tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19037306315193333652024-03-05T20:44:10.032-08:00An Average Girl's Fight Against Human TraffickingAngelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00218875379301900944noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1903730631519333365.post-22550794016208907162009-07-28T19:27:00.000-07:002009-07-28T19:41:33.245-07:00Last days in UgandaBusia & Jinja, Uganda<br /><br />Our last days in Uganda w<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU8wSHjzKNgbh-2iUpLn748aMgQQtB_B3Wr4DJcsWIeIcMv8qIX1ZJ9zAtKG2-lDrxzvSDzi1S2LtZzHRhlkjEg1QjI72s-Xo0-5iOZWbgMC7iQgdyT5-ay_1GZDqu0LIHGKz5e6g0dAQ/s1600-h/Uganda+129.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 232px; height: 174px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU8wSHjzKNgbh-2iUpLn748aMgQQtB_B3Wr4DJcsWIeIcMv8qIX1ZJ9zAtKG2-lDrxzvSDzi1S2LtZzHRhlkjEg1QjI72s-Xo0-5iOZWbgMC7iQgdyT5-ay_1GZDqu0LIHGKz5e6g0dAQ/s200/Uganda+129.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363706605422699746" border="0" /></a>ere spent in the south. We stayed in a town called Busia, which sits right on the Kenyan border, and met with several people from different organizations who made time to organize a large meeting with us to educate us on the state of trafficking and vulnerable people in southern Uganda. Obviously, any border town in any country is susceptible to trafficking pressures, but the porous nature of Uganda's borders and their limited resources make it an even greater challenge. (On a side note, one border guard offered to trade Mike for one of his “sisters” while we were visiting the Kenyan border...not sure if he was joking but it was a little discouraging).<br /><br />The highlight of our Busia visit (and for some, our entire trip) was the afternoon we spent at New Hope Orphanage. It was a time for us to see what some amazing people were doing to raise up and strengthen the most disadvantaged of Uganda's children – those that had been orphaned or abandoned – and would otherwise be doomed to the worst of fates. As our bus pulled in to the orphanage, it was rushed by 100 screaming and smiling children, all eager to w<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe5YyH4qJ-DyYJE8v0LFI9qnxw8CZnlrfQHwGXzYa-8iqp44dG5vkf03vGpdBJOKwqJ3LGXuvMzKnUMHSaraSm7hkg57qz54n37ERu7Biwh29YwVyFRCD76y6nw8cV9twYusHcuodvYFU/s1600-h/Uganda+130.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe5YyH4qJ-DyYJE8v0LFI9qnxw8CZnlrfQHwGXzYa-8iqp44dG5vkf03vGpdBJOKwqJ3LGXuvMzKnUMHSaraSm7hkg57qz54n37ERu7Biwh29YwVyFRCD76y6nw8cV9twYusHcuodvYFU/s200/Uganda+130.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363705080525838610" border="0" /></a>elcome us to their home. I wish I could explain to you the scene. It was unlike anything I have ever experienced. Many of our group members describe it as similar to what it must have been like to be “the f-ing Beatles.” I don't know what made these kids so happy to see us (I mean, really, what did we actually have to offer them?), but I do know that it took a good 10 minutes for us to get off the bus, as each one was enveloped by the kids and floated away as soon as we deboarded. As soon as I stepped off, I was hugged and held by at least 3 children continuously (and didn't have a free hand again until we left a couple of hours later). And the only thing I can think that they wanted was affection. They didn't want money or gifts, or anything else that I could determine. They just wanted to hold hands. And hug. And feel someone's arm around them. And connect. Who doesn't need that? I certainly did at that moment.<br />The children performed a couple of songs and dances (including one in which they sang “Aunt Angel, we are so happy, to see you here, at our orphanage”) that made me want to cry, and then let us play and laugh with them for the afternoon. All the while, I was never without a child holding on to me and making sure I was comfortable. When it was time for us to leave, we were all reluctant. It was so encouraging and refreshing to see children so filled with love and joy. And the truth is that they re-energized us. We needed them more than they needed us. We all felt so blessed and fortunate to get to spend time with them and to be reminded that there is hope for the people of Uganda. It was the perfect last organizational visit for our trip.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuLliUnCRAKafPoNhyS2_kxYHCdhH3x4Ecu5w1G9ifgMhQhlA9GbF8FLOefy-gu7yb1BmMtBv_Yvmfl6B7S6LnJsJrx1DVj0eFvADXEQEsvWNUWEmvZg_4AuBn8NPEhFuFa0Mml9M_guU/s1600-h/Uganda+144.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuLliUnCRAKafPoNhyS2_kxYHCdhH3x4Ecu5w1G9ifgMhQhlA9GbF8FLOefy-gu7yb1BmMtBv_Yvmfl6B7S6LnJsJrx1DVj0eFvADXEQEsvWNUWEmvZg_4AuBn8NPEhFuFa0Mml9M_guU/s200/Uganda+144.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363705915175277106" border="0" /></a>The next day, our last day in Uganda, we went white water rafting – on the Nile! I was scared out of my mind most of the time, and due to the multiple injuries incurred in our boat (my injury-contribution was a crack on the head that left us concerned that I may have broken my nose...) our boat was named “Blood on the Nile”. Lovely. 9-hours of boating later, we went over several class-5 rapids, flipped in one of the rapids, and managed to survive relatively unscathed (unless you count the 2 gallons of Nile water that I swallowed – quite possibly resulting in a parasite infection). Still, I'm proud of myself for doing it.Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00218875379301900944noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1903730631519333365.post-70807686698650909022009-07-23T18:57:00.000-07:002009-07-23T19:10:31.585-07:00Women in Uganda<style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } --> </style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Aside from the horrific assaults committed against women on such massive scales in Northern Uganda, I have been continually amazed at how oppressed women are in the country as a whole. I feel as though I have stepped back in time – to when American women were considered and treated as less valuable than men. Granted, sexism still exists in the U.S., but it is much more covert and frowned upon than in Uganda. Here, women's perceived limitations and lesser status is stated as fact, and I've been struggling with what my response should be to those statements. Two examples come to mind:</p> <ol><li><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">During our visit to Kitgum, we stopped at the local government offices, and met with one of Kitgum's leading government officials (probably the equivalent of a mayor or district councilman). We were able to speak with him quite a while about his district and how it is progressing. At one point, one of us asked how many women were holding government positions in Kitgum, and the man informed us that though women held about 1/3 of the seats, they were doing far less work than the men. He blatantly told us that women do not have the “same capacities” as men. When asked for clarification (I was hoping he meant “opportunities” rather than “capacities”), he educated me that women just don't have the same intellectual abilities, or work ethic as men. He said this to a group of 11 women and 3 men – with 8 of the women being PhD students. And he didn't bat an eye at it. It didn't even occur to him that we might be insulted, let alone disagree with him. Our guide, wisely, said it was time for us to leave (she seemed enraged, too), and explained to us after that his was a pretty typical Ugandan perspective.</p> </li><li><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">While in Gulu, we had a meeting with a man who is the director of a women's rights organization, and who is the speaker of the local city council. I was so inspired by his progressive thinking about women's equality and strengths. The purpose of his organization is to educate community members about the concepts of gender equality, as well as the benefits of equal rights. He gave a heartwarming testimonial about the importance of respecting women and their natural roles as leaders. And, as he was wrapping up and I was mentally adding him to my list of heroes, it all crumbled down...we were discussing the fact that Uganda has no laws against domestic violence, and that a man is completely free to beat his wife at his whim. Kelly explained that part of his community training with men is to teach them not to beat their wives all the time, rather to talk to them and make sure that they really deserve it before beating them. And just like that, my hope for the woman of Uganda took a nosedive.</p> </li></ol> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">So many issues are raised when talking about women's equality in a society, and I consciously have to stop myself from going down every tangent and consequence of inequality t<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd5jd5aAKfejWBeCyZ-jG78j0mwi1KyBrfyHJfzwRALsEZWFV0HrIPEupwf4SSFPj_eN9A5AZ-Z82v1D82mKHDUqTj17sj3q6MAEONjfuYcuWTIvpWGsDhSgAZabfbOhFs1WjWqDEauSo/s1600-h/Uganda+092.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd5jd5aAKfejWBeCyZ-jG78j0mwi1KyBrfyHJfzwRALsEZWFV0HrIPEupwf4SSFPj_eN9A5AZ-Z82v1D82mKHDUqTj17sj3q6MAEONjfuYcuWTIvpWGsDhSgAZabfbOhFs1WjWqDEauSo/s200/Uganda+092.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361841489320864738" border="0" /></a>hat pops into my head. Instead, I'm going to focus on what my role should have been in these situations...I kept quiet. I silently fumed at the audacity of their ignorance and disdain for women. And then I found myself wondering if I was doing the right thing by not challenging these two men. On one hand, my obsessive concern over offending people, especially people who have welcomed us into their community and taken time to help us learn, kept me from rudely disagreeing with them. My cultural competence training tells me to understand where they are coming from, and not to impose my views on another culture. And I was worried about causing problems for our guide, who is a local woman trying to build professional relationships with these people. But is that just perpetuating the problem? Don't I have a responsibility to speak up for the women of Uganda? Oddly, as liberated and confident as I feel as an American woman, I found myself bound by the Ugandan view of me. I was afraid that it wasn't my place to challenge them, since I was imposing myself in their culture. Was that the right choice? I honestly don't know. The activist in me says I failed; that promoting respect and basic rights for women everywhere trumps a need for manners. And yet I sat there silently disagreeing. The overly-P.C. American in me was desperate not to appear culturally insensitive. But I'm really disappointed in myself. I let those women down, and I'm ashamed.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhAUUXLrBVl_rO5Q4rAM-OOhRZ3SYmF0_jaVi6S3CoAdkiyBtQVuv8lUnLbuJR6ZBJXdpcopiRujIfE9MZElDnD2N8CY-EcqiD8AjgX0CGh7k9hFajpq6yCD_EUeu34hFxmx6zgoXDHOM/s1600-h/Uganda+111.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhAUUXLrBVl_rO5Q4rAM-OOhRZ3SYmF0_jaVi6S3CoAdkiyBtQVuv8lUnLbuJR6ZBJXdpcopiRujIfE9MZElDnD2N8CY-EcqiD8AjgX0CGh7k9hFajpq6yCD_EUeu34hFxmx6zgoXDHOM/s200/Uganda+111.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361842821230381650" border="0" /></a>The one positive thing about the state of women's rights in Uganda is that they are slowly, but surely, progressing. As I said, I felt like I had stepped back in time, back to when women in the U.S. Were beginning their struggle for equality. But the great thing about that is that we are an example that, though it is a difficult struggle (one that I am only beginning to truly appreciate), there is hope for change. I feed on the idea that 10 or 20 years from now, I might get to see a Uganda where women are as liberated and independent as women in America are. I might get to watch the Ugandan women rise up and claim what is theirs. How lucky we will be to get to witness that! We were fortunate enough to meet several women in Uganda who are bravely forging ahead in the name of equality and justice for all people. Somehow, they were able to conceive of the reality that they are so much more than their culture tells them they are – and they are doing what it takes to change the face of their country. As someone who has reaped the benefits of the struggles of the women before me, I feel so blessed to meet some women who are changing their future generations' lives. I am excited to see what they accomplish, and to rejoice in their success!</p>Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00218875379301900944noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1903730631519333365.post-77503739708993149752009-07-16T16:46:00.000-07:002009-07-31T11:20:21.118-07:00IDP Camps - Kitgum, Uganda<div><br /><br /><div><br />IDP Camps</div><br /><br /><div>Kitgum, Uganda</div><br /><br /><div><br />Northern Uganda has been subjected to over 20 years of war and terrorism inflicted by Joseph Kony and his Lord's Resistance Army (LRA). Also known as “the rebels,” the LRA's method is to wait for nightfall and then attack villages and homes. They raid and steal, murder, torture, rape, and mutilate. They burn homes full of people alive. They force families to watch their mothers being raped. They force parents to watch their children murdered. And then, they replenish their army by abducting any child big enough to carry a gun, and force them to become rebel soldiers. The induction begins immediately, often by forcing the children to kill their own families and friends. Then, the children are told that there is no longer any option but for them to join the army, as they will no longer be welcome in their communities. The little boys are desensitized and turned into killing machines, the little girls are “married” to the older rebels, and forced to live as sex slaves and servants. They have no camp, but sleep in “the bush” (the wilderness), and constantly march around the country raiding and terrorizing. Many cannot survive the physical demands of such a lifestyle, and die along the marches. Some are deemed to be disloyal (especially if they cry) and are tortured and murdered in front of the group to send a message. Death and misery is savored, and drawn out as long as possible. Child soldiers are often forced to eat their murdered peers in order to develop the taste for blood.