Her hand rests ever so gently on my knee. There is a voice too, not much more audible than a whisper. At first, I try to ignore it, for I know she can only want one thing. Money.
Nearly everywhere a foreigner might go in Phnom Penh, there are children, elderly, handicapped people, and landmine victims asking for money. They are soft-spoken and gentle, but they are always there, holding out hands. There are arguments for and against giving them money, and I've yet to decide on which side of the fence I sit. Presently, I am seated in a tuk-tuk, waiting for the friendly driver Thou (pronounced "Too"), to return from the bus ticket window with my ticket. I am amazed how much people will do for you for the slightest of profit. For about about $1.50 more than the ticket, Thou kindly arranged the booking, picked me up, and delivered me to the bus station.
The hand gives my knee a slight squeeze. I turn to face the older woman. Her eyes capture mine immediately; they are black and cloudy, the pupil not discernible from the iris. She whispers pleadingly "nyam, nyam", one of the few Khmer words I know. "Eat, eat". At the moment, I think I have never seen a face so full of despair. I know I've never known the pain and suffering this woman has, and for the briefest of moments, I wonder how I could bring a smile to this poor woman's face. However, Thou returns, and I am ripped from this thought, distracted by tickets and and my bag and trying to pay Thou with a combination of dollar and riel bills. He shakes my hand with a big smiley "Aukun" (thank you) and points me over to the bus.
In minutes I am seated and reading, poor woman forgotten for the moment. But shortly, staring at the pages of my book, I see her nebulous eyes again, and they cause me to question my own humanity. How could I, privileged as I've been, not bear to part with even the 12 cents this woman wanted for a bit of rice? It doesn't help that I am reading about Paul Farmer, perhaps one of the most dedicated, compassionate people on earth. My guilt lasts until I arrive at the beach in Sihanoukville, where I give away a few thousand riel to the first beggars who approach me, and still don't feel better.
Thursday, September 27
???
2 comments:
And it keeps feeling guilty everytime you remember her face right? after reading it, I'd like to share a story of my own and hope it's ok. I've had so many of such experiences since I live my life here and anyway I forgot all about them as time went by so it was ok. But there was one moment that seemed to change my goal... When I was walking out of Olympic market with all my shopping bags. There was abut an 80 year-old man who could barely walk himself but was even walking an old old bike filled with boxes, bottles, gabbage...I figured he was an "Et Jai". Then he came by, looked softly at me and asked for 500riel so he could buy sth to eat for his further day of walk... Somehow I ignored and tried to get out of the noisy crowd. But as I turned by back to look, I saw him walking away without asking the others for that 500riel... I started to feel bad as I still kept walking out... my feeling kept getting worse, I even wondered if he would even manage to sell what he'd collected... Then I decided to go back and find him. For the distance of my walk 100m, he, with his heavy bike plus his unhealthy look of olderness, he'd walked about 20m. Now instead of walking away as I'd done, I was running to reach him and gave him 4500riel that was left in my pocket. He was smiling and praising his hands to wish me... I felt better! I knew even though that much money couldn't even help him for more than 2 days but at least it was a lukcy and happy day for him...
I guess we've all had such experiences...as I've discussed ad nauseum with Michael while in Panama. I still don't know what to do, though I encounter poverty much more infrequently now that I'm in the States. I guess with the tidal wave of exhuberance travel to the developing world brings both joy and guilt. Nothing is free, and that is something the experienced explorer should know and bear. Like our Michael here.
I wish I could be with you, Munon. Be smart, but err more often in generosity. Of course you already knew that... probably taught me.
Post a Comment