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10 Things to feel ridiculously, gleefully, unabashedly hopeful about

4/17/2020

21 Comments

 
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Whoa. 
 
That’s the feeling we get every time we turn on the news or check social media these days, as things seem to keep getting worse.
 
It’s hard NOT to feel down, depressed, and despondent during these unprecedented times, with millions of people sick, thousands dying, and the whole economy shut down. 
 
There seems to be no quick solution or even solid answers, and it sure feels like the average person has been left to his or her own devices.
 
It’s all too much.
 
Then again, in those rare occasions that I'm able to throw the covers off and actually get out of bed, put down my third bowl of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch (note: I highly recommend it), or stop walking in circles around the house like a zombie, I realize that maybe things aren’t completely hopeless.
 
In fact, the sun is shining. I’m blessed to still have a roof over my head and food on the table, and the ability to control my own destiny, no matter how difficult that task may seem.
 
As usual, things may not be quite as bad as they seem. 
 
I can hit you with rosy platitudes like “It’s always darkest before the dawn,” or even start singing “Don’t worry; be happy,” but I’m not going to minimize what we’re up against (and you don’t want to hear my singing!).
 
Furthermore, intangibles and Trumpian double-speak do us no good at this point. We need some real and substantial cornerstones that make us feel optimistic about coming days.
 
So, here are 10 things to feel ridiculously, gleefully, unabashedly hopeful about:

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1.  Animal shelters are emptying That's great news if you're a pet lover, as people are adopting and rescuing dogs, cats, and other lovable critters at a record rate. In fact, some dog shelters have posted videos lately, showing that they're completely empty! It turns out, we all want a lovable four-legged friend at home to keep us company.

​(My dog, Pupperoni, is patiently waiting for me to return to the Philippines or I'd adopt five more here in Connecticut!)


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2.  The words ‘neighbor’ and ‘community’ mean something again
During good times, we were all a little guilty of fortifying ourselves in our McMansions and going about our own business.

​But now, people are more interested in helping, supporting, and just getting to know those around them again. We're sitting on our front porches and saying hi, making meals for seniors, and giving away things we used to try to sell. Young people, especially, are stepping up and showing character.


Isn’t it ironic that we’re more isolated than ever but feel a new sense of communal and civic pride?

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3.  Mom-n-Pop businesses are getting love
I don’t know about you, but I’m loving the rejuvenated relationship we have with local restaurants, Mom-n-Pop stores, and neighborhood businesses that are still operating. It seems like we appreciate them more than ever, and we’re actively supporting them with our dollars, (our stomachs), and by spreading the word. 
 
Think about when this is over; will you head to Chilis or Bed, Bath, and Beyond?! No! You’ll run to a local or Mom-n-Pop business to eat, drink, and shop to your heart’s content!

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4.  In some ways, we're becoming more human
As we traverse this storm of suffering with no relief in sight, I've noticed that people are becoming more human again. I liken it to the days after 9/11, when everyone waved and said hello, held the door open for each other, and generally remembered that we share the planet with others.

In fact, charity donations and volunteerism have skyrocketed already during this crisis, a heartwarming trend I expect to continue. 

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5.  We have time again​
Are we finally stopping to smell the roses? Looks like it, as we finally have a moment to pause, breathe, and not be rushed every minute of every day.

​Sure, we're bored, but our family dinners have become longer, we're talking to friends and family more than ever (even if it's virtually), and we're dusting off long-forgotten hobbies and passions. We're taking bike rides, doing yoga, learning (online) and reading, and taking walks with our kids every sunset. There may not be too many silver linings to these challenging times, but the fact that we can hit pause on the world for a moment is a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.

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6.  People are getting their priorities straight
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Although what’s to come will be extremely painful, we also are recalibrating our priorities, which will have a positive effect for the rest of our lives. All of a sudden, we are filled with appreciation just to have a hot meal, the chance to talk to an old friend, or when we get to hug our family safely every night. And just being healthy for another day feels like an enormous blessing.
 
Maybe we needed a little wake-up call? 

Well, this is it, and many of us are already listening, focusing on simplifying our lives and living with newfound gratitude.

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7.    Nature is our saving grace!
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My anxiety (ok, abject panic!) often rises to a boiling point when I stay inside to work, watch the news, or scroll through social media. Then, I step outside, and everything feels better. 

Even a few minutes out in my backyard or at the local park reminds me that some of the best things in life are the fresh air (allergy season notwithstanding), blue skies, blooming flowers, and wild animals. 
 
Many of us are lucky enough to experience nature in one way or another, and the planet even seems to be healing itself a little with less pollution and more space for wildlife to roam again.