<br />When Kony's LRA began regularly raiding and terrorizing the northern Ugandans (mainly the Acholi tribe), the government decided that rather than launching a major operation to stop them, the answer was simply to relocate the Acholi people (the Acholi's have long considered themselves to be discriminated against by the government). They erected thousands and thousands of huts in various Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) camps, and told the villagers that they had 72 hours to pack up their lives and relocate. Nearly 2 million villagers left their land (often ancestral – passed down through countless generations), farms, livestock, homes, personal items, and communities and were forced into the IDP camps. The average homesteads usually consisted of 2-3 huts, and were at least ¼ of a mile from any other homesteads. In the IDP camps, the huts were half as small, housed twice as many people, and were mere <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie10m4EAt-EWD2DCV_Y3oPAqL2fc6dhhHxhR-wzwQymmxe2aU2jFQvT7WQoudJpLS3HNbGNbXNGvykUTewbSlvK1PkCE5laCJQci-BhPTy4sOXG_pHI3Fj1oq2PedvawW-rF8v2OGjww4/s1600-h/Uganda+074.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359209473602861394" style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; float: right; width: 200px; height: 150px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie10m4EAt-EWD2DCV_Y3oPAqL2fc6dhhHxhR-wzwQymmxe2aU2jFQvT7WQoudJpLS3HNbGNbXNGvykUTewbSlvK1PkCE5laCJQci-BhPTy4sOXG_pHI3Fj1oq2PedvawW-rF8v2OGjww4/s200/Uganda+074.JPG" border="0" /></a>feet from the next hut. There was no land available to farm, cultivate, or raise livestock on, so there was no source of food or livelihood. Instead, the proud Acholi were reduced to living in inadequate housing and required to simply wait for food handouts from the government and various NGO's. As you can image, the handouts were limited, and the result was massive malnutrition, hunger, illness, and desperation-based crimes as they turned on one another for their limited resources. They were also deprived of any productive activity, and lost much of of their sense of worth or self-sufficiency.<br />Though the IDP camps were developed under the guise of protecting the Acholi from the LRA attacks, the reality is that they actually provided very little protection. Instead, the potential victims were just rounded up and concentrated into one area, vulnerable to continued attacks by the LRA. A new favorite tactic adopted for the IDP camps was to lock each family in their huts and set fire to it. Because the huts were so close together, it was inevitable that the fires spread rapidly and mercilessly.<br />The LRA has moved into the Sudan and Congo, and the last known attack on Ugandan soil was in 2006. Of the 40,000 + children that have been abducted from northern Uganda by the LRA, there are still over 6,000 that are unaccounted for (the rest have either escaped and returned, or are known to be dead). The government has told the people in the IDP camps to simply return to their own land now, and move on with their lives. This is not as simple as it may sound. The people are being told to go back to the very same homes where they have been raped, tortured, and mutilated. The trauma and fear associated with their own homes cannot simply be forgotten. Their lands have been destroyed and they have no source of livelihood. They may have come long distances to the camps, and now have no way to get back. They may be restricted by injury and sickness, and are unable to relocate at this time. And, in many cases, the older tribal members who knew where the lands were located and how they were divided have since been killed, and the surviving relatives simply don't know where home is. So, of the 1.7 million that were forced into the camps, 30-98% remain because they just don't have any options. They are now reliant on the very situations that have been oppressing them.<br />Despite the large number of people forced to live in the camps, no social services, sanitation, health care, or clean water is regularly provided. Food and clothing donations are sparse. The camps remain vulnerable to attack by not only the LRA, should they return, but also neighboring tribes, and predatory men who know where to easily meet their needs. Since the government has declared the camps no longer mandatory, services have decreased and even ceased completely. The people in the camps have simply been forgotten and abandoned.<br />We went to visit a camp outside of Kitgum. The first thing that struck me as we arrived, and people began flooding out of their huts to greet us, was that children outnumbered adults at least 7:1. There were also very few adult women. Our guide explained that a majority of the children we were seeing were the product of rape, and that almost all of the women in the camps had been raped at some point. Furthermore, the maternal death rate is approximately 46% - meaning that a woman has nearly a 50/50 chance of dying in childbirth due to lack of health care or even trained midwives. Almost all of the adults we saw had lost at least 1 child to the LRA, and few knew what had become of them. The men had almost all been forced to bear witness to their women being raped and assaulted. I cannot imagine the burden that those people must carry. The trauma they share. What they have seen. As we were graciously led through the camp, the children formed a parade behind us, thrilled by our every move and word. Some of the younger ones were terrified of us – we looked so different. The older ones looked at us as if expecting us to sprout wings and rescue them. I felt inadequate and imposing in either scenario. We were led to a hut where we met a woman who is over 100 years old. She has lived through the colonial times, and everything up until the present. I wished I could remove our language barrier and unfamiliarity, and just spend the whole day hearing her story. I want to know what she knows. I want to see it through her eyes. I want to understand how she is still able to smile. Instead I just awkwardly shook her hand and thanked her...for...welcoming us? For having the will to survive? For not hating me for my privilege? I wasn't sure, but I was grateful. And I was sad to walk away knowing that I would never hear her story. </div></div>Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00218875379301900944noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1903730631519333365.post-35864982616704982522009-07-15T07:26:00.000-07:002009-07-15T07:35:23.329-07:00Follow-UpMy last blog was really intense. And I need to clarify some things, now that I have some space to see it from another angle...I want to be sure that people know how much I love Uganda, and my time there. Our trip leaders did an INCREDIBLE job at planning our trip and keeping us safe and comfortable. My entry on Kitgum and trafficking was written in the drama of the moment, and as a tool to illustrate how easily trafficking can happen to anyone. I mentioned, but need to reiterate, that I recognize I am hypersensitive to trafficking issues, and I acknowledge that my view of what happened in Kitgum may be not only inaccurate, but also overdramatic. I wanted to share what happened to us, and what it could have meant, but I don't want people to think that we were ever recklessly put in danger or that Uganda is inherently dangerous. Please forgive me if I hurt anyone's feelings, and please understand the purpose with which I wrote my story. I will soon be sharing some stories about the welcoming and warm side of Uganda, so stay tuned to hear about all the wonderful people we met and how inspired we were!Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00218875379301900944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1903730631519333365.post-85658399700366179772009-07-09T11:58:00.000-07:002009-07-13T09:46:27.884-07:00Trafficking hits home<div><br /><br />July 9, 2009<br />Gulu, Uganda<br /><br />It's funny how, when you hear the name of a town, it means nothing at all until you go there – then it encompasses images, emotions, thoughts, and experiences. When I heard we were going to Kitgum I had no idea what to expect. I knew it was in the very northern part of Uganda and, therefor, had been profoundly affected by Kony's 20-year war. I also knew that it was very close to the border of Sudan, which means that it is extremely vulnerable to any future attacks by the LRA, which is believed to be hiding in the Sudan. As a result, Kitgum is unbelievably poor, unstable, and almost entirely rejected by the rest of Uganda. In fact, most Ugandans consider Gulu to be “the north”, though Kitgum sits above it. Most Ugandans also questioned our decision to go there, saying that it was too dangerous. But we did, and though it was a really difficult couple of days, I'm glad we did.<br /><br />Before leaving Kampala, we picked up a man (who I will call Tom for safety reasons), who was to <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSpBKoxTgChegPFRtqsIKU-2tCUBnzlrpZMZ9-fVZQCxaVHQIggfTtIfwvw7icLumtptAqOajqdskL5PYBtLCL-S3lkBtQP4M9J1R9BYOPTFaYuFNJg9XX6NhF5qOBioRGuCMaHkpONTk/s1600-h/Uganda+087.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357986830554610338" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSpBKoxTgChegPFRtqsIKU-2tCUBnzlrpZMZ9-fVZQCxaVHQIggfTtIfwvw7icLumtptAqOajqdskL5PYBtLCL-S3lkBtQP4M9J1R9BYOPTFaYuFNJg9XX6NhF5qOBioRGuCMaHkpONTk/s200/Uganda+087.JPG" border="0" /></a>be our guide to Kitgum. When he heard that we were going to Gulu, he convinced our tour director that we must stay a night in Kitgum, where he is from. The drive from Kampala to Kitgum was about 8 hours, and it took us from Uganda's capital city, to the most rural and undeveloped countryside. The final two hours of the drive was on a very bumpy dirt road that I was sure would give us a flat tire. Somehow we made it, after passing dozens of IDP (Internally Displaced Persons) camps, and rolled into the small town of Kitgum. Consisting mostly of small mud huts and poorly constructed buildings, Kitgum barely surpasses the label of a “village.” As we drove through, people stopped what they were doing and stared and pointed at the “mzungus.” This, in itself, is not uncommon in Uganda, as I have come to believe that “mzungu” might actually be my name, when in fact it actually means “white person.” Ugandans shamelessly shout “Mzungus!” at the sight of us, so that everyone can rush out to see us. Surprisingly, it is not offensive at all – it is actually along the lines of celebrity status. In Kitgum, however, there was a different feel to the stares – less friendly, more distrustful. And, given what they have been through, who can blame them? Kitgum suffered some of the most relentless and brutal raids by the LRA – many of their children were abducted, women raped, and men slaughtered.<br /><br />We arrived at our guest house (similar to a bed and breakfast or hostel), hot, tired, and dirty <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqa8S5s0OsvQmrSE_lIIFqOsAaZI6A0bAkwWbnVNCyIfNaXNFHkImOqlSnc4LPRkBLzisOoc1daH2OTXZZ6t7jOt3mi-8uwIsGOWm66_42c-Vu_Ia49gln1cXXm4mJz6JrMuUSM0S-R5U/s1600-h/Uganda+011.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357986246941966370" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqa8S5s0OsvQmrSE_lIIFqOsAaZI6A0bAkwWbnVNCyIfNaXNFHkImOqlSnc4LPRkBLzisOoc1daH2OTXZZ6t7jOt3mi-8uwIsGOWm66_42c-Vu_Ia49gln1cXXm4mJz6JrMuUSM0S-R5U/s200/Uganda+011.JPG" border="0" /></a>from our dusty journey, and promptly found out that some of our rooms had been given away, and that the guest house had no running water. The result was that 5 of us had to find somewhere else to stay. Tom told us to go with a man who seemed to be the guest house manager, and he would take us to another guest house. He led us to an entirely different part of town – one that was occupied by abandoned building, bars, and street-people.<br /><br />We pulled up to a bar that apparently doubled as a hotel, where Alessandro and the man went in. The rest of us (3 girls and 1 guy) waited across the street with our luggage. It didn't take long before a beggar woman approached us and tried to simply roll our luggage away. While managing that situation, it became clear that crowds were forming around us, and slowly moving in. Just as we were about to notify Alessandro that we didn't feel comfortable staying there any longer, he stormed out of the hotel and told us to get on the van (which had just pulled back up). Safely aboard, Alessandro told us that the “hotel” was actually a brothel, and that for some reason the man and the brothel manager were insisting that we separate and stay in single rooms. Alessandro determined that we would be better off staying on the floor of the first guest house, which is what we ended up doing. For the rest of the night, Tom kept trying to convince us girls to go to the “disco” with him. There was no way in hell that was happening, not only because we doubted there even was a disco in Kitgum, but because something about Tom made all of us women uncomfortable. Between our intuition, and the inappropriate comments and gestures he would make to us, we were fairly certain that Tom was not to be trusted.<br /><br />So, after the shock and fear of the entire situation wore off, I began to realize just how close I might have been to becoming a victim of trafficking. In hindsight, it was Tom, a mere acquaintance of our guide, who insisted that she bring our group of Americans to Kitgum for a night, though we had been told it was not safe. It turns out that the rooms that were taken from us were actually occupied by Tom's friends, resulting in his insistance that the group split up. Half of us were then taken to a brothel, and told that we would have to each stay alone in a room. When we refused, he still tried persistently to get us females to go out with him that evening. Somehow, the next day, Tom disappeared without saying goodbye.<br /><br />We went to the Embassy today and told them what happened. The Director of the Human Trafficking unit vowed she would follow up on it today as it really concerned her. The irony of the situation is not lost on me. We are here to learn about human trafficking, and may have been close to it ourselves. Not only that, but despite my heightened awareness and sensitivity to the process and risks, I didn't even realize what was happening until after-the-fact. I really cannot believe that it could have happened to me that easily. Had we just walked into that brothel with Alessandro, my whole life might have changed. I somehow thought that I was safe from it. But the truth is that none of us are. If I am vulnerable to predators like that, how much worse is it for women who have no protection, and no options? I praise God for protecting me. I may be completely off about my suspicions, but either way the reality of just how easy it would be to fall victim is indisputable. If I'm not immune, then who is? I am more convinced than ever that this problem of trafficking and exploitation deserves everyone's attention. It doesn't matter if you are a humanitarian or not, wealthy American or poor villager – this is all of our problem. Don't wait for it to affect you personally to pay attention.</div>Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00218875379301900944noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1903730631519333365.post-88427610856487847462009-07-09T11:54:00.000-07:002009-07-09T12:07:57.274-07:00Day 1 in Uganda<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivMBaZTSvpgETr0oBcyZsS1Izh5dOcVjxWTvCKLd3334vRMS9-kV_oatflUpox5MAH5J-4vPa1RKg59sOenMs8IJRyXF1ayNuE4iKZEFNat_Y4QVvTf9FPBSBxv-HqF7dvotpbuh1jjDE/s1600-h/Uganda+063.