​An easy ride to school every morning for our kids is something that we often take for granted, but many children in poor nations around the world don't have the same luxury. In fact, there are about 60 million kids around the globe that don't get to attend school at all every year, and many more drop out after only a few years.

The challenges are often economic, as families need their children working to feed everyone or can't afford books, tuition, and school clothes, etc., but sometimes, geography gets in the way, too. According to UNESCO, children living in a rural environment are twice as likely to be out of school than urban children, and when you add in jagged mountains, isolated valleys, raging rivers, and flooding in the monsoon season, it can be almost impossible for some kids to get to school.

ALMOST impossible. As they 25 examples in photos will demonstrate, some kids will do just about anything to get to school, risking their very lives just to get an education because they know it's their only chance at a better life.

We can all draw inspiration from their sacrifice and dedication, and the next time your kids complain about getting on the school bus, just show them this blog!

With love,
Norm  :-)

PS Contact me if you're interested in helping kids like these and others around the world get an education. 

​These kids have a perilous journey to the remote school in the world in Gulu, China, following a 1-foot wide path for five hours through the mountains just for the opportunity to learn.

​When the Ulnas River in Western India floods every monsoon season, some school kids need to walk a tightrope to get to the other bank of the river and on  to school while other ingenious scholars get creative with their transportation!

​There are no school buses in this rural province in Myanmar, so this resourceful girl hitches a ride on a bull to get to her classroom every morning!

​In Nepal, the mountainous landscape makes travel difficult, or sometimes impossible. But undeterred, these school kids ride a sitting zip line over a river to school every day.

This Palestinian girl lives in a refugee camp in Shuafat, near Jerusalem, and when Israeli forces clash with Palestinians in the streets, she has to walk right through them to get to school.

In Lebak, Indonesia, school children can either walk four hours out of their way or take their chances crossing the river on an old suspension bridge that’s literally falling apart.

A chance to go to school is worth a wild ride outside Bogota, Columbia, as these youngsters have to cross the raging Rio Negro River on a half-mile steel cable high above the waters. Attached by a pulley, she travels at up to 50 mph for a minute and can only slow down using this tree branch as a brake! Even crazier, she’s actually carrying her younger brother in the sack!

In the rainy season in Rizal Province, Philippines, youngsters in search of knowledge take a ride across the river on inflated inner tubes every day. 

These kids have to traverse these treacherous mountains for 125 miles to get to their boarding school Pili, China every term. With the help of the headmaster, the journey takes two days and includes wading through four freezing rivers, crossing a 650 ft chain bridge and four single-plank bridges. 

It takes a lot of focus to keep their bicycle from falling off this foot-wide plank bridge in Java, Indonesia, but it’s a shortcut that saves at least 4 miles on the way to school every day.

With the help of their teacher, these schoolgirls get across the wall of the 16th century Galle Fort in Sri Lanka on a flimsy wooden plank.

To get from their remote island to the nearest school on the mainland in Pangururan, Indonesia, these children pile onto the roof of this boat every morning and afternoon.

Likewise, these kids in beautiful and lush Kerala, India ride to school in a wooden boat every day.

When the bridge over the Ciherang River in Indonesia went out during flooding a few years ago, the village children had no way to get across and attend school…until they started floating to the other shore daily on makeshift bamboo rafts. 

But these elementary school students in Vietnam don’t even have a raft to cross the river to their schoolroom, so twice a day they take off their school clothes, putting them in a bag to try and keep them dry, and swim across the deep rapids.

The region around the village of Mawsynram in India is one of the wettest places on earth, with an average of 467 inches of rain each year. Due to the high precipitation and humidity, wood bridges will rot quickly, but the locals have trained the roots of these rubber trees to join and grow over the river, forming a natural and safe living bridge for the kids to cross to school every day. 

These pupils have a beautiful but difficult canoe ride every morning through the mangrove swamps o to their school in Riau, Indonesia. 

It takes the 20 intrepid pupils of Batu Busuk Village in Sumatra, Indonesia hours hours to walk the seven mile route to school, culminating with a dodgy tightrope traverse 30 feet over the river.

These kids from Zhang Jiawan Village in Southern China have to climb hundreds of feet up a sheer cliff on these dangerous unsecured ladders to get to their classroom.

Crossing this dilapidated and icy bridge in Dujiangyan, Sichuan Province, China, this mother and daughter risk their lives for her education.

