What I Learned in Cambodia: Compassion

May 31, 2018

What I Learned in Cambodia: Compassion

Well, after sorting through all my blog fan-mail, you've convinced me. It's time to write another life-lesson episode from Cambodia. But this is going to be more of a free-write kind of episode than a well-crafted essay. (To be honest, I'm not sure how many of my posts could be considered "well-crafted," but today, for sure--ain't nobody got time for that.)

Anyway. I MIGHT have had some caffeinated tea this morning that apparently has not worn off. This is why I usually avoid it. It could be a long night. And this could be a long and random post. You have been warned.

Let's start with the bright side: smiles. Coming from D.C. area, where it seems like most people have lost the ability to acknowledge each other unless someone is in their way, Cambodia was down-right refreshing. It was so easy to find a smile. Even though I often wished I could communicate in their language, their smiles let me know that mine counted for something. Students, grandmas, shop-keepers, tuk-tuk drivers, Buddhist monks--you get the idea. Smiles were everywhere. That was truly beautiful.

But besides the smiling faces, there were other faces that haunted me. I've never been good at cities. In crowds of people, individuals are lost. People are narrowed to useful or useless; invisible or obstructions. My problem is that I still see the individuals--I can't lose them in the crowd. I know I can't trust everyone, and I know I don't have enough of anything to fix everyone's problems. But I still see them. And I still feel it even if I don't fully understand the need. And it still hurts to turn away because I still wonder if maybe I should have at least tried something.

Maybe I should have bought a tourist trinket for a dollar from the sleepy, desperate teen at pre-sunrise Angkor Wat. Was this how he started every day? I still see his face.

If only I'd saved just enough cash for the tourist book from that college-age guy at the end of the day as we left Ta Prom. He wouldn't give up, and I couldn't forget his face.

The old man in ragged clothes, begging on the corner of the Olympic stadium. I had no money, I had no words. I had only a weak smile. His face is still with me.

The girl with the severely burned face selling more tourist books. Will someone take the time to tell her she's beautiful and that she matters to the world? Or is she just another one? I haven't forgotten her face.

The old man who survived one of the worst prisons of the Khmer Rouge genocide, who was selling his books on the grounds of that same prison. I bought one, and he signed it. I thanked him, and he nodded--his translator thanked me. But the old man's eyes held a sorrow so deep I felt it before I read his story, and I prayed for him often.

The young girl alone on the side of the road who looked mentally or physically disabled, trying to sell something between traffic light changes. Where did she sleep at night? Who took care of her?

These encounters gripped me inside. I felt like a failure because I couldn't help. I didn't have much money. I didn't have time to feel their pain--to understand their individual stories. I had to put them back in the crowd and move on. Every time I did, I wasn't sure if I was maturing or compromising.

Still, grace found me in at least two encounters. The first was our tuk-tuk driver in Siem Reap. He drove us to the APOPO Rats Visitor Center, and joined us bashfully for most of our tour there. As we started with reading the signs about the devastation of landmines in Cambodia, he lifted the bottom of his pant-leg and showed us his prosthetic leg. He was a kid soldier in that war in the 70s. His leg was blown off by a landmine. As he watched the demonstration of the hero-rat digging up the landmine, there was no doubt it was personal. Lives are still changed and lost even today due to landmines in Cambodia, and meeting a team dedicated to restoring their lands, and a victim of war who served us so graciously made it all the more real: War kills. Compassion heals.

The second encounter was our second full day on Koh Rong Island. I had thrown up all night and had no strength to do anything except lay on my bed and thank Jesus for my friend who went to find some recovery-friendly food. We joked about having to "hunt and gather" food because our nearest restaurant in our unique resort situation was not our favorite, so we had come to rely, at least for breakfast, on our nearest resort neighbor--a two mile hike on a cleared jungle path. We'd done it the day before, but this time, Sonya braved the blazing heat and fierce monkeys alone in hopes that they might have tea that she could bring back for me. They did not have tea. But the same nice lady who had served us the day before had a whole menu of compassion! She loaded Sonya up with our orders of granola, fruit, and yogurt, along with some extra water and even some mysterious medicine with instructions passed on from her medical doctor uncle on how to take it. (I thankfully was feeling too well to take that risk). I remembered the lady's kind eyes from the day before, and her concern for my sickness touched my heart. Between my kind friend and this kind stranger, I had much compassion to be grateful for on my beach cabin recovery day.

Did I really learn how to practice compassion in Cambodia? I don't know, but I certainly learned the need for it. At least from personal experience, I think every human wants to be seen and valued as an individual, not as a crowd, or a problem to solve, or an obstruction. How do I have this kind of compassion in a crowd? I don't know. I'm still asking Jesus. But I think it has something to do with keeping my eyes open, listening, praying, and taking any little chance I can, even if it inconveniences me, to somehow show someone that they are seen and that they matter. And when I can't, praying and trusting that somehow Jesus' grace will meet us even there.