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivMBaZTSvpgETr0oBcyZsS1Izh5dOcVjxWTvCKLd3334vRMS9-kV_oatflUpox5MAH5J-4vPa1RKg59sOenMs8IJRyXF1ayNuE4iKZEFNat_Y4QVvTf9FPBSBxv-HqF7dvotpbuh1jjDE/s200/Uganda+063.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356539054443926130" /></a><br />July 3, 2009<br />Kampala, Uganda<br /><br />I'm thrilled to report that I finally got a full nights' sleep last night – which turned out to be extra important because we had a very full first day in Uganda. Our morning started with a meeting with a social worker at the Transcultural Psychosocial Organization, that provides psychosocial services to vulnerable people in Kampala. That was followed by a trip to a local market (where I bought only necessities, of course, like a statue and salt and pepper shakers), and then a meeting with the Director of the Uganda Human Rights Commission, who just happens to be an incredible and inspiring Ugandan woman. From there we went to Mengo Children's Center, where we spend the majority of our day. That was a powerful and exhausting few hours. Mengo provides schooling, food, and vocational training to children that are living in the slums of Kampala. We got to go into the classroom and play and sing with the children...and to their delight, take photos and let them see themselves on our cameras. Then we went on two home visits in the slums, where we were invited in to two homes and heard a little about their lives. I can't even begin to explain what the slums are like...poverty beyond description. We had to navigate through alleys, trenches, garbage, and mud huts to arrive at the first house. It was a 1-room mud hut inhabited by an (extremely) elderly woman who is raising 7 children that have been orphaned. She also appeared to be caring for a sick adult woman who never got up from her mattress while we were there. It is beyond me how this woman, living in squalor with no electricity or clean drinking water, and certainly no way of making money, would come to raise 7 babies that aren't hers. Isn't she exhausted? Doesn't she need some “me time”? What would make her take this on? The language barrier didn't allow me to ask this, and even if I had, I have a feeling that those concepts would make no sense to her. I wish I could have spoken to her directly and learned about what makes her not only survive, but appear so happy. I have a feeling she would be an inspiration.<br /> Our (13 hour) day was wrapped up by a dinner with two police officers who head up the Child and Family Protection Unit. Hearing their perspective after our visit with the Human Rights Commission was verrrry interesting. Unfortunately, I have neither the energy nor computer battery left to write about it now. <br /> At this point, I am still in shock that I'm in AFRICA and am trying my best to soak it all in...stay tuned!Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00218875379301900944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1903730631519333365.post-30425592163712371002009-06-27T16:10:00.000-07:002009-06-27T16:19:17.012-07:00Calming down...I'm surprised at how uncomfortable my last blog made some people. Rest assured, it is not very often that I get on my soapbox like that, so no need to stop reading. I did want to clear the air that my last post was not intended to point fingers at anyone. I really was sharing something that I discovered in myself and our society throughout this process. I think, especially if it made you uncomfortable, we need to look at ourselves a little more objectively on these issues.<br /><br />In any case, it is now 3 days until blast off (er...take off), and I can barely contain myself. I just want to be there NOW. I find myself resentful of the heat here, muttering things like "what is <span style="font-style: italic;">this </span>about? It's not even this hot in <span style="font-style: italic;">Uganda</span> right now". I mean, if I have to melt in heat like this, shouldn't I at least get to be in Africa? The Bay Area is just getting a little too big for it's britches right now, trying to be something it's not. Annoying.<br /><br />Anyway, my plan is to try to write just about everyday in Uganda, but am still unsure about what our internet access will be. I hope that you will follow along with our journey and pass this blog along to others. Get ready for an adventure!Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00218875379301900944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1903730631519333365.post-61399386799924595232009-06-22T14:56:00.000-07:002009-06-22T20:48:18.773-07:00Racism and Compassion<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRcDmJsJawr_Og2pksbJbfVu8J4_C500cxu1DhF6JB3HFpoifEM4TX8lBr7ybl6dDzk3WrodlpP3JCeLIP085cJ0LWoZd2LRUtF2SgAG49O-yVCyfpEXKjredESRQjulZWi_vD6phA_Xc/s1600-h/img_5457_1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 111px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRcDmJsJawr_Og2pksbJbfVu8J4_C500cxu1DhF6JB3HFpoifEM4TX8lBr7ybl6dDzk3WrodlpP3JCeLIP085cJ0LWoZd2LRUtF2SgAG49O-yVCyfpEXKjredESRQjulZWi_vD6phA_Xc/s200/img_5457_1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350290228772423570" border="0" /></a><br />I can't quite believe that after over a month of working, school, and fundraising without a single day off, I am just 8 days away from leaving for Uganda - FINALLY!<br /><br />Fundraising has been much more difficult, exhausting, and frustrating than I had anticipated. Even after a letter-writing campaign, Art Show & Silent Auction, fundraising BBQ, Karaoke event, Art Festival Booth, Bake Sale, professional presentation, and several business contributions, none of us were able to meet our fundraising goals. The individuals that did give were more than generous - and we are hugely grateful - but they were not a large group. And it has me wondering why. I mean, I have always worked with non-profits and have done more than my share of fundraising, so I'd say I have a fairly large basis of comparison, and the truth is that there has been something different about this particular fundraising effort. Some have chalked it up to the economy, but I get the sense that there is a lot more to it. Part of me wonders if it a collective loss of hope. In situations where I expect people to get fired up, I am instead met with glazed-over faces and even flat-out refusals to care. Are people just burnt-out and tired of feeling helpless? Is it compassion-fatigue? I don't think it is. I don't think it is about money and I don't think it's about weariness...I think it's about WHO we are talking about. We are talking about "over there," Africans, black people.<br /><br />I'm ashamed to admit it, but racial and ethnic issues have never been at the top of my concerns for social issues. Maybe it's because I'm white and it doesn't affect me much in my daily life. Maybe I'm more focused on issues that impact people regardless of color (this is the one I prefer to believe). Whatever the reason, the point is that my first inclinition is not to cry "Racism!" in the face of injustice. That's why I really am so surprised with the responses I have been getting about this Uganda trip. I have been stunned to silence when, as I tell people about our trip, they wave it off saying "yeah, but that's Africa"...and your point is?... Perhaps Africa seems way too far away to be real. Maybe the civil unrest and misery seems the norm for that continent. It may be that the problem seems to big to do anything about. Or could it be that the faces that come to mind when we talk about the atrocities in Uganda are of black people? Are we, as (white) Americans, less inclined to identify with a black person? Do we feel the pain of a black person less than we would of a fellow white person? Be honest with yourself. These are questions that I have had to face myself, and I have to admit that the answers I came up with were not as politically-correct as I would have liked to believe. It was not until I really started immersing myself in the plight of the Ugandan people that I really started to <span style="font-style: italic;">feel</span> it on a personal level. As embarassing as it is to own up to, I was able to personally connect more immediately to stories that I heard of white women who had suffered these assaults than when it was an African woman. It is because I am evil and racist? Absolutely not. It is a proven psychological phenomenon that we are programmed to identify with those that look like us, and distance from those that don't. It is a basic in-group/out-group distinction. But that only explains our initial reaction. We are completely responsible for what happens after that. And I believe that what should happen next is that you ask yourself "why would I feel that way?"<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmrMBf7egVXLIXzhn3JQjPCovCd5hpgK00fyJKTDFB-ILw77wpj2sHitaloGpd5kbJ4k3DMGX5PAT7BdALmtp6_1tyHrdGz2w-7jl4A-SlXjAhRyaxRyQRdjoQ9eVP4U7evf4CZ-DIDDc/s1600-h/7img_8627.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmrMBf7egVXLIXzhn3JQjPCovCd5hpgK00fyJKTDFB-ILw77wpj2sHitaloGpd5kbJ4k3DMGX5PAT7BdALmtp6_1tyHrdGz2w-7jl4A-SlXjAhRyaxRyQRdjoQ9eVP4U7evf4CZ-DIDDc/s200/7img_8627.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350291032131306098" border="0" /></a><br /></div>The truth is, regardless of skin color, culture, nationality, or religion, we share something very profound with the Ugandan people: humanity. It doesn't matter how many wars have occurred on African soil, how much poverty exists, or how "used to it" they may be - their pain is the same pain we would feel if it were to happen to us. It is no less intense or devastating just because they are African. A mother loses her child to the rebel army or sex slavery: her anguish is the same whether she is black or white. A child is raped and orphaned: she cries the same tears regardless of her skin color.<br /><br />Imagine this:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoINHpC-TRmQa01Q9V8OyKDG600aVgDwiDUJzSjXLnVTME13uZgoJydODyO39qqBoj0nW1srE6J6uhGwiMpXnCdHNIwb4PSdrQwUwUNm1m1pZCzTQZBsTodAXmdaAhu66Y5nuEmb2E12A/s1600-h/Child_crying-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 189px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoINHpC-TRmQa01Q9V8OyKDG600aVgDwiDUJzSjXLnVTME13uZgoJydODyO39qqBoj0nW1srE6J6uhGwiMpXnCdHNIwb4PSdrQwUwUNm1m1pZCzTQZBsTodAXmdaAhu66Y5nuEmb2E12A/s200/Child_crying-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350295333442850642" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51); font-style: italic;">I h</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51); font-style: italic;">av</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51); font-style: italic;">e hard-evidence and government confirmation that a cult is invading communities in the dead of the night and kidnapping children while they sleep. Before they take the children, they force them</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51); font-style: italic;"> to slaughter their own parents as the first step in brainwashing. The little girls are kept as sex slaves for the cult leaders. The little boys are turned into serial killers and forced to go on murder-sprees to prove their allegiance to the cult. Over the past 20 years, this cult has kidnapped over 60,000 children across the northern U.S. The government has known about this, and has </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51); font-style: italic;">launched half-hearted efforts to intervene. Instead of addressing the problem directly, they simply tell the fr</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51); font-style: italic;">ightened citizens that they should move to an area that is safer. Over 2 million people in the northern U.S. have abandoned their homes and lives, and are now homeless and dispersed throughout the Midwest. Because the </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51); font-style: italic;">families affected are from rural and lower-income areas, they have not had the means to gather support and attention for this ongoing atrocity. Instead, they struggle alone with their grief, fear, and despair. They are ignored by their own government and people. They are disposable.</span><br /><br />Can you imagine the outrage that would be raised if this were to be released to the American press?! If we found out that our own children were subjected to these horrors on such a m<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguab8or8lXpp2OPRZcoVN9b_M9LBwNFFhwqGe5xg0M-UYdmUUjt17tfkTMRMenM-3EqqJrZrQQ1MAeX1Zf7qI-Wgx2NeTNhhpK-W_LzJlVWVMuIkc9yLpnswW7dDO2EH6sHOOpcVY-DwI/s1600-h/Rescue_2009_Nadu_crying.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguab8or8lXpp2OPRZcoVN9b_M9LBwNFFhwqGe5xg0M-UYdmUUjt17tfkTMRMenM-3EqqJrZrQQ1MAeX1Zf7qI-Wgx2NeTNhhpK-W_LzJlVWVMuIkc9yLpnswW7dDO2EH6sHOOpcVY-DwI/s200/Rescue_2009_Nadu_crying.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350295907238556898" border="0" /></a>assive and centralized scale? All those precious little faces and big eyes searching for comfort and safety? Just replace the "U.S." with "Uganda" in the above paragraph and that is just the beginning of what has been happening to the people there. Why does it matter more to us if those precious little faces are black or white, African or American? Why does a human life have more value depending on where she is born? I don't think it does. I believe that we need to move toward a perspective of global citizenship, focusing on our shared humanity rather than our differences. I challenge you to think about the causes that really grip your heart, and question why that cause is more salient than others for you. We are all called to different things - that in itself is not wrong. But I hope that you will be willing to admit to yourself if there are other reasons that you care more about one thing over another. I had to. It's not fun, but it may just change the way you see the world.<br /><br /><img src="file:///C:/Users/Angel/AppData/Local/Temp/moz-screenshot.jpg" alt="" />Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00218875379301900944noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1903730631519333365.post-78797846003830514662009-04-12T12:52:00.000-07:002009-04-12T13:17:55.423-07:00This time: UGANDA!<div>So...as I see that my last post was in August of 2008, I'm a bit discouraged to see that I was right about getting caught up in my petty little concerns here and forgetting about the bigger world out there. Though, in my own defense (against my self-insults), I must say that the past 8 months have not been completely wasted with my self-absorption. In fact, quite a bit has come of my experience in Cambodia.