A lot of people around the world (more US people will start doing this if they're smart) are even starting to plant home gardens and grow their own food. Clean energy may even become more sustainable through all this. Hell, maybe there is just a spark of hope for the planet? 

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8.  We have a new appreciation for the little people (who, it turns out, were never little at all!)
We'll look back at these dark days and remember the heroes, new leaders, and regular people who exhibited remarkable courage and sacrifice. We all have a new appreciation for teachers, police officers, first responders, doctors and nurses, bus drivers, grocery store workers, social workers, and all sorts of other extraordinary humans that sometimes go unappreciated. 
 
I'm sure you've seen the videos of New Yorkers applauding and cheering their local healthcare workers during the nightly 7 pm shift change. I propose that we keep that tradition alive after this is all over – and expand it to show love and respect for a whole lot more "little people" who are huge in our lives.

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9.  Change is coming
Just a few weeks ago, the world we live in now would be inconceivable.

(Would you ever imagine that you're required to wear a mask when walking into a bank?!)

Absolutely everything has changed, and we're still trying to wrap our collective psyche around that. 

There will be pain and suffering to come; there's no avoiding it. But this grandest of transformations will also bring a chance to reinvent just about every aspect of our society - and even the human experience.  We are blessed and cursed with the responsibility of rebuilding our world, and no one knows exactly what that look like except that it will be new.

Change is inevitable as it is imminent. It's now the age of rebirth for activists, artists, healers, designers, dreamers, teachers, empaths, environmentalists, inventors, underdogs, outcasts,  leaders, and, especially the youth, as we've turned this world into a fuster cluck and it's time to let the next 

The meek may just inherit the earth, after all...and I'm hopeful that they'll take far better care of it than we ever did.

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10.  People are ready to start living again 
Psychologists outline a process that we go through whenever we suffer a grave loss or tragedy, with stages from shock to denial, anger, bargaining, depression, reconciliation, and then, acceptance. 
 
I don't know about you, but I think they're missing a couple of stages like, "Wearing the same sweatpants for 72 hours" and "Drinking wine at 10 am while holding a full conversation with the mailbox."
 
But there will be an eighth stage at the end of all this: Ready.
 
People will be ready:
Ready to work.
Ready to rebuild.
Ready to experience.
Ready to learn.

Ready to heal.
Ready to give.
Ready to connect.
Ready to love without censor or fear.
 
Very soon, we’ll be ready to LIVE again!
 
That alone is something to feel incredibly hopeful about, and I think it’s coming sooner than we may realize.
 
Trust me when I tell you; You’ll want to be around for the dancing in the streets after these dark days are over!

-Norm  :-)

PS If you found this helpful or uplifting at all, can you please do me a favor and share it on social media? Thanks a billion!

21 Comments

My charity BUGraiser in Cambodia (Yes, I really ate all of these crazy insects!)

4/4/2016

0 Comments

 

You've seen a lot of fundraisers before, but have you ever experienced a BUGraiser?

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Watch me eat these beetles, crickets, roaches, frogs, larvae, and a bunch of unidentifiable critters from a street stall in Phnom Penh, Cambodia - all for a good cause to raise money for several amazing charities! 

If you got a kick out of this video PLEASE consider donating $100, $25, or even $10 to the charities I introduce below, Connecting Hands, Willow Tree Roots, and the Children's Improvement Organization. These are all charities I personally help out and see first hand the work they do to better a lot of lives.

Thanks - and get ready to be grossed out!


-Norm  :-)


To donate, just click on the PayPal link below and tell me which charity you'd like to help.
​It's quick, easy, safe, and I'll make sure the money gets to the appropriate charity and you get a receipt.
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15 Things you didn't know about Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and MLK Day

1/14/2016

5 Comments

 
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​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   :-)

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Visiting an orphanage in the Philippines with a donation of toys, food, and school supplies in hand.

5/13/2015

4 Comments

 
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I’m wrapping up my 6-month stay in southeast Asia in the Philippines, a familiar place with old friends since I’ve been coming here since 1999. With the help one of those local buddies, I set out to find an orphanage where I could be of assistance. Every country I visit, I try to do something to connect with the humble people in need, which is a great way to experience the real culture, say thank you for being my gracious host, and hopefully leave it a little better than I found it.

We found an orphanage in the Malabanias neighborhood, tucked in a local neighborhood in between colorful markets and surprisingly nice western apartments. Our trike drivers helped us carry the shopping bags and boxes into the orphanage.

