Oh Battambang!

Oh Battambang - A Short Documentary about Art in Cambodia's Battambang Province

This short documentary, Oh Battambang, was created by a Peace Corps Volunteer in Cambodia who arrived in my group in 2011. Arnoldo lived and worked in Battambang Town, Battambang Province, and he worked closely with the art community in the town.

Before the war, Battambang was reknown for its artists, who were then targeted during the Khmer Rouge regime. But now, as Arnoldo shows, Battambang is reclaiming its heritage.

Cambodia in Holidays: Constitution Day

On September 24th, the Kingdom of Cambodia celebrated their 10thConstitution Day, marking the late King Norodom Sihanouk’s signing of the Cambodian Constitution as well as his re-coronation as king of Cambodia’s newly formed Constitutional Monarchy on September 24th, 1993.

As part of the Paris Peace Accords of 1991, the United Nations stepped in to civil-war torn Cambodia to administer and monitor their first elections in decades. The May 1993 election ushered in a voter turnout of 89.6% of the eligible population, and Cambodia formed their first Parliament to draft and approve a new constitution.

The Preamble of this Constitution reads,

"We, the people of Cambodia, accustomed to having been an outstanding civilization, a prosperous, large, flourishing and glorious nation, with high prestige radiating like a diamond, having declined grievously during the past two decades, having gone through suffering and destruction, and having been weakened terribly,

Having awakened and resolutely rallied and determined to unite for the consolidation of national unity, the preservation and defense of Cambodia’s territory and precious sovereignty and the fine Angkor civilization, and the restoration of Cambodia into an “Island of Peace” based on multi-party liberal democratic responsibility for the nation’s future destiny of moving toward perpetual progress, development, prosperity, and glory.”

I live in a post conflict - post genocide - society.

The evidence of destruction and reconstruction are evident at every turn, from the interior administration to the physical landscape dichotomy of bomb-cratered rice fields and newly rising skyscrapers. Mostly, though, the history of Cambodia lies ever present in the skin of survivors.

I’ve talked with my host families about their personal history during the Khmer Rouge. Those talks are always my listening and trying to understand while my mother or father or aunt or neighbor tells a story that needs to be released, needs to be heard by someone - anyone.

Sometimes, though, I’m caught off guard. A statement so shocking, so painful, is given to me in passing conversation, and I simply don’t know how to respond. It’s not just my lack in language ability, it’s my lack as a human not knowing how to absorb and reflect and bear witness to pain so deep shown so freely. I’m afraid that I’m normalizing tragedy and horror.

Last night my neighbor’s aunt was visiting from California. She mentioned that she had come to honor and remember her father, who had died just a few days before Phnom Penh and the majority of Cambodia was liberated by the Vietnamese.

This morning my friend whom I spend every morning chatting with while I wait for my noodles to be cooked told me that he wish that he had been able to study English. Unfortunately, he said, he was 17 when Pol Pot came into power and abolished education. By the time schools resumed, he was too old to study.

I want them to know I’m trying to understand, trying to empathize, but my words are too few.

I was nervous about moving to Phnom Penh, scared to be on my own without the love, support, and encouragement of living with a host family. And, while I’m still saddened to be so far from my Svay Rieng family, I’m finding that I’ll also have a family here in my landlord and fellow tenants.

My landlord, 79 years old and a former professor turned entrepreneur, is fulfilling a grandfather-esque roll for me in his repeated warnings to always double check my locks and never to travel with my passport. He and his wife are keeping me supplied with gifts of fruit.

My downstairs neighbor saw me taking my clothes to the laundromat around the corner and struck up a conversation about why I wasn’t washing my clothes myself. We talked about my work and travel schedule and how I haven’t had the needed free time to wash my things by hand, even though that’s what I prefer. Later that week she stopped me on my way upstairs to tell me to come to her with my laundry this weekend; she has a washing machine she wants me to use.

Her husband, who was visiting from another province where he watches the land while his wife watches the children in Phnom Penh, has spent a couple hours chatting with me in Khmer, being patient with my gaps in language knowledge. We’ve discussed Syria, economics, unemployment, Detroit, and Rwanda. He’s also told me his Khmer Rouge story. And, after asking where I’m from in the States, he looked it up on a map and we discussed the geography of my state, the surrounding states, and their proximity to Toronto, where he has family. He says he’d love to have me join their family trip to Bokor Mountain in a few months.

And then there’s Leak, the tailor on the ground floor, who is always there with a warm smile and friendly comment with her precocious daughter who reminds me so much of my niece Neath.

At the beginning of my third year in Cambodia through the Peace Corps, I am constantly grateful for the people whom I’ve met and the relationships we’ve formed together. I feel incredibly blessed to have had not just one amazing host family here but now this new ‘family’ as well.

The Day's Reflection - 22 April 2013

Today I’m waiting for the doctor to call. When he swung by my house on Friday, he told me that he’d stop by again on Monday and that maybe I’d get my stitches out and be cleared to ride my bike. Well, today is Monday. But I don’t know what time he’ll come. Or if it’ll be just another quick cleaning at my house. Or if he’ll take me to town to the clinic. Or maybe he won’t call and won’t come. I don’t know.

If I were in the States, this waiting and the unknown would bother me. Here, though, I’m too ashamed to even consider being bothered. 

First, the doctor has done everything for me for free: xray, debridement, stitches, antibiotic, a ride to my house, and a house call. He says that because I am a volunteer who has come to help his country, he wants to do something to help me. I have failed in my attempts to express how grateful I am to him. 

I recognize what a privilege I have being an American right now. I have the privilege of being able to follow through with the doctor’s orders to rest and not have to work to live. I have the privilege of the extra care my family is giving me since they recognize I am out of my element. I have the privilege of special care from the medical staff (being bumped to the front of the line ahead of people in much worse condition than me, being given a ride home from the clinic, being provided home visits, etc). 

But, mostly, being sick and/or hurt while living with survivors of genocide is drastically perspective shifting. Keeping my barely-injured knee elevated while my mother tells stories of life in the Khmer Rouge and my father stretches out his leg scarred from the war…well, I can’t really express what that does to one’s paradigm of pain and health and life moving on.