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>First, I was able to present to several groups about what I saw and learned about human trafficking in Cambodia, which was rewarding and confirming to me. Second, during one of my presentations, I was approached by one of the professors in my program about joining her research group, which focuses on child trauma, particularly through sexual exploitation. After a bit of talking and maneuvering, I am now a member of her research lab, and am thrilled beyond words with it. Most of our time is spent analyzing data from an organization in Oakland that works with prostituted adolescents. Heartbreaking and motivating.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Now, as you may remember, the highlight of my Cambodia trip was my visit to the Transitions Cambodia shelter, and meeting its founder, James Pond. Well, upon my return to the States I became more and more intent on working with Transitions somehow, and it was at that time that I discovered that James and his wife, Athena, were expanding Transitions Cambodia into a global operation, and were starting a shelter in Portland, Oregon, for survivors of trafficking and slavery in the US! Can you imagine how thrilling that is?! It has been my goal to figure out how to help these survivors, and to start some sort of a program for the enslaved in our very own country - and now the hardest part (the getting it started part) is already being done! And by two of the people I most respect, using the most effective model of recovery worldwide! Eek! So, I proposed to my research advisor that we offer our data collection/analysis services to Transitions Global, and she was immediately on board. After several emails and phone conferences with James, I am on my way to leading up the only official research and data collection of human trafficking recovery programs in the US. But wait, it gets even better...Transitions Global has also just started a shelter in Mumbai, India...this means that I will be gathering and analyzing data for a recovery model being implemented in 3 different countries: Cambodia, India, and the US! If you are a research geek like me, you know just how absolutely HUGE this is!</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh9ncQKEtveg2NMIr6lzhtfd02S7HhYah55V947QNLCITszIJ0LXzR57QUciohFTb7Lme7QMaoR9-hH3zZbcg8wDnHCUyzIrCWPZGi_XW9eaTOjQJ2JALMYrqGvx5q17WsGsvpuVz7qxc/s1600-h/371.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323901089129487954" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 157px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh9ncQKEtveg2NMIr6lzhtfd02S7HhYah55V947QNLCITszIJ0LXzR57QUciohFTb7Lme7QMaoR9-hH3zZbcg8wDnHCUyzIrCWPZGi_XW9eaTOjQJ2JALMYrqGvx5q17WsGsvpuVz7qxc/s200/371.JPG" border="0" /></a>So, that exciting news aside...I have even more. You might need a break first - go ahead and get a cup of coffee and stretch your legs. I'll wait......back? Ok. I'm taking another trip this summer: this time to UGANDA, Africa! I'm actually organizing the trip this time, and it looks like it will be mostly comprised of my fellow PhD students at PGSP, though others are welcome, as well. The trip is being planned and facilitated by Alessandro and Global Exchange again, the same group and director for the Cambodia trip. I'm SO SO SO excited, and will be writing again soon to explain why Uganda is our destination. In the meantime, please also take a minute to visit my new website at <a href="http://www.angeljdaniels.com/">http://www.angeljdaniels.com/</a>, where I am selling my artwork to raise money for the Uganda research.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Thanks for hanging in there with me! More to come!</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div>Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00218875379301900944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1903730631519333365.post-79938241777041694032008-08-21T14:28:00.001-07:002008-08-21T15:06:58.084-07:00August 21, 2008 - Mountain View, CAWell, I'd say I've officially settled back into life in the States. That's not to say I'm any less eager to be back in Cambodia and/or be productive in my anti-human trafficking efforts, but I'm happy to say I've come out of my funk. Mostly out of necessity - I'm so darn busy!<br /><br />One thing that I am continually amazed about is how "destined" I seem to be to work in this field. I'm not sharing this out of self-centeredness (aren't I just <span style="font-style: italic;">faaaabulous</span>?), but because I think its important for people to pay attention to where they are being led. I started thinking about this because the question I most often get asked about my efforts is "what got you interested in human trafficking?". I think people expect that I've had some personal connection to it; that I've known someone who was a victim or was otherwise exposed to it in someway. For me it was a lot simpler than that. One day, while working for an incredible organization called Young Life, my boss mentioned the International Justice Mission (IJM) to me in a random conversation. He gave a brief explanation (they fight slavery) and moved on. I was baffled as to what he could mean. Um, Jeff, slavery ended with the Civil War. So, I looked IJM up on the internet (http://www.ijm.org) and was dumfounded by what I learned on their site. Not only are there people living in slavery today, but it's over twice the number of people enslaved during the entire trans-atlantic slave trade! Furthermore, I read about the horrific practice of sex slavery and sexual exploitation. And that was it. That was the moment that I got interested. I just<span style="font-style: italic;"> knew </span>that I was meant to do something about it.<br /><br />The path that I have taken as a result of this growing interest hasn't been the most direct or even the most clear to me, but it has been full of confirmation to me that this is where I am being led. I decided to pursue my master's degree in forensic psychology, and upon my arrival at that school discovered that my campus was literally next door to IJM and that my advisor and mentor was closely involved with IJM. Now, in my doctoral program, I have been wanting to focus my research onto this topic, but was already committed to a research project at the state prison that was going to fill up all my time. I just got word yesterday that our research authorization at the prison got yanked and my advisor gave me the go-ahead to focus on my human trafficking research! And then last night I met up with a friend from DC who was in town, and she informed me that she is good friends with the deputy director of the Polaris Project - one of the leading anti-human trafficking organizations in the US - and that she'd be happy to put us in touch! It's these little signs that confirm to me that this is the direction I should be heading. And I'm wondering how many of us are getting similar "signs" about what we are meant to do, but overlook them because we are so caught up in our own agenda. I know that I'm only starting to recognize my signs as I reflect on the past few years, but now that I see them, I'm eagerly waiting for more. It's a glorious feeling - to find your purpose!<br /><br />So, thanks for bearing with me as I got on my soapbox for a little bit, but I really just want to encourage others to figure out what they are passionate about. There are so many worthy causes out there, and such a shortage of people who care enough to take action. If you're reading this blog, I already know you're one who cares enough to do something, I just hope you find your path as rewarding as I do!<br /><br />If, in the meantime, you want to find a way to contribute to a worthy cause today, I found this great option for giving on the Polaris Project's website...they have recently started transitional living apartments for survivors of trafficking in DC, and have registered for household items at Target. To buy something for real-life survivors here in our very own country, visit: http://www.target.com/registry/wedding/33SWO3ZQ2M0ER. There is a wide range of prices - so even if you only have a little to give, it can mean a lot to them!Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00218875379301900944noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1903730631519333365.post-35006070886509558782008-07-21T15:16:00.000-07:002008-08-21T15:06:58.085-07:00July 21, 2008 - Mountain View, CA 3:30pmI have hesitated to write since my return to the States, mostly because I have no idea what to say. The adjustment to life back in the U.S. has been extremely difficult for me. I know that, unless I share my experiences with people here, my trip would have been for nothing. But I don't even know where to start. Especially hard for me to address are the well-meaning conversational starters of "so, tell me about your trip". I know that those who ask are sincere in wanting to know about it, but I don't think they have any idea of what they would get if I started really talking. And there is no way to give a 2-minute overview while passing someone in the hallway. I feel like you either need to know the whole story or none of it. I mean, if <span style="font-style: italic;">I'm </span>still putting it all together, how can anyone else possibly understand how complex and deep the human trafficking situation is in Cambodia. But, I'm determined to share it. I have to share it. People need to know.<br /><br />So, until I find my words, bear with me. I <span style="font-style: italic;">will</span> talk to you.<br /><br />It's hard to be here, which is ironic because the whole time I was in Cambodia I was thinking how how hard it was to be <span style="font-style: italic;">there. </span>It's hard to look around and see so much wealth and gluttony and materialism. I'm not pointing fingers here; I think the same thing when looking at my own life. It's hard to tolerate the petty concerns and dramas we create for ourselves out of boredom. It's hard to have nobody to talk to here who knows what I'm thinking. I have incredible people in my life - people who deeply care<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil4M_6Fn6SM-56uxFN1BLT3KLG1DktQJJOdbzDLMx1Pog495VfpkvJQnuaUWL7FRGMAz2hDqxNe1PnCYXpnNcOGG9mO3LgXYHKcLcULJZV5cgxK04vkpH-CTn9LPehOEle3S3qFnZxcbo/s1600-h/100_1210.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil4M_6Fn6SM-56uxFN1BLT3KLG1DktQJJOdbzDLMx1Pog495VfpkvJQnuaUWL7FRGMAz2hDqxNe1PnCYXpnNcOGG9mO3LgXYHKcLcULJZV5cgxK04vkpH-CTn9LPehOEle3S3qFnZxcbo/s200/100_1210.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225601627830201314" border="0" /></a> about humanity and justice - but they simply weren't there with me. And regardless of how much they may want to understand, they just can't. So I feel lonely here in this country of excess. With our wide open roads that we consider to be full of traffic. And our exasperation at having to wait in line for groceries. And my cat that has to lose 5 pounds because he has too much to eat.<br /><br />I feel so far away from reality. How can I go about my normal higher-education life here knowing what struggling is really like? I feel an impatience to <span style="font-style: italic;">do something</span>. I'm going crazy thinking that it will be 4 more years until I can actually get to work. I have faith that getting my PhD will help me do more than I can without it, but in the meantime all I can think about is all those people who are suffering today. And I'm stuck here studying for exams and trying to pretend like I feel like I belong.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz0zmpdVKX18KPaWRCibzXlnZPD3EllW154dkMzLWFIb66PaCjUZf5-_BtKZgEpaJSlGoWRwh0mqHAsOddHo9RCh67O7oZatv24gmmvVYWuKoPmIHxuEIl8MLMbZxH66gBGDZdEFfagUc/s1600-h/100_1575.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz0zmpdVKX18KPaWRCibzXlnZPD3EllW154dkMzLWFIb66PaCjUZf5-_BtKZgEpaJSlGoWRwh0mqHAsOddHo9RCh67O7oZatv24gmmvVYWuKoPmIHxuEIl8MLMbZxH66gBGDZdEFfagUc/s200/100_1575.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225602181508315426" border="0" /></a>Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00218875379301900944noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1903730631519333365.post-80622704337956447622008-07-13T22:09:00.000-07:002008-08-21T15:06:58.086-07:00July 11, 2008 - Phnom Penh, Cambodia 10:00pm<span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">My last full day here in Cambodia was spent at Transitions Cambodia, Inc. (TCI). I am SO excited and encouraged by the work that James and his staff do at TCI, and am thrilled that I got to end my trip with that experience. </span></span></span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> James was a Special Ops Marine, who was working in a civilian company making $250,000/year in Oregon. One day, he and his family watched a documentary about human trafficking called </span><i>Children For Sale </i><span style="font-style: normal;">and they decided, as a family, to do something. He quit is job and he, his wife, daughter (16 years old), and two sons (14 and 9), packed up and moved to Cambodia to start an organization to help victims not only recover, b</span></span></span></span></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-style: normal;">ut discover who they were meant to be. TCI is a home-like environment that is structured to “help girls rebuild their lives in a meaningful and sustainable way”. I could go in-depth about how exactly they do that, but instead I will highlight some of the aspects of the program that are particularly unique and exciting. TCI provides housing, medical care, counseling, social work, safety, yoga, art therapy, education, and vocational training. James firmly believes that all girls deserve to rediscover their smile, so each girl gets extensive dental work until her smile is perfect. In the first phase of the treatment process, the girls are required to set career goals. The only limitations put on them is that they cannot choose menial labor. Unlike other programs that offer participants training in sewing, cooking, etc, TCI asserts that “if you give girls a job sewing in a factory, it doesn't do much to restore her dignity”. It also doesn't do much to address the larger societal problem that valued them so little to b</span></span></span></span></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-style: normal;">egin with. James encourages the girls to set a goal that they don't think they can reach, and then make sure that they do. For example, one of the girls that recently completed the program now works as a translator for the government and makes 3x the average Cambodian wage. She was able to move away from Phnom Penh as an independent, confident, and self-supporting woman. </span></span></span></span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> TCI also trains the girls in basic life skills (such as going to market and cleaning their own houses – since many of them have been prostitutes since childhood and never learned basic self-care), physical fitness (to learn how their emotions and bodies are interconnected, mainly through yoga and therapy combined), big-sister program with another girl further along in the program, and requires that they participate in community service to learn to give back and improve their society. The girls themselves decide when they are ready to leave the house.