They greeted us at the gate since they knew we were coming, having visited once before to scout it out and make sure they were a good and worthy organization. A couple of the older children led us back into the main courtyard, a roofed in open area with a basketball hoop and plastic tables where they ate meals, communed, and spent most of their time. On the way, I noticed that the floors were all wet, freshly scrubbed to honor our arrival.
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The Duyan Ni Maria orphanage, or Children’s Home, is run by an order of nuns, the Sisters of Mary of the Eucharist. They take care of 49 children currently, all the way from a 2-year old baby to older kids of college age. They revealed that their focus is keeping these kids off the street and giving them access to a good education and job skills, as the only other alternatives waiting for them are homelessness, drugs, begging, prostitution, and too many unwanted teen pregnancies.
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The children were busy playing at the small playground set up in the dirt, partially shaded from the brutal sun. I walked over and said hi to them, pushing them on the swing set and taking a few photos. A pair of twin girls with bowl haircuts posed for the camera, while another little girl tugged on my arm, showing me a photograph she carried of a little boy. Through a translator, because the kids spoke more Filipino than English, she explained that the boy in the photo was her little boyfriend, so she carried it everywhere. She wanted me to snap a picture of her holding the photograph of her boyfriend, which I gladly did while laughing. 
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Together with the nice ladies who worked there and even the trike drivers, we unpacked all of our donations, including 60 hamburgers and soda from Jollibees, a popular fast food chain here. The children were called over for lunch and they each came up to me to say hello, first taking my hand and touching it to their foreheads in the traditional sign of respect for elders.
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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. 
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Everyone dug in and ate, even the elderly nun who kept thanking me, one of the kindest and most warm-hearted people I've ever met. During lunch I chased around a chicken that walked freely around the orphanage, though the children thought I was crazy for taking its photo.
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After the children were done eating and scooping up seconds, we set out all of the donations on a couple tables in front of their chalkboard. We had notebooks, drawing paper, pens, crayons, and tons of different toys – rubber basketballs, dolls, toy stethoscope and doctors kits, jump ropes, bubble makers, airplanes and trucks, miniature billiards sets, plastic bowling pins and balls, painting kits, and miniature toy animals and dinosaurs – but no toy guns, at the orphanage’s request.

We took a couple of group photos with the kids in front of the donated items, and to my surprise, they sang a minute-long thank you song with warm smiles and angelic voices. After the song was over, they just stood there, unsure of what to do because they weren’t used to having material possessions yet alone getting gifts, and were all too respectful to touch things.

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 But after I encouraged them to go ahead and dig into their new stuff, they grabbed toys in a flurry of activity, laughter, and a few tug of wars over their favorite toys – one of the most joyful sights I’ve ever witnessed.
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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.

4 Comments

They get by with a little help from my friends.

3/28/2015

2 Comments

 
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"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. 

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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. 
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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. 

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Bart and Siman led us upstairs to the oncology ward first, to visit a child with a horrible tumor on his eye they were already helping. It was difficult for me to walk into the patient rooms - a jumble of hospital beds and bodies swirled in heat. Rooms that were designed for 2 beds had 7, and rooms meant for 4 beds had 10 or more. The beds were ripped and stained, sheetless unless the families brought their own. People slept in silence except for a few moans of pain and discomfort. There was no air conditioning so people tried not to move and hoped to catch the breeze of a fan.
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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.
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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.

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In the sick rooms, no one asked me for money, but most received a donation of $10 or $20 - an unexpected gift that would go a long way. I'd visited the money changer earlier to break my $100's from the ATM into smaller bills so it would be easier to give out. These were the donations from my friends - from you. 
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We went room to room and toured the hospital. One doctor rushed by without questioning us, but other than that we rarely saw anyone who worked there. No one questioned us and we passed through without scrutiny. Khmer people are so proud and routinely endure hardships we can't even imagine, yet never complain. They know that is what there life will be and don't expect otherwise. But they are passionately dedicated to their loved ones and extended families. No one came out and asked for money, but a sick family member's caretaker would join their hands and give a slight bow in the sign of greeting or Buddhist prayer, inviting us to come over and visit. They introduced us to their ailing loved one. 
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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. 
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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.
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My pockets empty, we had made the rounds and it was time to go for the day. The hardest part was that I had money to some people but not to others. But if I had just started passing it out to everyone I encountered, the money wouldn't have last two hospital rooms. So I tried to focus on children and those who looked really hungry or sick in the poorest parts of the hospital. 

I was no doctor and I wasn't arrogant enough to think I knew them or their stories just by looking, so it made my heart ache to know that I would leave so many suffering. 

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.
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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   :-)

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My reunion with Jenny, Jenna, and Cambodia's CIO orphanage after one year.