A ride to school is a precious thing since it helps avoid a long, hot walk, so these well-dressed scholars pack onto a horse cart in Delhi, India. 

During the monsoon season in many Southeast Asian countries like Cambodia, the rains flood the countryside and city alike, often cancelling classes if kids can’t find a way to wade, swim, float, or boat to their school.

Floods won’t even stop the children from bicycling to school, though it’s dangerous because they have no idea where the road is beneath the waters.

At that point, getting the young ones safely to school could be a whole family affair. They'll do anything to give their children a better life!

​1.         We know the iconic man as Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., but that was not his given birth name. In fact, MLK Jr. was Michael on his birth certificate, named after his father (hence the Jr.). But after a trip to Germany in 1931, Michael Sr. decided to change his name to Martin Luther to pay reverence to the historic German theologian of the same name. His son, Michael Jr., was only two years old at the time, so the elder King decided to change his son’s name, too. Thus, Michael King Jr. became Martin Luther King Jr., as we know him.
 
2.         It was a tragic day for America and the human race when Dr. King Jr. was assassinated on April 4, 1968, but he wasn’t the only one who died at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis that day. In fact, Lorraine Bailey, a hotel worker and wife of the owner, passed away from a heart attack after hearing of King’s shooting. Lorraine was working the hotel phone switchboard at the time and suffered an incapacitating heart attack after seeing King shot, later dying from the coronary. Since there was no one else working the switchboard, that caused a long delay in calling an ambulance and getting King medical treatment, though it’s unclear if that would have helped him survive the shooting.
 
3.         The fateful day in 1968 wasn’t King’s only brush with an assassination. A decade earlier on September 20, 1958, MLK was signing copies of his new book, Stride Toward Freedom, at a department store in Harlem when a female patron named Izola Ware Curr approached him and asked if he was indeed Martin Luther King Jr. King answered yes, at which she replied, “I’ve been looking for you for five years.”  She then took out a seven-inch letter opener blade and plunged it into his chest. MLK was rushed to the hospital but the doctors couldn’t operate for three hours, as the tip of the blade was pressed against his aortic valve. When the blade was finally removed safely, the doctor told King that if he had even sneezed during those three hours, he could have ruptured the aorta and died instantly.
 
While recovering in the hospital, King reaffirmed his philosophies of non-violence and stated that he bore no ill will or anger towards the mentally ill Curr.
 
4.         A young King was not only a born leader, but prolifically intelligent. In fact, King bypassed the 9th and 11th grades altogether, entering Moorehouse College at the tender age of 15 in 1944. He graduated with distinction by 19 with a degree in sociology, the first of many degrees and accomplishments in higher learning.
 
King attended graduate school at Boston University and earned his Ph.D. in systematic theology. He also attended divinity school and got a doctorate from Pennsylvania’s Crozer Theological Seminary at the age of 25.
 
5.         Over his lifetime, Dr. King Jr. was awarded the Congressional Gold Medal and a Medal of Freedom. But few know that he also won a Grammy Award in 1971 – out of context for a civil rights activist – for Best Spoken Word Album for “Why I Oppose the War in Vietnam”.
 
6.         King won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1964 at the age of 35, the youngest person to ever win the prominent award at the time. When the brave and inspirational Malala Yousafzai won the Peace Prize in 2014 at the age of 17, she became the youngest ever, a torch MLK would have been honored to pass down to her.
 
Winning the Nobel Peace Prize came with a sizable $54,123 payout (about $400,000 today). But instead of pocketing the money, King donated every penny to the Civil Rights Movement. During his acceptance speech, King During his acceptance speech, said, “I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality. This is why right temporarily defeated is stronger than evil triumphant.”
 
7.         Martin Luther King Jr. Day is now a national holiday observed on the third Monday in January. This year, it will fall on Monday, January 18, though his actual birthday was January 15, 1929.
 
8.         Only two other people in American history have a national holiday commemorating their birthday, George Washington and Christopher Columbus. Therefore, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. the only native born American to have a national holiday honoring his birthday.
 
9.         Congressman John Conyers, a Democrat from Michigan, introduced legislation for a holiday commemorating the deceased Dr. King only four days after his assassination. But getting Dr. King’s birthday approved as a national holiday was not an easy road by any means. The bill was repeatedly stalled, and Coretta Scott King, Stevie Wonder, Rep. Shirley Chisholm  (D-NY), President Jimmy Carter and other prominent politicians and Americans had to fight for it over the years, finally presenting 6,000,000 signatures to congress in 1982.