</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> After </span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">our fantastic education from James, we spent the rest of the day just hanging out with the girls who were so excited to have us there. Normally, James doesn't allow visitors to TCI (he doesn't want the girls to feel like they are zoo animals), but he believed in our mission and thought it could be good for them to socialize with us. They cooked for us, and then we spent a while playing games and crafts together. </span></span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> One of the girls, Srey Neth, has agreed to share her story in order to save other girls from the suffering she has survived. Neth is currently 19 years old, and has been at TCI since she was rescued from the Building by International Justice Mission a couple of years ago. Had I met her in any other setting, I would have thought she was a typical, </span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">if not extra goofy and silly, Cambodian teenager. She was definitely the entertainer and leader of the group and kept us all laughing with her funny dancing and sharp wit. But Neth is making up for a childhood that was lost. At age 14, her mother sold Neth into a brothel at the Building for $300. The madam who ran the brothel sold Neth's virginity for $300. For the next year, Neth was forced to service an average of 20 men per day, 7 days per week, even when she was sick or hurt. When she cried, she was electrocuted or beaten by her madam. She was given injections into her belly to stop her from getting her period so that she could work continuously. She eventually contracted HIV.</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> And today this exceptionally strong and resilient child made me laugh and be silly with her. She </span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigZ1-hfGjXspwtH26-PhyphenhyphenZRRrl1h9Tc1TZpfxdgPScMjU5U19RSYGqjoVGMTS0xGTs5xVDB2-9IockuStkUQnBipxn1lSJSVbRTrd4QcvcV-0zALMdqVvi5bB0jNI3sPFnVJ_2XjMbfM0/s1600-h/100_1911.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigZ1-hfGjXspwtH26-PhyphenhyphenZRRrl1h9Tc1TZpfxdgPScMjU5U19RSYGqjoVGMTS0xGTs5xVDB2-9IockuStkUQnBipxn1lSJSVbRTrd4QcvcV-0zALMdqVvi5bB0jNI3sPFnVJ_2XjMbfM0/s200/100_1911.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222732957835992066" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">outsmarted me in a game we were playing and teased me for it. She showed me some of her artwork, including a drawing depicting her being beaten by her madam in the brothel. She is training to be a teacher, and helps counsel the other girls at TCI. She calls James “chicken hair” because of his hair style and he throws her over her shoulder while she shreaks and giggles. James, one of my new heroes, is so fatherly with these girls that in the face of the ugliest side of what men can do, he restores my faith that men can be good and noble and empathetic. And he seems to have restored his girls' faith in men, too. I would have thought that would be impossible.</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="color:#000000;">Transitions Cambodia is funded completely by donations. It is a 501c3, so all donations are tax-deductible and qualify for employer matching. Please consider donating as a monthly donor ($35 per month can provide medical and dental care for one girl!) or one-time donation. Contact me for more info or go to </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color:#000080;"><u><a href="http://www.transitionscambodia.org/"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="color:#000000;">http://www.transitionscambodia.org</span></span></span></span></span></a></u></span><span style="font-style: normal;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="color:#000000;"> </span></span></span></span></span> </p>Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00218875379301900944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1903730631519333365.post-60374330390516566532008-07-13T22:07:00.000-07:002008-08-21T15:06:58.087-07:00July 10, 2008 - Phnom Penh, Cambodia 11:00pm<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Tonight I went out with Tammy, Alessandro, and James Pond (that's </span><i>P</i><span style="font-style: normal;">ond, not 007...though he could be), who founded and runs Transitions Cambodia, Inc. (TCI). James took us on a tuk-tuk (passenger trailer pulled by a motorbike – Cambodia's version of a cab) ride through the brothel areas of Phnom Penh. James told us that there had been a recent crack-down on the well-known brothels, in a response to the U.N. And U.S.'s ultimatums (make more of an effort against trafficking and child prostitution or we'll stop giving you money). Unfortunately, rather than stopping sex slavery, it only forced it further underground or relocated it. I'm sure this is a case of “treating the symptom not the disease” in terms of the larger systematic problems at play, but in any case, James told us that we wouldn't see as much as we would have a few months ago. Could have fooled me. We rode down streets and streets just </span><i>filled</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> with girls sitting outside of bars and clubs where they either worked for pimps as street prostitutes, in sex bars, brothels, or as “hostesses”. They all looked so young. James told us that what we were seeing was just the outer layer of the sex trade in Phnom Penh. Like a rotting, stinking, poisoned onion, there is layer upon layer of exploitation, degradation, and criminality. Some of the bars, we were told, had a “fishbowl” set up, where a man would enter to see a glass room filled with girls sitting on bleachers, all with numbers pinned to their chests. He simply orders which one he wants by number. Others are a little less obvious, employing hostesses who try to get men to buy as many drinks as possible before paying to take her upstairs. And then there is the Building. The Building is enormous and looks like it has been bombed out (probably has). I wouldn't set foot anywhere in the vicinity, just for the fear of it collapsing as I walked by. Well, this charming little locale is the hub of Phnom Penh's sex trafficking industry. Inside, we were told, every single room (formerly apartments) is filled with brothels (aka, sex slaves). Many of them children. It is unclear why the police haven't targeted the Building, but I suspect the reasons are also multi-layered. James told us that a friend of his, who worked undercover to rescue girls from the Building, vomited the first time he entered one of the rooms. The stench of human excretions (mostly male, if you catch my drift) was so overpowering that he had to leave and come back later to avoid throwing up again in front of the madam. </span></span></span></span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> To get an even closer view of sexual exploitation at play, James took us to a bar called the Walk About, which caters mainly to Westerners. He and Alessandro waited outside, and told Tammy and I to go in and look around. He wanted to get a woman's perspective on it. At first, it looked like any American bar. Lots of older white guys having drinks and laughing. On closer inspection, all of the white guys were chatting with young (and I mean </span><i>young) </i><span style="font-style: normal;">Cambodian girls. We headed upstairs and, on the way up, encountered a girl who needed help putting her dress back on. Before we could offer, a fat old white guy rushed to her side to lace up her dress, while also happening to grope all over her. Ew. Upstairs was a large group of older men – imagine 7 or 8 American businessmen that you would see on a golf course – each with 2 or 3 young girls hanging on him. As I watched these men, probably doctors and CEO's, I couldn't help but think of how easy it would be, if I were them, to fool myself into thinking that the girls were enjoying themselves. I guess I always have the image of the prostitute as sad and deadened, based on what I've read about the psychological effects of the industry, but failed to remember that they also have to sell themselves successfully. Therefore, they play the part of happy and fun, flirty and desiring of the men. If that's all I wanted to believe, I could see how tempting it would be to ignore the reality of what these girls endured and accept them at face-value. </span></span></span></span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> With our blood boiling, Tammy and I decided that it was time to go. We couldn't stand to see human beings traded around as products any longer. On our way out, two younger American guys sitting at the bar grabbed my arm. They asked if we wanted to go out drinking and dancing with them. We said we couldn't, and then one of the guys told me that we really need to leave the bar. When I asked why, he flatly told me “because this is a hooker bar”. “Oh, really?”, Tammy said. He quickly explained that he and his friend (both professors) had booked a room in the hotel (conveniently upstairs from the “hooker bar”) without knowing what type of a place it was. I told him I was surprised that they stayed, then, and asked how he felt about staying in a place like that if he wasn't partaking in it. He said it didn't bother him – that it's just a cultural thing for the women and it's the only way they can make money. I wanted to smack his fat face and give him a serious education about why he </span><i>should </i><span style="font-style: normal;">be bothered. But before I gave in to the temptation, Tammy dragged me out and back to the tuk-tuk, where our chivalrous men, men who fight for the rights of these women and understand what the sex trade does to them, waited to comfort us. </span></span></span></span></span> </p>Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00218875379301900944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1903730631519333365.post-52588966389607797152008-07-13T21:19:00.000-07:002008-08-21T15:06:58.088-07:00July 10, 2008 - Kompong Chhnang Province, Cambodia 5:00pm<span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">We left Phnom Penh and drove to the Kompong Chhnang province (about an hour away) to meet with Randa, the director of Kampuchea for Christ. Randa is a Cambodian woman who started a center in the province that cares for victims of sexual abuse, rape, and sex slavery. The center itself is impressive and lovely, but even more striking to me was Randa's own life story. To put her story in context, I will give an extremely brief explanation of the past 40 years or so of Cambodia. </span></span></span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> Following the Vietnam War Cambodia went through several years of civil war. Then, on April 17, 1975, the war-ravaged capital of Phnom Penh was “saved” when an army of Cambodian soldiers, mostly young, and dressed in all black marched silently into the city. The people thought that they were there to end the war and they rejoiced. They cheered, hugged, and</span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> cried with relief. They gathered in the streets to meet the soldiers and thank them. The soldiers, representing the Khmer Rouge Regime and directed by the newly assigned leader, Pol Pot, told the people that the Americans were going to bomb the city in the next few days and that they had to evacuate. This wasn't a stretch to believe, as the Nixon administration had recently relentlessly bombed other areas of Cambodia for days on end in an attempt to quash communism. Within three hours of their arrival, the Khmer Rouge soldiers had emptied the entire city of Phnom Penh and drove all of its residents to the countryside, where they killed them all with pick-ax blows to the backs of their heads and necks. The fields where the mass killings took place came to be known as The Killing Fields. But they didn't stop there. Under Pol Pot's orders, they continued their terrorizing throughout the whole country. They targeted the educated class of Cambodia, focusing on torturing and killing the upper-level of society. Those that they didn't kill right away were held in torture camps and interrogated. Supposedly, every single one of them was suspected of espionage for the CIA and KGB, but it is much more likely that they were the only ones that posed a threat of</span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> speaking out against the Regime. </span></span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="color:#000000;"> When it was all said and done, from 1975 to 1979, the Khmer Rouge Regime murdered <b>2 MILLION</b> Cambodians, including all of its doctors, teachers, professors, lawyers, judges, government workers, and other professionals. The entire educated class of Cambodia was wiped out. Their children were also all killed in an effort to avoid future acts of revenge. </span></span></span></span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> When I arrived in Cambodia, I had heard vaguely of the Khmer Rouge regime, but had no idea of how central that period in time was to creating the country that I found on my trip. It is hard enough for a country to recover from a period of war, especially on it's own soil, but Cambodia's problem is even greater. Not only had they lost all of their educated class who were essentially running the country before, but they had nobody to train and teach a new generation how to fill those roles. They are a poor nation of farmers and laborers who were left to start from scratch. They went from having 40,000 doctors to having 40, a</span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">nd nobody left to teach medical students. The country is in such widespread poverty that I can't imagine a child growing up in one of these poor villages thinking of anything but survival, much less higher education. But, even if they did, who would teach them? Nobody knows how the courts and government used to run. I consider myself part of the educated class in the U.S., but even I would seriously screw up if I was left to start a legal system from scratch. So, as these people struggle to recover from devastating war, genocide, and grief, they must not only fight for basic survival, but also to build an entirely new country. And all the while, they are trying to find strength to move past the horrors that they themselves have witnessed. I don't think I met one person in Cambodia that hadn't lost someone in the Regime. It's a wonder that they have any faith left in humanity. And learning all of this has helped me to understand how the corruption, poverty, and inhumanities are occurring. How could they not?