A death in a slum

In the midst of moving and preparing for the blessing ceremony, Chhorn, our social worker, gets a call from a neighbor of one of the families that we support in the city. The mother has had breast cancer for several years and for the same amount of time none of the four children has been in school. Instead, the oldest brother worked at the taxi stand, unloading cars, the girl stayed at home taking care of her sick mother and the two younger boys collected garbage to sell and make a few cents every day. We met the family about three months ago for the first time. Since then, the three younger children have re-entered public school. The two boys attend school regularly, whereas their older sister dropped out again to take care of her mother. When the neighbor calls today he tells Chhorn that the mother has died.

We visit the family in the evening, as soon as we get back into town from CFI’s center. The house is in a slum-area and there are only four or five tables set up for the ceremony that is always held after someone has died. The youngest son pushes his way past the small children jumping around the tables and greets us politely. At first I can’t tell in the dark if it’s really him, he seems very composed for what has just happened. He brings us to his dead mother. It’s difficult to talk to anyone because of the loud mourning-song that is being blasted out of megaphones and speakers. On my right the woman is lying on the same cot she always sat on when I met her. As I arrive, someone covers her face with a white cloth. There are five or six women sitting on blue plastic chairs in the dirt beside her cot. Three meters next to the cot, to my left, a man is sawing the plywood-casket she will be burned in. In front of me, a woman is tacking black cloth to the board that the casket will be transported on. There are neon-lights coming from somewhere and Buddha-images in neon colors under them. I look around until I’ve spotted and greeted all the children. The second oldest boy comes towards me with a big smile until he remembers why I’m here, then he just nods. The daughter stands around with some other teenage girls, and the oldest son is the only person I see with tears in his eyes. A middle-aged man with a freshly shaved head greets me, someone says it’s the children’s father. He’s drunk and stands for a long time looking at the neon lights and the boards that will form the casket. It’s the first time I’ve met him. A cousin of the mother has come from Phnom Penh. He seems to be organizing everything and keeps telling us that the children can not stay with their father. We will talk tomorrow when the grandmother’s here. We offer some money as support for the funeral expenses, as is customary. The youngest boy – the one that greeted us, he’s ten – is sitting on the cot next to his mother. Very lightly, he lifts the white cloth that covers his mother’s face and bends down to look at her. The women sitting on the plastic chairs and I watch him as he lies down next to her, stiff, in exactly the same position she’s in. He’s so close to her that their arms are touching. His eyes are open but not moving. No one says anything, he doesn’t cry, he doesn’t move. When I leave some time later he’s still lying in exactly the same position. I cry.

-Jenny

The move, bathrooms, and blessings

Ten months after the first children moved into CFI’s temporary children’s home, it’s time to leave it for the newly renovated children’s home at the community center. A small pick-up truck is all that’s needed to move. We pile a few rattan shelves and bags of clothes on the back of the pick-up, along with kitchen supplies, school books, diapers, a bag of shoes, two bicycles, two dogs (that belong to the housemother and would otherwise have to be abandoned), two housemothers and seven children. The children note that the owner of the house is crying a lot, then they get on the truck, wave to her, and we leave.

We arrive almost at lunchtime, but there’s no time to think of eating. Every child that is old enough to carry something helps bringing bags here and there, sometimes in circles, the two housemothers (Sitha and Siyean) and teacher Genev make sure that the children’s rooms get equipped with the proper clothes, I run around with toothpaste, toothbrushes, sleeping mats and similar things, the boys pile their new blankets and towels and pillows on their arms, more small children than we have living with us seem to be constantly running into us or running away or demanding to be picked up or fed, the dogs bark as soon as no one’s paying attention to them, the boys discover the water hose outside and how to make water come out of it, Chong wants to go out to take a bath and can’t believe that he can wash in this strange small room next to his room, ‘you mean I take a shower inside?’, Srey doesn’t believe that she can go to the bathroom inside either and keeps asking where to go, the floors get mopped even with children running around barefoot, the children do eventually get fed, and somehow in the middle of it all Se, our advisor, prepares the living room for the blessing ceremony that five monks will hold in a very short time. It is a tradition here to have a new house blessed before moving in, and Sitha says that she and the children will be able to sleep much better because the ghosts won’t be there anymore after the blessing ceremony. Several older women from the neighborhood lead the ceremony, along with the five monks sitting in front on their pillows, behind candles and bouquets of flowers. They chant and the women chant and the children return from running around to sit down with their hands folded before their chest, until they get up and run around again in between being blessed. The women from the neighborhood each get a big bottle of coke as a thank you, the monks get especially prepared presents containing soft drinks and hygiene articles.

After that the children actually take over cleaning the entire living room when I have to run off with the humongous bundle of keys to open yet another door, Sitha, Siyean and Genev get the kitchen set up, buy a 60kg bag of rice and pour it into a big bucket, wonder why I didn’t buy anything red (because I don’t like it) and the younger kids take their third shower of the day, complete with their third change of clothes, while the older boys are watering the flowers a second time already. I am relieved at how smoothly the move went and have one more visit to make before it gets too dark.