10.       Finally, in 1983, Congress passed the bill and President Ronald Reagan officially signed legislation creating Martin Luther King, Jr. Day as a national holiday, despite opposition from Senators Jesse Helms (R-NC) and Gordon Humphrey (R-NH), who attempted to block it.
 
11.       But some states still resisted observing the holiday. As of January 16, 1989, only 44 states observed Dr. King’s birthday as a holiday. In 1992, Arizona finally approved the holiday only after a tourist boycott. In 1999, New Hampshire changed their Civil Rights Day to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Day, and finally, Utah acquiesced in 2000, the last of all 50 states to observe.
 
12.       There are now more than 700 streets named after Martin Luther King Jr. all over the country, as well as plenty of schools, libraries, and other civic buildings.
 
13.       Over his career as a civil rights champion, Dr. King was arrested 29 times on record. He was often arrested and incarcerated on trumped up charges during his campaign of civil disobedience, a tactic used by local law enforcement and segregationists to try and scare Dr. King and dissuade the movement (it didn’t work.)
 
14.       Few people realize that on the fateful day Dr. King was shot on that motel balcony in Memphis, he was actually standing out there to smoke a cigarette. In fact, MLK was a regular smoker, though he always hid his habit and never appeared in a photo with a cigarette because he didn't want to set a bad example for his kids or to advocate or popularize smoking in any way. Before Dr. King was loaded into the ambulance after being shot that day, one his associates, Reverend Kyles, tossed away the fallen civil rights leader’s cigarette butts and removed the pack of smokes from his shirt pocket.
 
15.       King’s impact on the black community went far beyond the Civil Rights movement that caught the national attention. When Nichelle Nichols, a young black actress on a new sci-fi television program, wanted to quit after the first season amid harassment and threats, Dr. King, a fan of the show, encouraged and persuaded her to stick it out. She did, and became a pioneer in the industry, the first black television character portrayed as intelligent and capable, respected as an equal with her white actors and peers. (Up until then, black actors usually played maids, servants, or other diminished and stereotypical roles.)
 
The show went on to be a smash hit and Nichols’ character portrayal served as a positive role model for many black kids who went on to achieve great success, such as actress/comedian Whoopi Goldberg and astronaut Ronald McNair, the second black person in space. Nichols even had the first interracial kiss ever shown on national television in America.
 
By the way, her character was named “Uhura” and the show, Star Trek.

-Norm   :-)

***

The children filled up the green picnic tables and then made a formation of plastic chairs, since there were only enough tables to fit about half of them at a time. I walked around with the box of burgers and served them, the teenage girls the hungriest, grabbing two burgers each. 

It’s a constant struggle for this orphanage to stay open and provide for the kids, and hamburgers and a few toys do a lot more to make the giver feel good than it makes a real impact in their lives. But as they waved goodbye to us, yelling thank you with big smiles, at least they knew that someone cared.

Walking out to the trike, I stopped and snapped a photo of something that broke my heart. A big bookshelf in the hall served as the toy chest for the entire orphanage up to that point. It contained a dozen or so ratty and dirty stuffed animals, nothing else. If nothing else, at least those shelves will be full now!


- Norm   :-)

P.S. I don’t write these blogs to try and raise funds, because it’s up to you what you do with your money and how and when you give. More than anything, I just love sharing the experiences and the people that have enriched my life. But already a few friends –from both the United States and the Philippines – have made donations to the orphanage, which I really appreciate. But believe me, you don’t want me to sing you a thank you song – we’ll leave that to the kids!

If you’d like to help these kids, please contact them or send any donations to:
Duyan Ni Maria Children’s Home
Administered by Sisters of Mary of the Eucharist
359 Leticia St. Josefa Subdivision, BRGY, Malabanias,
Angeles City, The Philippines.

Or contact me if you’d like me to bring them something personally or help arrange the donation.

"Hi Norm. I saw your photos and read your blog about helping the children in Cambodia. I know we've never met, but I'd like to send you some money to give to them, too."

You'd be amazed how often I get Facebook messages or emails along those lines. Hell, I'm still amazed every time someone reaches out to me and wants to give. I mean, since my focus the last couple of years has been on trying to make this world just a tiny bit better through my writing, I've received so much support from my friends it's crazy.

