Home of Hope

by TL Lian (Australia)

I didn't expect to find Cambodia

It is hot, noisy and really crowded as I walk through the Phnom Penh airport. Where are all these people going? (I wonder to myself). I later learn that when a Cambodian goes overseas the entire family farewell them, excited for what the trip will bring to the fortunate traveler. For the next 3 weeks I will be in the outskirts of Phnom Penh but unlike the excited fortunate traveler, I am fearful and apprehensive. 10 years of being a lawyer has emptied me and shallow as it may sound, I recognized my lowest point when I chose comfortable ugly shoes over strappy heels, essentially dressing like I had stopped living. In my desperation to feel alive again, I left my job, packed my bags and thrust open the doors to the unknown. Which brings me here, looking for a random “tall Indian brown man, with a small cross pinned on his chest” (his description, not mine). He’s my transport …to the Home of Hope. First impressions as we enter the huge secured compound, a man with only one arm lifts the security gate as a little boy runs alongside the van, greeting our arrival loudly. I see ducks, cats, chickens, cows and even a tiny puppy, wandering the grounds. I am relieved to find that my room is completely surrounded by iron grills on the doors and windows. My mother will be glad to know that I am safe from serial killers although not from definite death in the event of a fire (a high possibility as the room is above the kitchen still using old fashioned gas tanks). For the time I’m here, I will be the extra pair of hands to feed, to play with and to carry the kids, wash dishes and generally be useful. I’m given a bicycle and the kids are excited, they can now get bike rides from the strange foreign lady. In the evening as it cools, I ride away, no safety helmet needed, wind in my face, speeding along those dirt roads watching kids scream with joy as they play in dirty puddles, feeling sorry for the 3-legged dog limping along, dodging traffic that has no rules, passing motorcycles carrying 3, 4 sometimes 5 passengers, wondering about the likelihood of water and electricity supply to the 3 storey concrete houses in the middle of large paddy fields, having a soda at the little stores run from the back of houses and buying junk food from the petrol station. It’s the most simple (and least carbon footprint) of things to do and I think it makes me happy. Perhaps because internet is slow and expensive, or because there is no television or radio, or perhaps because few speak my language so there’s no need to engage in endless small talk or maybe because most of the occupants in the Home are not rushing anywhere or have deadlines to meet, time passes slowly here in a good way - giving opportunity to reflect, to be grateful and to dream again. I’m in a new country and I’m seeing new sights and meeting new people but I’m not a tourist this time (admittedly according by my definition). From the tall Indian brown man and the Brothers who give selflessly to the Home, to the teacher who teaches alphabets in the morning and cuts the toe-nails of kids with dirty feet in the evening, to the physiotherapist who exercises stiff muscles one day but build a windows in the school the next day, and the big kids who wipe the tears of the small kids, I feel privileged to have be part of life here even for just a few weeks. I have learnt many things in my time in Cambodia, the history is daunting but the food is amazing and the people are warm and hospitable. Yet the most important (and ironic) thing I learnt was that the language of the world does not need to be verbal. It is in kind gestures, our energy, our eyes, smiles, and touch. Words are unnecessary… unless you are a lawyer needing to prove your case.