it. It's kind of like trying to get the cat to watch over the cream, and the cat being all: "Oh, no. I'd rather just sit here in the shade, thanks." That's because we not only have to convince the locals to put in effort for the community, we also need to convince them why it's even worth it, what the point is in the communal effort, and what, in god's name, is a community anyway.

And this without being able to communicate directly.

So it's not only been a hectic week, but an emotional one at that, trying to balance our high motivation and eagerness with the disappointment that comes from the community's indifference. Sometimes it almost becomes too much for me to handle. It gets frustrating, and I feel unappreciated. And then I find myself going outside for a bike ride (an excellent way to deal with frustration), and everyone I meet along the way smiles at me. It's hard for me to describe the feeling to you, the utter dissonance between my emotions and that smile, that seemingly unbridgeable gap.

And then I understand that I just don't understand. That I can never fully understand. Because of the language. Because of the culture. Because of the lifestyle. Because of the poverty. All I can do is believe in my mission here and hope that despite the huge differences what we're doing will be beneficial and appreciated. All I can do is believe that good will can bridge the gaps.

"Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive" (Anais Nin)

I’d love to introduce you to our little family of volunteers in the same way that we’ve gotten to know each other: our little quirks, our unique traits. We know who goes to sleep early and who needs two hours to wake up. We know who likes to eat breakfast and who prefers only coffee until lunch. We know who is afraid of mice, who talks in her sleep, who hates any kind of chaos. We know who likes to feed the dogs, who likes poetry, who likes punk music.

One of us is the art expert, one of us is the technical advisor, one of us is the language consultant. Some of us have our heads in the clouds, others have two feet on the ground.

We share our shampoo and toothpaste. We share our hopes and frustrations. We share meals and culinary fantasies. We use the same bathroom, the same water tank, the same laptop.

Sometimes we get fed up of all the sharing and familiarity, and we want a break from it all. Sometimes we argue over it and get upset. Sometimes a conflict breaks out, fiercely shooting sparks all over the place, and then quickly shimmers to ashes. Sometimes we encounter bigger problems, ones that will fester if unaddressed, and we sit each other down for “a serious talk”, the kind one might have with her boyfriend. By the end of dinner we’re always laughing.

We share our stories. Many times we find ourselves marveling at a team member’s narrative, other times we just double over laughing. Many times we find we share the same joys and woes. Always we find a sympathetic ear in each other.
We learn from each other. I’ve learned so much just listening, just being around this phenomenal group of people. I am constantly inspired and in awe. I find myself, at this very moment, trying to find some sentence that will make this post less cheesy, because I want them to like it; I want them to be happy.

They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night (Edgar Allan Poe)

Things are changing here in Chi Phat. Well, at least for us they are, I’m not sure if the locals are aware of it yet. Last week we received a visit from Yuval Limon, the manager and founder of IBC program. He wanted to check in, see how things are going, and where they should continue from here. Mostly, he came to help us figure out the answers to some of the major questions we have encountered during our time here.
Some background about Cambodia: it has a bloody history, as I’m sure you’re all aware. For this reason, NGOs have been operating heavily here for many years. For the most part, they come here, spend mammoth amounts of money on some ambitious project, and then (perhaps because of the Cambodian bureaucracy or the rampant corruption) disappear out of sight before having completed their goal. As a result, the people here are both dependent and cautious. Dependent on foreign organizations to do things for them, and thus unable to set their own goals and achieve them, and cautious because they have been carelessly let down innumerable times before. And here come us- a different kind of NGO. We say to them – we’re here to help you, but we cannot do your work for you. One of our core values states that we do not create anything, unless we know for sure that there is some local group or person who will continue what we have begun after we leave. We know that if we start something we cannot see through, we’ll be just like any other humanitarian disappointment.
But recently we have begun having doubts. Maybe we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Maybe these guys aren’t ready for the kind of responsibility we’re trying to bestow upon them. Maybe they need to go through a social change before they can work together as a community. These are the questions that brought Yuval here.
During the course of many meetings here with the heads of the local community and other prominent figures, a solution was settled upon. We, IBC, agreed to give financial resources, and the time, effort and skills of our volunteers in order to build a new and improved community center for adults. All the community members have to do is show up and do the building.
It sounds so simple, but in effect, the local community’s ability to organize itself into a collective action is extremely lacking. So much so, in fact, that we decided that the crucial detail in the entire plan is whether or not they’ll show up. If they do, we guarantee to continue volunteering here for the time allotted in advance. If they don’t, we’ll have to reconsider our future plans.
So now we find ourselves, seven volunteers, working day and night on a somewhat absurd project: finding ways in which to lure the local community to help itself by attending the big construction day. We sit around day and night thinking up slogans and methods to attract the attention of the locals, while our free time is dedicated to writing signs and making plans. You may ask yourself: why do they do it? Why not leave it to the community to organize themselves? Well, if I were to answer from the intellect I’d tell you that the community won’t do it, so it’s up to us. But if I were to answer from the heart (which is, IMHO, where all the correct answers come from), I’d tell you that perhaps, just perhaps, at this point in time, and with all we’ve been through and all we imagine for the future, we want this even more than they do.

Through the Looking-Glass

Today I taught an English class for the first time. It started out great – we played a game to help us learn each others names, and it was fun. At some point though, I wanted to start reviewing the words and phrases they had already learned. I began by asking them open-ended questions – How are you? What do you like to do?

We were having a great time, until I decided to raise the bar. Just a tad, you know, because they were doing so well. I rephrased my questions, just a bit: changed a word here and there, didn’t even think it would make much of a difference. I must have overdone it, because at that exact moment, I literally saw the light leave their eyes. Their faces took on a confused look, and suddenly I remembered.

I remembered what it is like to learn a new language. I remembered how it felt to have a teacher talk to you in sounds you could never recreate, and then look at you expectantly, and you realize it’s your turn to speak, but you have no idea what the conversation is about. I remembered this situation: we are all sitting in class, I don’t understand anything, but at least I don’t look it, so nobody knows. Suddenly, all of the kids around me are standing up for some reason and I am left behind, too dumb to pick up on the command in time. I remembered the shyness that learning a new language instills in you. The fear that you might say something incredibly stupid and all the other kids will laugh. The helplessness of understanding partially, or misunderstanding, or not understanding at all.

It’s easy, as and ESL teacher, to lose yourself in an unwarranted feeling of great supremacy. It’s easy to mistake yourself for something you’re not – a savior. But to these children I am no such thing. On the contrary – I am the one putting them on the spot, making them feel uncomfortable and embarrassing them.

I’ve decided to try and remember these feelings, to cherish them. To be humble. To remind myself every morning how I would feel if I had to learn their language – helpless and awkward and small.