I guess "crazy" is a good word for it, for what else could you call sending your hard-earned dollars all the way across the world to come to the aid of people you've never met in countries you'll never set foot in? And many of you have never even met me, the instigator of this whole experience. Sure, I've broken bread (and drank beer) with many of you, but some are friends of friends, have read my books or blogs, or we don't even remember how we first connected, but we've never had the pleasure to say hi face-to-face. For all you know, I could be squandering your money by dining on escargot with champagne every night, staying at resorts that have 1,000,000 thread-count sheets, and purchasing luxurious hair care products...ok, the hair care product part is off the table, but you know what I mean.

Either way, you're trusting ME with your money because you care so much about perfect strangers in need. You have empathy for those you can't see or touch, and that's a rare and beautiful thing. Believe me, I treasure that trust and try to live up to it every day. 

Last week, I posted some photos of a poor hospital I visited here in Phnom Penh, the capital city of Cambodia, where I went with my friend-in-charity Cowboy Bart to help a young woman who was the victim of an acid attack, and others. Tragically, she passed away in the ICU the very next day, but the photos and blog stirred a handful of you to reach out and PayPal some donations over for me to distribute to others in need.

So back at it, Cowboy Bart and I rode a tuk tuk out to the Soviet Friendship Hospital in Phnom Penh on a scorching Friday afternoon. I was armed with a pocket full of $10 and $20 bills to give out to people I found in need, with the help of Siman - our Cambodian tuk tuk driver - acting as translator. 

In desperately poor Cambodia, there is no free healthcare or any sort of governmental social safety net. Hospitals are archaic, ridiculously understaffed, and they lack even many of the basic resources, medicines, and technology even the most humble hospitals in the United States enjoy. I'm sure you can guess who built the Soviet Friendship Hospital, a monstrous boxy compound with open-air buildings around an overgrown grassy area. When someone gets sick and needs to go to the hospital, usually on a very long journey from far-off provinces on the public bus, their family needs to bring them there. Of course they can't afford a hotel while they wait out the treatment of their loved one, so the whole family moves into the hospital with the patient. 

Some of them sleep right outdoors in the bush, hoping for the shade of a palm tree. They cook their food over wood fires and hang their laundry their to dry. Many others share the hospital bed with their loved one, sleep on the floor on bamboo matts or on the bare floor near them, or camp out in the hallways and stairwells, for days, weeks, or even months. If they're lucky, they'll have enough food, though most drink dirty water out of the hose bib and live off of rice and slices of mango. A big 30 lbs. bacg of rice, which costs about $20, can keep a couple people alive for a month if need be. 

But they lit up when we walked in, eyes peeled and big smiles for the unheard of occurrence of a Barang (foreigner) coming into the hospital unless they worked for a nonprofit or were part of a medical mission. Bart and Siman visited with the toddler with eye cancer and talked to his mother. Bart remarked that the boy looked much better and the tumor had shrunk significantly. They gave them some money to help pay for food and the treatments they couldn't afford at the hospital. 

While they chatted, I walked around the room, saying hello and visiting with the other sick children in the room. Of course I couldn't communicate with them other than bowing and saying "sus-day" - hello in the Khmer (Cambodian) language - or "sok-sa-bay" - wishing them good health. But it's amazing how much you can say just with your eyes and smile and a well-timed thumbs-up.

As I met the other patients and their families in the big white room, I called Siman over to translate at times. No one was alone - everyone had family with them. I noticed that they didn't see it as a burden to help their sick loved ones. A daughters massaged her grandmother's back to ease her pain. Mothers fanned the flies away from their sleeping children. An elderly Khmer woman, nearly skeletal in her only outfit of pajamas, mustered unimaginable strength to tend to her dying husband of all these years.

Their custom is to take a photo of someone handing them the gift, so they started to sit up their sick and sleeping loved ones. But I told them to just let them be - it wasn't necessary for me to be in the photos. Let the children and sick and elderly, who could barely open their eyes to see us, sleep in peace.

And they are appreciative. The looks of gratitude on their faces will be with me forever. It wasn't just the money, though I know that completely changed their outlook. But there was another commodity, just as important, that were were sharing that day: hope. They knew someone cared about them. Incredibly wealthy and privileged strangers from a far-off heavenly country took the time to come say hello and help them. I've learned that to acknowledge someone as a human being, with respect and equality in your heart, is the biggest gift you can give. 