-Jenny

Everyone was very hot and dirty and smelly (says Fong) (*reposted from Oct. 2009)

We had found a location and facility for CFI to set up its new center. But before we could begin renovations we had to clear the old garden and clean up the general backyard area. Fortunately we had the help of the students from Chrey, the village we previously worked in.

I was hoping for a couple dozen volunteers but when I arrived in the truck I was surprised to find nearly 50 children and teenagers ready and excited to work; in some cases kids I hadn’t seen in nearly a year.

After a ride along the bumpy dirt roads we finally arrived at the new facility. I tried to give the kids a tour of the house but they were too excited to listen. They ran up and down the stairs and in and out of the different rooms. And it wasn’t just the younger kids. The older, 'cool' kids were having fun too.

Our task for the first day was to cut down the banana trees. Abundant in Cambodia, they bear fruit only once and are not very strong. We’ve all used the expression, “It’s a jungle out there.” But when it came to the backyard, really, it was a jungle out there! Wandering merely a few yards from the house one immediately became disoriented and lost sight of the house. Cutting down the banana trees in the backyard would clear out a significant amount of space and create a safer environment for the facility.

From the moment we began work the entire garden was full of children kicking against and jumping on the trees until they fell, pushing down and cutting the trunks, digging out the roots. Once the trees were down and chopped up, we dragged them to a hole at the end of the garden which gradually filled up with banana-tree-trunks and leaves.

It was a typically hot Cambodian day; the sun beating down on us for hours. When we tried to wipe the sweat from our faces we only smeared dirt into the sweat. All of our hands and clothes were covered in mud and banana-tree-trunk juice. Carrying the trees away, the kids managed to avoid the half-inch long red ants scurrying along the discarded plants. In fact, I think I was the only one to yelp when they tried to bite their way through my flesh.

"Everyone is hot and dirty and smelly," said Fong at the end of the day. Already the backyard looked like an entirely different place. We could actually start to imagine a garden with flowers blooming and children playing. Eventually there will be swings for play time and benches for studying. And while the children who helped us that day live some distance from the new facility, we plan to arrange transportation a few times a week so they can benefit from what on this day they helped create.

- Jenny

Signing the lease for our new Community Center (*reposted from Sept. 2, 2009)

Today is THE day. Andrew and I hurriedly type the last corrections, compare the Khmer and English version once again, make sure we have all the different contracts for the five different owners, adjust the layout, drive to the internet café to get the lease agreements printed (we do not own a printer), then drive back to the house by motorbike so our Cambodian advisor Seigh can pick us up in his car. The lease agreements are to be signed at the commune leader’s office. Along the way the contracts go into their folders and get counted and re-counted. When we arrive I notice the patch of dirt between me and the office. Because of the recent rains it’s about thirty meters long and unavoidable. While Cambodians seem to have a talent for walking on mud and exiting with clean feet, I have discovered a talent for wading through mud and exiting with no shoes. But today is no ordinary day and I am spared the embarrassment of having to fish my shoes out of the mud.

Most of the land owners are already assembled in the office. At a long table Andrew and I sit with the commune leader, his secretary, the village leader and a few of the owners. The others gather on a wooden bench against the wall. Some spouses and children also squeeze into the room. Except for two old whiteboards and a dusty wooden bookshelf holding stray papers, the room is empty. It’s hot too, of course. And there are no fans. Taking in the scene, I feel as if I’m in an old western movie.

We greet everyone and distribute the contracts. Only then are we told that one of the owners isn’t there yet; she’s still in a car about two hours away. And so the meeting is postponed till the afternoon.

We reconvene a few hours later, only to discover that while all the land owners are now in attendance, the village leader has left. We wait a few more minutes, at which point we are told the leader cannot return because he does not have a motorbike. We wait again as someone goes to pick him up.

Finally everyone is in attendance! The commune leader greets Andrew and me again and we begin to answer their questions. With sixteen people squeezed into the room, all competing to talk, and many questions having to be answered several times, the meeting progresses without incident and there are no major disagreements. The actual signing of the contracts takes over an hour; each one must be signed, stamped and thumb-printed in red ink by five or six people. Thankfully our Cambodian advisor Seigh keeps everything organized and running smoothly, knowing exactly who has to sign what, where and when, and not allowing for any confusion. (To his credit –with 25 different documents on the table, half in Khmer, half in English, and ten people dealing with them simultaneously that’s no small feat!) Only when everything’s signed do we make the first rent payment, and all the owners leave smiling. We re-organize our documents, thank the village and commune leader and say goodbye. At 5:47 pm I climb into the backseat of the car and finally exhale.