</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> So, back to Randa. We met with Randa, and she told us her story while we sat on huge home-made swings under palm-frond huts. Randa was 12 or 13 when the Khmer Rouge entered Phnom Penh.</span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0PQ30tLWwJsjMnIE49AIz0_fh4QomWPrAWl_Zs2nyA8Gwon8ukVbd_Fm-UCaPll3YqFN4iZ32E5KPcHe-D7KHB4zNNFg1JK78dDQ1HLAHPFwOjDJv_pKlRgsxOQkjB0kmv13fE5GhrYo/s1600-h/randa+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0PQ30tLWwJsjMnIE49AIz0_fh4QomWPrAWl_Zs2nyA8Gwon8ukVbd_Fm-UCaPll3YqFN4iZ32E5KPcHe-D7KHB4zNNFg1JK78dDQ1HLAHPFwOjDJv_pKlRgsxOQkjB0kmv13fE5GhrYo/s200/randa+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222720975797409458" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> Her family was slaughtered in the Killing Fields, and she was taken to a torture camp where she knew she would be killed. One day, she decided that she would rather die anywhere but there, so she hid in the back of a military truck and held herself up against the wall of it behind a blanket. The truck left the camp and, after a few hours of driving, her muscles gave out and she tumbled into the front of the truck. The soldiers looked down at her, and asked her what she was doing. She said that the would rather die anywhere but the torture camp, and asked if they could kill her there instead of taking her back. One of the soldiers, a female, promised that she would keep Randa with her and wouldn't let her go back. When they got to their base, Randa was told that she would be trained to shoot a gun and kill for them. The little girl of only 13 looked at them and said that she would not. Rather than killing her, they said that she could instead work as a maid for them, but that she would not be allowed to speak a word – ever. So, she worked with some other children as the silent slaves of the Khmer Rouge soldiers for months and months. One morning, she awoke to the sound of gunfire and bombs, and saw that the base had been completely abandoned. Only she and the children remained. She decided to wait one week, and if nobody came for them, they would run. A week later, she and the children escaped from the base into the jungle. There they hid for days, covering themselves with dirt and leaves to avoid detection and mosquitos. At one point, they all hid in a pond for 3 whole days, and when they finally emerged, they couldn't even see their skin because they were covered in leeches. Weak from the loss of blood, Randa stumbled upon an American military envoy, and was saved. They took her to a refugee camp and asked where she would like to be re-settled. She said America. Her story of being in the Camp, hearing about the Bible, becoming a Christian, meeting her husband, moving to the States, and then deciding to return to Cambodia is one that could best be read in her autobiography, which is available for sale. Learning about her experiences first-hand are much more powerful than my weak re-telling, so I highly recommend reading it.</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> Randa made us all cry with her story. Perhaps the most incredible part, to me, was that she returned to the country that caused her so much heartache and trauma, and decided to immerse herself in other people's pain in order to help them recover. She is so inspirational and encouraging. If and when Cambodia recovers from the atrocities it has seen, it will be because of people like Randa. </span></span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-style: normal;">(Film about the Khmer Rouge genocide: </span><i>The Killing Fields</i><span style="font-style: normal;">; Randa and Setan's stories: http://denver.rockymountainnews.com/flash/cambodia/print.shtml) </span></span></span></span></span> </p> <p style="margin-left: 2.5in; text-indent: -2.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="justify" lang="en-US"><br /></p>Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00218875379301900944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1903730631519333365.post-80269493204290061172008-07-12T23:47:00.000-07:002008-08-21T15:06:58.089-07:00July 9, 2008 - Phnom Penh, Cambodia 10:00pm<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Just when I think I've come to grasp the level of injustice and corruption that the Cambodian people have been subjected to, I learn something that knocks me right back into utter disbelief. Today was one of those times. We were greeted this morning by an American girl named Ali, who came over to Cambodia for a visit after graduating from college and, once she saw what was happening here, canceled her flight home and decided to stay to help. The specific situation that gripped Ali's heart was that of Andon. Andon is a “community” of squatters that was established by the Cambodian government about an hour outside of Phnom Penh. In the 1990's, foreign real-estate developers</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> decided that they wanted to buy a huge stretch of land along the river in Phnom Penh. They were willing to pay a generous price to the Cambodian government for it, and the offer was too good to refuse. Unfortunately, the land was already occupied by approximately 1,600 families who owned h</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">omes and businesses on it. The government offered an insultingly low price to the families to vacate and they, quite rightly, turned it down. So, early one morning at around 4:00 am, the government invaded the community with tanks and armed soldiers. They woke everyone and told them they had 30 minutes to gather their belongings and vacate their homes. Those who resisted would be met with violence. Some did resist and were killed. The rest, terrified and confused, loaded onto the buses and were shipped to the middle of nowhere. There, they were given some meager supplies and then left to eke out an existence. So, 1,600 families were taken from an urban city-dwelling lifestyle, to being homeless in the fields and to fight for survival. Few of them knew how to build, farm, or otherwise make a life out of nothing. To make matters worse, the government had originally planned to buy 3 hectors for the families to live on, but didn't want to pay</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> that much so they squeezed them onto one. And there they remain today. A small </span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMEISAs5Og5ZDqyEw5FZ0R3JjuVzFUl1DaFMzp6r9MV-s18TwGLyRGaDHXA8CcqCIs_bdx14rdVcBbfe_GVu9H5-6eY0uA8krpo0t1ldisMLqFsGdf5KQmK69NbG2xTMKWrQajiASWxE0/s1600-h/100_1877.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMEISAs5Og5ZDqyEw5FZ0R3JjuVzFUl1DaFMzp6r9MV-s18TwGLyRGaDHXA8CcqCIs_bdx14rdVcBbfe_GVu9H5-6eY0uA8krpo0t1ldisMLqFsGdf5KQmK69NbG2xTMKWrQajiASWxE0/s200/100_1877.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222387104168255314" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">square of land crammed full of families who live in huts and shacks constructed of found materials. They have no space. They live shoulder to shoulder. They must compete for the limited resources available to them and, therefore, do not trust or look out for one another. They have no source of income, no place or way to get work. They live on nearly nothing. Their drinking water is drawn from trenches that you and I wouldn't even put our feet in. As I walked through Andon, I kept reminding myself that these weren't some breed of gypsies or voluntary settlers. These were respected business people and citizens of Cambodia. And they were reduced to this. The complete lack of control and power they have over their own lives was shocking to me. And, of course, they were extremely vulnerable to traffickers and exploitation. </span></span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> The indignation I feel at how people can treat their fellow man makes me want to vomit. And I fee</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">l so frustrated that all I can do is look on and be angry. There are several organizations that have been trying to help the people of Andon, including the one that Ali works for, but for some reason Andon seems to be only further declining. There is a great deal of sickness in the community (mostly from the lack of clean drinking water), and rising levels of domestic violence, assault, and rape. And there are so many children. Everywhere I walked, all I saw were children. Naked babies being cared for by nearly naked toddlers, watched by barely dressed children. A whole generation growing up thinking that Andon is what their lot in life is. I wonder if they will ever know anything different. </span></span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> While I was standing and taking photos, I felt a little hand on my leg. A tiny girl, no more than three</span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQEFthK7NerTLvyrZfpmy0wky8jNhHt2RcN05cEu_mQr_BVxO9Xt1X7Jgr8oc2qfYxeHcfeFLhN0pJjWueHkmHlGPQgZPLp5ffi09OwPpKQUlEmdHjfdWD_6r0cULKhFnByMPzXL19ins/s1600-h/100_1887.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQEFthK7NerTLvyrZfpmy0wky8jNhHt2RcN05cEu_mQr_BVxO9Xt1X7Jgr8oc2qfYxeHcfeFLhN0pJjWueHkmHlGPQgZPLp5ffi09OwPpKQUlEmdHjfdWD_6r0cULKhFnByMPzXL19ins/s200/100_1887.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222387443634444546" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> years old, had wrapped her arm around my knee and was resting her head on my thigh. She didn't look up at me or ask for anything. She just wanted contact. Comfort. Shelter. She wasn't even clinging or grasping me. Just leaning ever so lightly. And as I moved along through the alleys, she stuck with me until, suddenly, I looked down and she was gone. My heart hurts for her and for the fact that I didn't swoop her up in my arms and take her away from there.</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><br /></p>Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00218875379301900944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1903730631519333365.post-36713209024322166002008-07-11T07:43:00.000-07:002008-08-21T15:06:58.090-07:00July 7, 2008 - Phnom Penh, Cambodia 9:00pm<span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Yesterday we spent most of the day driving from Siem Reap to Phnom Penh, which is the capital of Cambodia. We drove through 6 hours of rice fields and countryside, and then entered the bustling and decrepid city. The entire city is in utter shambles and chaos. I</span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6E4JlxmFzRSLD3GHz6swOBo8r1PhBSfSFT9nZLky_Idz6pS8rpFsLBbVdkXHXF52zo8yuPr4lMZiaOzUkNrYcueNkgd8edu3WB3IHvAgZgNC7UP9WPH8qpFCdMrJyGPFk7oN-dcUaeow/s1600-h/100_1824.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6E4JlxmFzRSLD3GHz6swOBo8r1PhBSfSFT9nZLky_Idz6pS8rpFsLBbVdkXHXF52zo8yuPr4lMZiaOzUkNrYcueNkgd8edu3WB3IHvAgZgNC7UP9WPH8qpFCdMrJyGPFk7oN-dcUaeow/s200/100_1824.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221771070729842050" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> have only seen a handful of buildings that would pass building inspections in the U.S. and the rest are hollowed out, dirty, segmented versions of city construction. The r</span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">easons for this can only be understood with some learning about what the Khmer Rouge regime and war did </span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">to this once-prosperous nation, and I will try to go into that in a later posting, but for now you will just have to take my word for it. I can't even imagine an American trillionaire willing to redevelop this city if it was handed to him. I would think it would sooner be completely leveled and start from scratch. Additionally, many of the inhabitants of Phnom Penh live in homemade shacks, tents, and market stalls that line all the streets, so it is an added level of poverty and density.</span></span></span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> So, today we got our first real immersion into this city with a meeting at the Vulnerable Children Assistance Organization (VCAO) and then the city dump community. The VCAO is one of the local NGOs that works with trafficking and abuse survivors to not only pr</span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">ovide them with the care they need, but to provide them with real options for the future. They provide assistance, education, and advocacy, which includes housing and care, education, and job training. The program requires that after six months of vocational training (for example in sewing), the participants must start a business of their own. They may take out a no-interest loan from VCAO to get them started. It's exciting to see such sustainable after-care programs for victims, as it seems that so many NGOs in the U.S. just want to throw money at victims to help them in the present, without investing the time and energy required </span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">to truly change their future. The participants at the VCAO are aged 10-18, with the average age of 13. Just children. The center runs completely on private donations, with a mere $2,000 per month providing for 30-40 children. Unfortunately, the center is currently operating at 400% capacity, as they have lately seen a surge in the mail-order-bride problem. It is becoming increasingly popular for foreign men to hire “marriage brokers” to buy them a wife from a poor nation such as Cambodia. The girls are often sold as children to be married, and then are either abused by their husbands, sold by them to other men, or find out that there is no husband and they are trafficked into brothels. The center also recen</span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">tly had a few children come to them who had been held as slave laborers on fishing boats for the last two years. They escaped when they saw and island in the distance and swam to safety. I asked VCAO's Executive Director, Chea Pyden, what the biggest need for them currently is and his answer surprised me. He said they need more training for their counselors and social workers. I'm excited that I may actually be able to help one day.</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkLW9Qp4h8ckjhu872IUDBAhTuGP56h-K0UdTHzrQdWmXa2ilKWLrhHCIbUq7bwZv6X64H9kYYAiFygrzosiMY-dslLy_2kGLaIjaIDR3d3Lqw8kKezGY8q4jXstnCwR4llBb44hKL1bQ/s1600-h/100_1845.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkLW9Qp4h8ckjhu872IUDBAhTuGP56h-K0UdTHzrQdWmXa2ilKWLrhHCIbUq7bwZv6X64H9kYYAiFygrzosiMY-dslLy_2kGLaIjaIDR3d3Lqw8kKezGY8q4jXstnCwR4llBb44hKL1bQ/s200/100_1845.