Stomach problems, children with cancerous tumors, accident victims, and so many more that were key diagnosed, who waited patiently sleeping in the halls and floors of the hospital waiting for a glimmer of hope. Folding leather stretchers - discarded donations from war times, and tolling medical trays stood sentry among the silent people, a few syringes, vials, and empty pill boxes the scattered evidence that there was little that could be done. 

There were many families and sick people who couldn't get a bed, a room, or even inside the cool hallways of the hospital to stay. They camped outside on the patio, the fiery afternoon sun beating down on them. A ingenious teen girl with a bright smile hung a bedsheets from an IV stand to shield her sister, who had been in a bad motorcycle accident in the province, from the heat. 

On our way out, we wandered through many wards of the hospital: those dedicated to those suffering from malnutrition, diarrhea, the ICU, and finally, a pleasant surprise - the neonatal unit. It was shocking that we could just walk in and there were not even glass barriers or germ-free sanitized environments to protect the premature babies. But their mothers stood watch over them,  loving for their newborns with visions of angelic perfection that only mothers can see. Each mother called us over with a big smile so she could proudly show off her baby.

But I reminded myself that these people had problems before I arrived and would have problems long after I left. And there were billions more I never could reach, even if I worked tirelessly the rest of my life. But these people weren't thinking of it like that. They weren't expecting anyone to solve their problems. The money I had given them - your donations - had made a huge difference for them today. The hungry would eat. They could pay for medicine. A doctor's visit. A needed bus ticket. Get a bed instead of the floor. Or buy a small fan.

It wasn't fixed; it wasn't right; it still didn't make sense; but it was better. Better. That's a good way of thinking of it. You, my friends, had made things better for these people, and that's a hell of a good thing. And if they could speak to you they would say, "Thank you." And you'd feel it even more than you heard it. Trust me on that. 

- Norm   :-)

Of course Jenny and Jenna were there to greet me with big smiles. Jenny, the younger sister, still had that wonderful smile on her face that lit up the world. And Jenna, more serious and stoic, was had grown a head taller and had turned into quite a strong soccer player. Sitha assured me that the girls had fit in and adjusted wonderfully in the year since they’d been placed in the orphanage and I last visited. They were catching up in school slowly but surely after never attending much before, and always were kind to the other children and extremely helpful. In the mornings, when it was a scramble to wake, feed, and ready 37 children for school, Sitha often didn’t have time to eat as well. But Jenna often came up to him with a plate of rice, reminding him to take care of himself and looking out for her new papa. Jenny and Jenna were still thrilled to see me and hugged me warmly but didn’t cling to my shirt, afraid and nervous to let go, like they did when we first brought them there. That was a great sign to see them so happy but also so strong, confident, and independent. 

But despite the odds that are stacked against CIO and the children, Sitha and Mama never give up and never exude anything but positivity. Of course they have 35 little reminders why it’s all worth it, from 3 to 19 years old, with them at all times. The afternoon was cooling so Sitha walked me around and gave me a tour of the compound, like I’d received the previous year. But there were definitely improvements; the school room looked great, the colorful library and study center, complete with a few donated computers, was new, and they even had a spirited Khmer (Cambodian) college student, an orphan herself, living with them and teaching the kids English every day as she continued her own studies. There was even a small 1980s television, but the always-thoughtful Sitha explained that the kids were only allowed one hour of television a week on Saturdays. The boys wanted to watch U.S. wrestling, of course, but the girls wanted cartoons, so cartoons it was.

Little girls helped Mama in the kitchen where she prepared about 100 meals a day outdoors on wood and charcoal fires, a task that got her up at 5:30am and off work well past dark.

The soccer field was in full operation, a new volleyball court marked off in the sand, and the separate building with bathrooms was high class for rural Cambodia. There was a whole room with bicycles so the middle and high schoolers could peddle to the school 10 kilometers away every day, as there was no bus. The elementary school kids had an easy 5-minute walk in their blue uniforms and white shirts. The school day was spilt into morning and afternoon sessions in Cambodia with children attending one or the other, so kids were spilling as Sitha and I talked. Each child as they came home walked up to us, bowed and put their hands to their foreheads as is the custom of respect, and said hello and reported they just returned from school in English. Respect, manners, and discipline are integral to the lessons Sitha teaches them, and English is also vital if they hope to get good jobs above manual labor, like working in a hotel or restaurant with tourists for $150 a month or so if they’re lucky. 