- Jenny

On a bike with no saddle (*reposted from July 2009)

I tell the four children (Channa, Rithy, Srey and Chong) that we will get them bicycles once we see that they are able to take care of their things responsibly. Until then, they will all share my red, adult-sized bicycle. Since only Channa and Rithy, the two older boys, know how to ride a bicycle, this has never caused too many problems. But after having recently surprised us all with her sudden (and very hilarious) love for dancing, Srey has set it in her mind that her next great task shall be to learn how to ride a bicycle. She asks for a Srey-sized bike every day, but her first lessons are taking place on the big red bicycle. Since she isn’t able to sit on the saddle and reach the pedals, we take the saddle off. She climbs on the bike, and, exclaiming wildly (mostly to herself), grabs the handlebars while staring ahead with great determination and pedaling as fast as she can, leaving it up to me to secure her balance. Holding the back of the bike, stabilizing Srey and running along as fast as I can in my not very secure shoes, I wonder how I ever managed not to notice all the stones and potholes in the dirt road. “Leun peik oat?”, I ask her quite out of breath. “Are we going too fast?” Without looking back, she calls “atee!”, meaning “not at all”. Still looking ahead and pedaling wildly, she continues: “let’s go until Ya’s house… down there… way down there… wumm, WUMM!” I barely have time to notice a group of women with scarves tied around their heads stop in mid-track and stare motionlessly at this very, very strange sight. They stand and stare, in fact, so long that we pass them a second time on our way back, leaving them staring after what I picture to be a red cloud of dirt.

- Jenny

Football (soccer) in Laos (*Reposted from May 2009)

Phally (our student) was chosen to play on Cambodia’s first under-16 national women’s soccer team. The newly assembled team had only three weeks to practice before their first friendship game in Laos. When Phally returned, we asked her to write a short report of the trip. Fong (who is also our student) translated the text into English and we decided to publish it almost un-edited.

My name is Bpehk Phally. I’m studying in Chrey secondary school. I’m 15 years old. On 14th/05/2009 I went to play football in Phnom Penh. And then, a week later I was chosen to go to Laos. I was very happy that I was chosen. When I went to Laos by community football of Cambodia’s bus, there were 35 people including delegation and their helpers and the trainers. I went from Phnom Penh to Laos for two days. I stayed in a hotel in StungTreng province for a night with all of other women’s football. The next morning we woke up very early and we continued to go to the border. When we arrived at the border at 7 o’clock, we stopped there for 30 minutes to make a passport. The people who live in the border of Cambodia and Laos welcomed the Cambodia’s national girl team a lot. And then we arrived in Vientiane city, the capital city of Laos, and stay there for two days with all of other Cambodia’s national girl team and all the teachers. The people who live there were very kind and friendly to me and to all other women’s football team. The next day Sam and the other teachers toke me to visit the temple there. After we visited the temple at 2 o’clock in the afternoon, we played football with the Laos national girl team. They won 2:1. When we finished playing football, we went back to the hotel. In the evening we had a party with Laos’ national girl team. We were very happy there. After the party finished, I said goodbye to the teachers there and to the other team. And then we turned back to Phnom Penh at 9 o’clock at night. All the teachers and me were sitting on the bus until in the morning. When we arrived at the border, we stopped for a moment and continued to Cambodia again. And then we arrived in Kratie province and stayed in a hotel there. The next morning we continued our traveling and we arrived in Phnom Penh at 5 o’clock. I never thought that I won the football match and was chosen to go to Laos. And I was very happy to go to Laos with my friends and my teachers. In the end, I want to say thank you to my teachers that give me an opportunity to go to play football in Laos.

- Phally

A Sunday at the Soccer Field (*reposted from Jan. 25th, 2009)

It’s hot today. We’re watching the big girls play soccer (football). We, that is my students, their football trainer and me. Sokey tries to shield my face from the sun by holding her jacket as high above her head as she possibly can. Unfortunately, the shadow only reaches my chest, but she doesn’t let that deter her. I find four to five girls crowding together behind me in my shadow, the others share jackets that they hold over their heads. It’s very hot, the sun is strong, and they don’t like dark skin. I’ve long stopped laughing at Cambodians holding jackets above their heads (as I’ve taken on that habit as well). I even find myself closing the buttons of my shirt all the way to the top and rolling down my sleeves in the heat, just to keep the sun away. The big girls lose 0:1. (So do the small girls, later on, but they play well.) I go to watch the small boys play, and I see that once again they’re playing against a team whose players seem to be too old for this league. Some of ours are quite young, so on average the other players are a foot taller than ours. Our boys fight, but they don’t have a chance. Due to a new rule, the others aren’t allowed to lead with more than 5 goals, so after about 15 minutes they have to play without scoring. They run all the way to the goal just to show they can, and before our goalie manages to get the ball, they kick it back on their side again. I wonder if our boys will want to continue playing like this, and surprisingly I find that they seem neither insulted, angry nor ready to give up. They even manage to score one goal, and then another – after which they (and all of us watching) are almost ecstatic. The rest of the game is a series of our boys not getting the ball, fighting literally every way they can; me, their trainer and the referee not seeing it, them pulling the bigger guys to the ground and rolling around laughing on the grass together. As always, some players have shoes, others don’t. Some wear the shoes they got just until the game starts, then they throw them across the field and play in their socks (they say they can’t run in shoes). Ror, one of my really small students, is playing with just one shoe. I figure maybe he’s sharing with someone, but I never do find out who that might be.