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221776122002553714" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> After the VCAO we went to a school that they run in the city dump. That's right, IN THE DUMP. There is an entire community of families who live right in the trash. They survive by sifting through garbage and muck all day everyday, and selling anything reusable they find. They have set up tarps as tents and that is where they call home. So do their children. We got to the school just in time to walk the kids back to their homes. Many of the kids were barefoot, walking through garbage that I hesitated to step on with my shoes. They also had more than their fair share of open wounds and infections. And yet they happily led us from their one-room schoolhouse, through the trash piles, to their own tents in the dump. And then the stench hit me. It was like nothing have ever smelled before. It took every ounce of my will not to gag in front of them. We were given surgical masks before arriving to help us with the smell, but I didn't want to offend or alienate these people any more than I had to. I already feel torn about</span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> “touring” their lives as if they were some attraction or freak show. I keep telling myself that it is for a good purpose, but it still feels demeaning. The people that I've met don't seem to mind. They are completely gracious, if not</span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-TMXu72-Gsvb70dXJE07xFJ9LZJXCkvYth2mb6q9UPaV_DuWHaI5bWMTa9UzMRkl8a5_lTF68dNRyIAP0I50e-G_D5JfQGOEhg4cC_AGFyAtfUoOFU-2NPky6Vx7i2T3zPdokOkleAVk/s1600-h/100_1839.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-TMXu72-Gsvb70dXJE07xFJ9LZJXCkvYth2mb6q9UPaV_DuWHaI5bWMTa9UzMRkl8a5_lTF68dNRyIAP0I50e-G_D5JfQGOEhg4cC_AGFyAtfUoOFU-2NPky6Vx7i2T3zPdokOkleAVk/s200/100_1839.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221774601931480546" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> somewhat guarded. I can't say that I blame them. Especially since our guide told us that rape and assault is a huge problem there, since local men know that they can enter the dump community and</span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> do what they wish with no</span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> threat of legal repercussions. In any case, our time in the dump community was haunting. Later that</span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> night, when we were sitting in our luxurious hotel rooms, Alessandro reminded me that right now,</span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> those kids that we had held hands with and walked home from school with were sleeping in the rotting stinking garbage that we happily fled from earlier. And they will continue to, day in and day out, unless they are able to make the most of the education that the VCAO program is providing and dare to dream of more. I just don't know if they even know</span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> what else to dream of. And if they did, what would that do to them now?</span></span></span></p>Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00218875379301900944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1903730631519333365.post-36801597450884862072008-07-08T04:49:00.000-07:002008-08-21T15:06:58.092-07:00July 5, 2008 - Tonle Sap Lake, Cambodia 7:00pm<span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Cambodia has a huge lake called Tonle Sap, which is the center of their fishing, rice, and boating industry. The lake is also home to a fair sized population of the Cambodian people. I don't mean that they live <i>around </i> the lake, I mean <i>on </i>the lake. The lake hosts what are referred to as <i>floating villages</i>. Floating villages are exactly what they sound like. People construct houses out of twigs and wood, and other materials that float. There are entire villages created out of floating houses and market boats that bring items along the lake for</span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTE1WZJMiRqWm3hiBUNswWypWN0sC0wSA-Q9iooLYe27waI-Sm1iXKukbWayeB3Umyjyqc4x9bNZcCyvZOaipnix2wc36WedU7dYaL0xzjWrtAPAXzWIpaOqZji0B93eoylQP9bG3O9hg/s1600-h/100_1798.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTE1WZJMiRqWm3hiBUNswWypWN0sC0wSA-Q9iooLYe27waI-Sm1iXKukbWayeB3Umyjyqc4x9bNZcCyvZOaipnix2wc36WedU7dYaL0xzjWrtAPAXzWIpaOqZji0B93eoylQP9bG3O9hg/s320/100_1798.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220612583797658050" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> purchase. The people who live in these villages</span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> may spend years never setting foot on lan</span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">d. </span></span></span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> We spent the day on a boat touring these floating villages today. Though it may sound somewhat luxurious to live in such a village, I can assure you that it is nothing like the houseboats and Venitian villas that may come to mind. The citizens of the floating villages are among the poorest in Cambodia. Because of this, they are especially vulnerable to the dangers of human trafficking; mostly because they are easier to exploit as they need money, and partly becau</span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">se when kidnapped or assaulted, they have no access to the police or court system. The police and courts here function on an unofficial “fee for service” sy</span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">stem, meaning that unless you pay them, you will get no help. The floating villagers are self-sustained in that they barter among themselves for food and goods. They also live in extremely close quarters, with a family of 5 or 6 dwelling in a 5'x6' floating shack. As wrong as it feels to say it, I can understand a little more what would lead a family in this situation to sell a child. Not only do they desperately need the money, but they also have neither the space nor resources to support them. </span></span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> Strangely enough, as we boated through the villages, I felt calmer than I have since I've been here. I recognize that the people I was seeing were poor and struggling, and that I couldn't survive one day in their lives...bu</span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2aiB47V6iiXWZ1MjlkIJqaGSeB7jreFLPeh5bJRjoagpf7zGGdLc3Nc3vAJ60JRTlGY-TG06ShPzD7hn-Uc3FgLG1h7hffUUqDDnCzcJ5x38HQJ_lEuzWLlw1slCZfTDU7rmHg1AeASk/s1600-h/100_1790.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2aiB47V6iiXWZ1MjlkIJqaGSeB7jreFLPeh5bJRjoagpf7zGGdLc3Nc3vAJ60JRTlGY-TG06ShPzD7hn-Uc3FgLG1h7hffUUqDDnCzcJ5x38HQJ_lEuzWLlw1slCZfTDU7rmHg1AeASk/s200/100_1790.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220613318600315570" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">t I don't think that realization went both ways. From what I could tell, they</span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> didn't seem all that unhappy. Weary: yes; unhappy: no. How could a person living in a shack the size of a closet, with no money to their names, living on nothing but sun-dried fish and lotus roots be happy? I know plenty of people with a gazillion times what they have who seem a lot more unhappy than what I saw. The only thing I can think is that they aren't comparing themselves to anything or anyone else. This is the only way of life that they know, and within that they are successful. They aren't sitting on their rafts thinking, “man, if only I were living in Mountain View, California, I would be sipping Starbucks while watching a video in my huge one-bedroom air-conditioned apartment I share with my cat.”</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> Meanwhile, we Americans compare ourselves <i>constantly</i> <i> </i>to others to see who has more, newer, bigger, better. And that's what makes us unhappy. We set standards for ourselves based on a reality that is not our own. We <i>want want want. </i>And what does it get us? It gets me pity for a people that are only pitiful according to my own lifestyle. It reminds me that I'm blessed and spoiled at the same time. It makes me question the American tendency to want to “save” other nations and cultures from lifestyles and realities that we deem inferior. But what would my interference get these people in the floating villages? Other than more food to fill their bellies, I have nothing to offer them. Nothing of value in their lives. I would only demote them from happily existing in their own sphere, to unhappily struggling in a different one.</span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu_BaVIQokXS9qsUgsNTTc_1WMlDW_NsHsIib4v9zYp3zX131ZoWcBmReX-M_5tRwHKKFvNPa3i39dHFNGtiDBaseDYszi2Dvt143wQVtBxDF_zwZOX20fNB1yxkVxxkXLtn2EoPtQt7o/s1600-h/100_1788.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu_BaVIQokXS9qsUgsNTTc_1WMlDW_NsHsIib4v9zYp3zX131ZoWcBmReX-M_5tRwHKKFvNPa3i39dHFNGtiDBaseDYszi2Dvt143wQVtBxDF_zwZOX20fNB1yxkVxxkXLtn2EoPtQt7o/s200/100_1788.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220614904501506162" border="0" /></a> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> I still believe that nobody deserves to be subjected to the inhumanities and degradation inherent</span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> in</span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> human trafficking, and I will still</span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> continue my fight to prevent that. But I am also learning to re-evaluate my ideas of need and pity. Perhaps it is more degrading to them for me to assume that they must be miserable and need my help, than to respect our differences and merely honor our shared humanity.</span></span></span></p>Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00218875379301900944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1903730631519333365.post-82215118200840870482008-07-05T04:49:00.000-07:002008-08-21T15:06:58.093-07:00July 4, 2008 - Siem Reap, Cambodia 6:00pm<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> It's ironic that I'm spending Independence Day among the least free people in the world. </span></span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> Today we visited two sites that are associated with an organization called Krousar Thmey, which means “New Family”. The first site we went to was a School for the Blind and Deaf. Initially, I didn't see how this school and human trafficking were related, until I was told that her</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">e in Cambodia, a family's only real option for dealing with a blind or deaf child is to sell them off. Families most often struggle to support themselves with basic necessities, so providi</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">ng for a child with special needs is out of the question. They can, however, make a decent sum for themselves if they sell of the children to work as beggars or sex slaves. The “begging industry” here is structured much like a gang or a prostitution ring – there are “big brothers” who contr</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">ol a group of children. The children are trained to beg, and are forced to turn over their money to the big brothers in exchange for protection and shelter. The more pitiful the child, the more effective they are at playing on others' sympathy and collecting money. Therefore, it is </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">often in a big brother's interest to keep the children hungry and malnourished, bruised, dirty, and injured. Similarly, a blind, deaf, or otherwise disabled child can also be quite a lucrative possession for a big brother. </span></span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> Fortunately, the School was founded in order to provide an alternative, and some hope , for these children. The School provides housing, food, social support, academic education, and creative and performing arts, and vocational training. It is a nonprofit organization, and is funded completely by individual donations. Blind and deaf children are brought to the School when they are found in</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> orphanag</span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidHsAm7ufsz3tcp4YTeK5WTgb2pWi8D8UxRq0tr4SdDF-IdBY5MjiLF4TMFk_7lrBq-6w746MAvr10iy8FSVoFiSN3c4xaxe_s9ltnwbRVw5_ikBquBn2YK1qDhG6JDznIFPIiwZ17Nms/s1600-h/100_1709.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidHsAm7ufsz3tcp4YTeK5WTgb2pWi8D8UxRq0tr4SdDF-IdBY5MjiLF4TMFk_7lrBq-6w746MAvr10iy8FSVoFiSN3c4xaxe_s9ltnwbRVw5_ikBquBn2YK1qDhG6JDznIFPIiwZ17Nms/s200/100_1709.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5219869567200804850" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">es, rescued from traffickers, or discovered within the community. </span></span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> De</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">spite being</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> i</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">nformed of these children's often horrific backgrounds, it was difficult to believe once I interacted with them. They were given a recess while we were on the modest little campus, and were thrilled to </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">have some new and strange people to entertain them. One member of our group brought a bag of bright yellow balloons to give out, and by the way the kids reacted you would have thought they were gold bricks covered in chocolate. They screeched and laughed and batted the balloons around. They were joyful over such a simple pleasure</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">. And they were able to simply be children. I was blessed to witness it.</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> Our next stop was to one of the Krousar Thmey Family Houses. The Family House Program is</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> similar to a foster care or adoption system, but does have some key differences. Family Houses seek to provide a new family to the very young or deeply traumatized children who are rescued from trafficking and the streets. A Cambodian couple opens their home and raises a family of 10 of these children. It's not about money, and it's not about a governmental obligation. It's about a couple of people who become real-life heroes to the most damaged and in-need children. They aren't specially trained and they aren't a part of a larger “system”. They are parents and their sole purpose is to give</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> these children a family, a safe home, love, and an upbringing that maintains their Khmer heritage and culture. Once a child is placed in one of these homes, they are a permanent member of the family, and stay there until they are grown.</span></span></span></p> <div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> We got to meet one of these incredible families and spend some time with them. The parents were humble working-class people who strived only to</span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIsPPt2SsV1in048KysPfq7rjMpRi37b5YSj9shbrztNm5ipIYHA9YklkTtLeUhKfDXtjdv0NTaKca6K5pc3AMsz5D_Gr6H8sVEQufDeRiXfhtEa-o_b6OtPM8C4m79dN8xJQF6Z6CM5o/s1600-h/100_1731.