As Mama cooked and Sitha supervised the children coming home, I wandered over to the garden, a new addition in the year I’d been gone. As they were designing the flowerbeds, the children had a cool idea to build it in the shape of CIO – the orphanage’s initials. The water pump was also near the garden, an old-school red metal handle the children took turns working to get water to wash dishes, do laundry, and also bathe. I was saying hi to the kids there when I felt a biting pain in my foot. Then another one, and more on my other foot, ankles and legs. I looked down to see I was standing right in a nest of fire ants. Those little sons-of-ants (I gotta keep the language clean when writing a blog about kids!) hurt like wasp stings. I brushed and kicked and danced until they were off me, the children laughing with hilarity at my painful antics.

When dinner was ready, the children took out metal folding tables and plastic chairs and set them up on the concrete deck under the main pavilion. Some of them set the tables while others poured drinks into little plastic cups or took out metal cafeteria trays. Mama scooped the food onto each tray. There was white rice, green beans with chopped pork, and Lok Lak, a Khmer treat of beef in sauce, tomato and onion, and egg. I realized it was a feast to celebrate my visit; they couldn’t always eat that well, and many people here lack meat in their daily meals. 

Before we dug in, some children were assigned to wave the flies away from the tables. Unfortunately, the orphanage grounds sits near a chicken farm and a crocodile farm if I heard correctly, both attracting swarms of flies that migrate over to their dinner tables. The children sang an adorable song of gratitude and blessings before the meal, which I asked them to repeat so I could video it.

We ate among the sounds of children’s’ laughter, but at the adult table Sitha gave me a sketch on the history and culture of Cambodia. He explained that Siem Reap province, despite being the top tourist destination in the country, was the poorest province in Cambodia (which is saying a lot). In fact, the home to Angkor Watt – one of the wonders of the world and an UNESCO world heritage site – brought in a ton of revenue, but the regular people never saw a penny of it. All of the hotels, bars, and restaurants were owned by rich foreigners or a small number of elite Khmer families and the rights to profit from Angkor Watt had been sold to a Vietnamese tycoon in 2004, in one of the most glaring cases of political corruption for profit I can fathom.

I hugged him and mama, then shook their hands, and then hugged them again. There weren’t words to express enough gratitude for what they were doing for these children.

“You don’t say goodbye, only ‘see you later’” Sitha called out, reminding me of what I wrote about the orphanage in my blog a year earlier.

“Here you go Sitha, this will help,” I said, handing him a stack of crisp $100 bills, enough money to pay the upcoming 3-month lease that was hanging over them. I explained that I wasn’t the generous one; most of it came from donations from sweet, caring friends in the United States who had never even been to Cambodia or seen the kids.

As I left, the children lined up and waved, running behind the tuk tuk. I hoped to visit one more time before I left Cambodia, or maybe it would be another year before I got to see them all again, but I was heartened knowing they were all  safe and happy and in great hands. 

-Norm   :-)


P.S. Drop me an email if you'd like to help the children of C.I.O. 

I remember when I was a goofy little kid in elementary school we were instructed by our teachers to hide under our desks.  It was a drill of course, a response to the specter of nuclear war that hung over us during the Cold War.  We hid under those desks because of the Soviet menace, in a time when both countries' leaders had their pale, bony fingers on the button. 

My mom told me when she was a child, growing up in a village in the German countryside, she hid under her desk.  Her family lived in a cramped apartment over a bakery, where the smells of bread fresh out of the oven rose to their window every morning.  Her dad was the village postman; but elsewhere his countryman marched to war.  So the school kids hid under the desks, fearing Allied bombs that fell astray.  Indeed, the hotel down the street and the church were hit by bombs before it was over, reducing them to rubble. 

And on the other side of the channel, Germany’s bastards bombed the lanes and bridges of London every night, sending English children to their basements, trembling until it was quiet again.  And in Poland, the ovens smoked not of bread, a stain on humanity that will never wash off. 

We saw bodies rain from the sky on 9/11.  And after Newtown, we’re not even sure that hiding under desks really helps.  I sped down to that tranquil Connecticut hamlet that day because my sister lives there, with three kids in a different school.  They had to hide under their desks that day, too.  They’re all right, but everyone knew someone…

As we speak, Israeli and Palestinian children are hiding under their desks.  In shelters or tunnels, huddled in chaos as their world burns around them, unable to comprehend why someone would hate them so much.   

A lot of children around the world never even get the opportunity to hide under a desk, go to school, or even live indoors.  They drink from puddles.  They eat the trash.  Their youth is stolen by nightmares of barbed wire.  They dance and play in fields of landmines. 

In Nigeria, they stole our daughters and we do nothing but hold press conferences.  In India, grown men rape our little sisters, burn them and hang them from trees.  Syria.  Venezuela.  Egypt.  If you listen close enough, the crack of the whip against bent backs still echoes in the Americas. 

And when they run for their lives, barefoot and bloodied into the screaming night, who are we to turn them away from the borders?  They ask only for a sip of our water.

But instead, we torture their peace and call it politics.  And we curse our children by teaching them our own hatred.

Who are these cowards who do this to our children?  Grown men.  Always men, decomposing in the stench of their own power.  Soulless, lying to the mirror that they’re fighting for some noble cause.  That’s who places AK47’s in tiny hands and forces them to kill their own parents, who gives the order to truncheon unarmed protestors and bomb marathons.  They’re the ones who trade a million lives for a million dollars before breakfast, and never eat lightly. 

To them I say, come out from beneath your masks and mobs, you fucking cowards.  Stop hiding behind your fleshy ideology, your religion of cruelty.  Because of you, we’re fast becoming the monsters we so despise - and I’m afraid that very soon we won’t be able to tell the difference anymore. 

But you can’t hide from us forever.  There is too much truth, too much light, too much love.  We will win.  So come out from the shadows and stand before God for your judgment. And then maybe we’ll have a generation who knows only what it’s like to sit peacefully at their desks, not hide beneath them.  
-Norm 

 

maybe we give him chance.  Now rainy season so tourist slow down, but Siem Reap ok now.  All Korean and Chinese tourist come here instead of Thailand because they fighting.”

I asked her how much an entry-level job at the bar might pay.

“$60 or so,” she said.  

“A week?”  That seemed like a pretty good wage for Cambodia.

“A month.”

Imagine working 12 hours a day, 6 or 7 days a week for $60, or less than $2 a day?  Yet that’s what the vast majority of people in Cambodia earn every month – if they’re lucky.  That’s about the going rate, whether they are servers at restaurants, tuk tuk drivers, give massages, do construction or sew and work in a laundry.  The bartender told me that so many young people come to the city try and get these jobs.  They have no place to stay, no family or friends or even a dollar of savings to fall back on once they arrive, so they sleep 10 to a room in a shabby guesthouse, on the floor where they work, or even on the street on a hammock.  

They send as much money as they can manage back to their families in the province – the only system of social security for older people.  The financial pressure on these young people is enormous.  Sending $30 home can make the difference between their parents, grandparents, and whole extended families having enough to eat or receiving medical care or not.  Too often, they are forced into doing jobs their parents would be ashamed of, compelled to hide their vocation but still needing to send money back for them to survive.

They always start their tenure in the city and at a new job sending money back, but some are pulled into dark temptations – partying, buying nice clothes and phones, and always drinking.  Since any real money to be made is at a bar, club, or working to pacify the tourist’s desires, alcoholism is such an unquestioned fact of life that nearly everyone drinks all night, every night.  The depression of hopelessness is staved off by taking a shot and the energy of another night’s neon song.  The girls in bars, whether bartenders, hostesses, servers, or “bar girls,” make a significant portion of their income on tips or lady drinks.  If they can convince a foreigner to buy them a drink (at an inflated price,) they get paid handsomely, usually $1.50 or $2, or as much as they would otherwise earn all day.  

The girls mostly come to work as these bar girls, or that is where they always end up, where they can earn more and try to attract the favor of a foreigner for some nice meals, a vacation, a brand new phone.  Especially the phone - it seems like having a nice new Android or (gasp!) iPhone is a badge of wealth to these girls.  But it’s also a tool to allow them to attract and keep in touch with foreign boyfriends, even when they go back overseas.  Keeping that relationship alive can be lucrative – guys often send a hundred dollars a month or so back to their “girlfriends.”  Or, if things go really well, they may pay for them to take English classes or go to university.  If they’re really lucky, they’ll find the Holy Grail – a visa to another country.  The only detail is that they need to marry the guy, but that is a small inconvenience.  Sometimes, it takes a week for the marriage to manifest, sometimes, years.  It matters little if they know the guy well, are attracted to him, or even like him – the opportunity for economic security and the chance for a better future for them and their family is like a winning lottery ticket that just needs to be cashed on a daily basis. 