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIsPPt2SsV1in048KysPfq7rjMpRi37b5YSj9shbrztNm5ipIYHA9YklkTtLeUhKfDXtjdv0NTaKca6K5pc3AMsz5D_Gr6H8sVEQufDeRiXfhtEa-o_b6OtPM8C4m79dN8xJQF6Z6CM5o/s200/100_1731.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5219871045217302370" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> love their kids. The rooms of their house </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">were completely empty except for the sleeping mats that were rolled up in the corners, and tables and</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> chairs in the main room. The yard was full of chickens and dogs. When asked by one of our group members what their greatest need was, they simply answered “we are happy”. And the children seemed happy, too. We brought pizza, balloons, and some soccer balls for the kids. And then we played. For hours. We played with the balloons. We played soccer and volleyball. We taught eachother words for the farm animals depicted in the children's books I gave them. We sang songs and played patty-cake type games. We communicated with charades and facial expressions.</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> They adopted us into their family for a day. And it was simple and real and lovely. </span></span></span></div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> The littlest girl there was 8 years old. She was fascinated by everything I did, and I became her little</span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPugVa8LTihu0tMg52jSjgScP8GF3_5ieyEgGBRJMBL1Jbh4Ovf6HfunKtH6FZrZ2yiSSinC_otYEOPdA5ek9zAvrjTMZB3dUC38wtExDoIhGLaeHxSKhCFRbeutnYMLOS4AvkSdmf60Q/s1600-h/100_1750.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 188px; height: 141px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPugVa8LTihu0tMg52jSjgScP8GF3_5ieyEgGBRJMBL1Jbh4Ovf6HfunKtH6FZrZ2yiSSinC_otYEOPdA5ek9zAvrjTMZB3dUC38wtExDoIhGLaeHxSKhCFRbeutnYMLOS4AvkSdmf60Q/s320/100_1750.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5219872263133651730" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> pet. When we were playing in the sun, she sensed I was getting too hot and led me by the hand into the shade. At one point, she gasped and desperately started dusting off my arm. I had leaned against the house and was covered in dirt and paint chips. She was, too, but she didn't seem to recognize it. I got the sense that, to her, I was clean and needed to be preserved. I only wish she saw herself the same way. </span></span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> Of course, when it was time to leave, the thought occurred to me to grab her and run. But then I remembered that she has a family who loves her. And it seemed like the biggest miracle in the world. How sad is that?</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">One of the boys there gave each of us a drawing that he had done. I received an ink drawing of humming birds and roses. I have been looking at the picture wondering where in his life he has ever seen such an image, since I doubt he observed it himself. And then I turned the paper over and saw a drawing that was, tragically, more authentic. He had drawn a stick figure scene of a child giving oral sex to a grown man. The drawing was small and rudimentary and off in the corner, but it was there. I was struck by how the image he presented me, flowers and birds, was a pretty distraction from the real images in his head that needed to be expressed. Unfortunately, despite the incredible love and care that Krousar Thmey offers these kids, it isn't able to provide any sort of counseling or specialized treatment. And though these kids are a million miles ahead of where they would be without it, they are still doomed to have these ugly images and experiences lurking in their heads because nothing can change their past. I am even more intent now on saving as many people as I can from such a fate. Prevention is definitely better than treatment, and yet so much harder to accomplish.</span></span></span></p>Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00218875379301900944noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1903730631519333365.post-52625831702647513052008-07-04T03:50:00.000-07:002008-08-21T15:06:58.094-07:00July 3, 2008 - Siem Reap, Cambodia 7:00pm<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Today was promised to be a “cultural day”, as we were to spend the day visiting some of the many</span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFnbFj1ZtsqNg31HfLvDjDNwSMSMalvG8ZZjDpg99dy7ZJ5R35bM5i7CqJMLPiZlRcIK5CFH9IZR6WimSoxp7qiD5w3CC_W_xTKdaQ55IEyHJqZyJrRNwDO7FZXiME-kadqRvN5APr7BU/s1600-h/100_1663.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFnbFj1ZtsqNg31HfLvDjDNwSMSMalvG8ZZjDpg99dy7ZJ5R35bM5i7CqJMLPiZlRcIK5CFH9IZR6WimSoxp7qiD5w3CC_W_xTKdaQ55IEyHJqZyJrRNwDO7FZXiME-kadqRvN5APr7BU/s200/100_1663.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5219875163153534450" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> temple ruins here in Siem Reap. We did, indeed, visit the awe-inspiring temples, built in the 1200's</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> and in various states of ruin now, but the culture that I experienced was found outside the temple walls. When entering or leaving Angkor Wat (an immense temple that is one of the 7 wonders of the world) or the other temple sites, we were literally mobbed by children who were begging or selling various wares. I happened to finish my sight-seeing walk of the temples about 30 minutes prior to my peers, and so was left to fend for myself outside the exit. At first, I tried to politely decline, saying “no thank you” and “I'm sorry” dozens of times before I concluded that </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">the</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">y were not going to be so easily turned away. Once I made eye-contact with a child, I was considered fair game, and was relentlessly pursued with droning and repetitive cries of “one dollar”, “please”, “help me”. Surrounded by 10-15 desperate and exploited children, my only defense was to ignore them. And it killed me. They are human beings, little children, and I had to pretend they didn't even exist. And I got angry. At them for leaving me with no choice but to act as if they wer</span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgshUVDBqMfFPKMX3pFkgMsP9-bO888OsVP0KOaF_cK1BuQ1ay8tqSg-SoEfOoLejPwK0JfuZyZgZMH7yjZpEEB8vq-94S8opZ3K6NmjLFdqKe2akjaW042Mj3Y2Q7nEBim1f9BeboX7xA/s1600-h/100_1689.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgshUVDBqMfFPKMX3pFkgMsP9-bO888OsVP0KOaF_cK1BuQ1ay8tqSg-SoEfOoLejPwK0JfuZyZgZMH7yjZpEEB8vq-94S8opZ3K6NmjLFdqKe2akjaW042Mj3Y2Q7nEBim1f9BeboX7xA/s200/100_1689.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5219876436684085154" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">en't there. At myself for not speaking their language in order to explain to them that...what? That my dollar wouldn't solve their problems? That it is a larger economic and social system that needs to change before they are to be fed? That if I were to give them my money, it would only reinforce the industry that is exploiting them an</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">d robbing them of their childhood? In the end, even if I could speak Khmer enough to begin to say all this, they wouldn't stick around long enough to hear it. Because they have to make money to give to their bosses or they won't get fed. Or they will get punished. Or they will be sold into an even worse fate. But I'm still angry that these children are put in the position of being treated like they aren't even humans. And that I'm one of the ones treating them that way. And that I don't see how to begin to fix it. </span></span></span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"> </p>Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00218875379301900944noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1903730631519333365.post-81500371102036713442008-07-04T03:19:00.000-07:002008-08-21T15:06:58.095-07:00July 2, 2008 - Siem Reap, Cambodia 7:45pm<span lang="en-US"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-style: normal;">I have arrived safely in my hotel in Siem Reap, Cambodia. Unfortunately, as I suspected would happen, my luggage did not arrive with me. I can only hope that it arrives tonight as predicted (especially since 24 hours of traveling among 4 different countries has left me a bit sweaty and stinky). I was met at the airport by Alessandro, our Global Exchange representative who, if he weren't married, would leave me absolutely dreamy eyed and useless. Fortunately, he is married, so I am free to focus on my purpose for being here. As we drove from the airport to the hotel, I kept waiting for the “city” of Siem Reap to appear before me. To my surprise, the tropical countryside littered with thatched huts, shacks, and shoeless children </span><i>was</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> the city. At one point, Alessandro alerted me that we were on the main highway, which was, admittedly, a bigger road lined with market stalls. The roads were filled with people on bicycles and motorbikes, all of whom seemed to make their own traffic rules as they went along. Despite the small-scale chaos, it still has the feeling of a village rather than a city. I am in awe of how naturally beautiful this land is, and how out of place I am in it. The town and its citizens don't quite seem real to me, almost as if they are acting the part of southeast asian villagers for my benefit. The sad thing is, they are more real than I am here.</span></span></span></span></span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> I was so busy being in awe of this new region that I nearly forgot what it is I am here to see. While waiting in line to get my visa at the airport, I noticed a single American man also in line. It brought to mind the statistic that 45-60% of tourists to Cambodia are single men who, presumably, come here for sex tourism. As the thought ran through my head that I could be looking at a real live child sex tourist, and that I had even smiled a friendly “we are fellow Americans in this strange country” smile at him, my stomach lurched and I fought both the urge to vomit and to confront him with my suspicions. I did neither, but I realize that I will have to steel myself for some more close encounters while here. And as we drove through the city streets and I watched the little girls and boys playing on the sides of the road, I couldn't help but wonder how many of them have been exposed to horrors that I can't even imagine. For comfort's sake, I managed to convince myself for the time being that none of the children </span><i>I </i><span style="font-style: normal;"> saw could be victims of exploitation or trafficking, but I know that the odds are against them.</span></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" lang="en-US"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> Tomorrow we are spending all day at Angkor Wat temple, and I'm looking forward to dwelling on the beauty of this great land before facing the ugliness of it.</span></span></span></p>Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00218875379301900944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1903730631519333365.post-83423122235400989452008-07-04T03:16:00.000-07:002008-08-21T15:06:58.096-07:00July 2, 2008 - Air over Hong Kong, China 12:30pm<span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;">My third plane of this trip has just taken off from Hong Kong. My remaining two hours in the Taipei airport ended up being more interesting than anticipated, as I spent it hanging out with a handsome Scottish guy named Chris. After saying goodbye to him, the 1 hour flight to Hong Kong flew by (no pun intended), and I was greeted in China with a bit more of the “foreignness” that I had expected in Taiwan. I was ushered off the plane, into the face of a flight attendant who rapidly shouted at me in Mandarin, to which I stared at her dumbly and managed to nod when I heard the word “Bangkok” come out of her mouth. That is my next destination. I could only hope that she understood that. Then, in a massive flashback to the kindergarten bus-boarding process, she stuck a huge orange sticker to the front of my shirt, handed me some sort of pass that I couldn't read, and pointed down the terminal. I had NO IDEA what was going on, but I obediently embarked in the direction she shoo-ed me until I was greeted by someone who reached for the pass I was holding. The ordeal turned out to be nothing more than another round of security checks for us foreigners, and now I'm safely aboard my plane to Bangkok.</span></span></span>Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00218875379301900944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1903730631519333365.post-44030994401743996302008-07-02T06:00:00.000-07:002008-08-21T15:06:58.097-07:00July 2, 2008 - Taipei Airport, Taiwan 6:00am<span style="font-family:Palatino Linotype, serif;">I'm sitting in a coffeeshop in the Taipei airport, and am somewhat suspicious about how I got here and <i>if, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">in fact, I really </span><i>am </i><span style="font-style: normal;">in Taiwan. I was all geared up for a) a torturously long and uncomfortable 13-hour flight, and b) a bit of culture shock and broadening of my horizons upon landing in this part of the world. As for the flight...I took a dose of “Simply Sleep” while we were taking off, and when I woke up I found out that we had only 3 hours left until landing. I watched two episodes of Lost on my laptop and was told that it was time to land. This news concerned me a little, since I looked out my window and saw no “land” upon which to “land”. But, sure enough, ten minutes later we were touching down. I am thankful that the flight was so blessedly easy on me, but I must admit that I feel a bit gyped thus far by my Asian adventure. During landing, I scanned the countryside for some evidence of “foreigness”, and despite my best efforts, saw only American-looking buildings and a friggin football field. Even the airport has all of its signs in both Taiwanese and English...and everyone speaks English...and they all look so </span><i>American..</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.AND they only accept American currency here. So, thus far, leg one of my brave little journey has consisted of a full night's sleep, two episodes of Lost, and now a latte and chocolate muffin in a cafe decorated with Michelangelo paintings and photos of Venice. Hmph.</span></span>Angelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00218875379301900944noreply@blogger.com2