For many of them, the devil arrives in their lives and his name is Yaba.  That’s what they call the Southeast Asian version of methamphetamines, or ice - a terrible concoction of poisons that eats away at their brains when smoked – but let’s them float above their problems for a few precious hours.  Once they get hooked on Yaba there’s usually no going back, eventually becoming reckless with selling their bodies.  When that happens, all their money goes to their habit and less and less back to their families.  If they get pregnant they usually go back to the province to have the help of their mother until they deliver.  When they come back to the city to work, the baby usually stays with grandma.  

Even those working outside of the bar scene make a significant portion of their income on tips and kickbacks.  So if the tuk tuk driver suggests a hotel and delivers the tourist to the front door, they’re entitled to a tip from the hotel for bringing a booking.  Sometimes the drivers have a pretty good day, but too often they’re lucky to have one fare for a buck or two.  For that reason, they’ll assault your senses with offers to take you to every tourist attraction.  You usually have to say ‘No,” three or four times to every single street vendor or tuk tuk driver just to get them off your back.  It’s hard not to get annoyed at their aggressiveness but once you understand the economics of the their situation, you tend to soften your stance.  

And then, there are the hustlers; battalions of forgotten people working the streets, outside of any rules or structure of the tourism industry.  Adults – sometimes even their own parents - send children barefoot into the street to beg all day and all night, armed with sad eyes and wearing dirty rags, just enough English to tug on a sympathetic tourist’s heart strings.  Maybe they sell bracelets or knick-knacks, but they’re really just seeing how much they can squeeze out of each farang - foreigner.  

How can you blame them?  That watch you’re wearing costs more than they make in a year, what you spend on a Saturday night enough to feed their family for a month.  The only problem is that most of the money goes to the grown person around the corner who’s spending it on booze or cigarettes, and not much to the kids working in the razor sharp streets.  

Some bar girls – who are sick or too hooked on Yaba to work in bars – work as freelancers.  Of course there are pickpockets and those who set tourists up when their pants are down (literally) but the vast majority of all these people are good, honest, and hard working – even when faced with unfathomable poverty.  They set up a chair and give haircuts in the street, or drag along a cart of coconuts to sell, a machete and straws the tools of their trade.  Many just set up a blanket in the dirty street and sell icy fruit drinks, animal innards roasted over a coal fire, or dried fish.  It’s all they know, and without skills, education, or any resources, it takes all of their life’s energy just to live hand to mouth.  But they are honorable people - they’d split their last grain of rice with you if you were in need.       

“How long have you been working here?” I asked her as she took my plate away and put another ice cube in my beer.

“Three years now,” she said.  “Good job and nice owner that like me work.”

“And how much do you make per month?”

“$80,” she said.  And this was a decent Western bar in tourist areas that catered to foreigners and she spoke good English.  Imagine what the older lady in back made, homely and without strange words, so resigned to mopping up and cooking my meal?  

I wondered what would become of this kid who was applying for the job, even if he got it?  Faceless and with nothing to claim except a blank page, what was his fortune?  Or so many countless young, cheap laborers like him who came to the cities?  I guess we could just be thankful this new generation didn’t have to experience the horrors of war and genocide that their parents endured.  But as tourists keep pouring money into the country, I just wished that more of it actually landed with the real people living and dying in the streets, who really deserved it.  I guess I always hope that things get a little better.  

“Ketloy,” I said, asking for the bill in Khmer – the Cambodian language.  She smiled and brought me the bill.  I put down enough to cover the bill and a tip big enough for her to eat for a month and handed it back to her   She went to give me change, confused why I overpaid.

“Keep it,” I said.  “That’s a tip for you and spilt it with the lady over there with the mop.”  

“What?  Really?!  Oh thank you thank you!  Ohn Kuhn, bong!” she said to me, holding her hands to her forehead and bowing slightly to the sky, an offering to Buddha thanks for her good fortune. 

I smiled back – a real smile that I hope she remembered when times were bad.  I thanked her again and walked out onto the street.

“Tuk tuk?!  Tuk tuk!  Where you go?  Angkor Wat?” five taxi drivers barraged me at once.  I checked my watch – I had to head to go collect my bags at the hotel and get to the airport soon.

I guess that’s really what it comes down to – some of us are lucky enough to have places to go while the rest of us are always left hoping things get better, praying fortune arrives if they could just get through another day, around the corner or maybe in the kindness of a stranger.  Either way, none of it still makes any sense to me.  But that’s just how it is.  

-Norm    :-)