3/21/2015

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I actually felt butterflies as my tuk tuk wound through the outskirts of Siem Reap, past local markets, dusty roads, and a wedding tent that took up the whole road and made us detour. It had been a year since I’d seen our beloved Jenny and Jenna and the rest of the children at the Children’s Improvement Organization here in Cambodia. When we pulled into their compound, I was greeted by dozens of little smiling faces and a big hug from Sitha, a wonderful, caring man who founded CIO along with his wife, who everyone calls “Mama.” 
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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. 

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Sitha brought me into the shade and sat me down on a red plastic chair that one of the children pulled up and we caught up on the year. Things were going well and the children were doing fine, but of course there was nonstop financial pressure. CIO, though one of the best orphanages you’ll find anywhere in the world, isn’t linked to big corporate donors or rich patrons, so each month, they sacrifice and count every penny (or Cambodian Reil) in order to pay their rent and buy food for the children. When prodded, he explained that the lease on the land we stood on was set for renewal in April one month away, and that meant they had to come up with a whopping $1,200 – three months’ rent – all at once. It was hard enough just to pay the rent every month, but $1,200 was truly troubling.
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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.

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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. 

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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. 

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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.

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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. 

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Should you be worried about Ebola in the U.S.A?  Learn the facts behind the fear.

8/3/2014

1 Comment

 
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The last few days, more people have expressed concern over the decision to bring two aid workers who are inflicted with the Ebola virus back to the U.S. for treatment.  Around the water cooler, there are whispers about the virus spreading here on U.S. soil.  On Facebook, people offer their opinion that we shouldn’t bring the infected man and woman back into our borders for fear of an epidemic.  There are even people prophesizing that this is the beginning of the zombie apocalypse, channeling their fear into misguided humor. 

It is scary.  This outbreak is the worst in history, killing a reported 729 people and infecting a couple thousand at last count, with no sings of slowing down.  The outbreak has gotten so bad in West African countries like Sierra Leone that the government has quarantined affected communities, saying they’ll send the police or military to enforce the medical segregation if necessary.  But like any medical outbreak or disaster, rumors and half-truths only perpetuate our fear and sometimes make the situation worse.  

So for the sake of sharing accurate information and putting your mind at ease, here are the facts about the Ebola Virus:

About the Ebola Virus.
The Ebola virus disease (EVD) is a severe, often fatal illness in humans.  It used to be called Ebola haemorrhagic fever.

It was first discovered in 1976 when two outbreaks occurred at the same time in Sudan and the Democratic Republic of Congo. The village where the outbreak occurred in Congo was near the Ebola River, where the name for the disease comes from.

EVD outbreaks have a case fatality rate of up to 90%.

There are actually 5 strains of the Ebola virus.  The strain that’s causing the current outbreak is Zaire Ebolavirus, the deadliest one.  The Ebola virus doesn’t change significantly from year to year like other viruses.  That’s the case with certain flus and SARS, which make them so much harder to identify and treat – and easier to spread. 

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How many people have been sick and how many have died?
Since it first showed up in 1976, there have been more than 3,270 reported cases and more than 2,000 deaths from Ebola, according to the World Health Organization.

In this current outbreak in Africa, roughly 2,000 people have been infected and about 729 died, though the numbers are climbing daily.

What’s the survival rate?
It’s important to note that although media reports the mortality rate from Ebola cases as “up to 90%” (or a 10% survival rate,) that does not characterize the actual death toll.  Since Ebola was discovered in 1976, there has been a survival rate of roughly 30%.  The current Ebola outbreak has had a survival rate of about 40 percent, per the latest numbers from the World Health Organization.

Why is the death toll so high?
Mortality rates are so high largely because Ebola outbreaks occur in desperately poor countries and communities where there’s a lack of public health education, sanitation, and medical care.  The countries where this current outbreak took hold, Guinea, Liberia, and Sierra Leone, are among the poorest in the world, with GDP’s per capita less than Haiti.  There is almost no healthcare infrastructure for most of the people there.  Due to this, almost all the medical care for the outbreak has been provided by international Non Governmental Organizations like Doctors Without Borders, who are completely overwhelmed and lack the resources and manpower to address it.

A lack of literacy and education about disease control, cultural norms, and a mistrust of foreign aid workers have exacerbated the problem.

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Where does Ebola originate?
Fruit bats of the Pteropodidae family are thought to be the natural host of the Ebola virus.  From there, it infects animals and eventually humans. Outbreaks most often start in remote West African villages near tropical rainforests.

It’s documented that humans have been infected by Ebola by handling of infected chimpanzees, gorillas, fruit bats, monkeys, and other animals found ill or dead or in the rainforest.

Where are Ebola outbreaks reported?
Since its inception in 1976, Ebola outbreaks have mostly occurred in poor Western African countries like Uganda, Gabon, the Democratic Republic of Congo (Zaire,) and Sudan.

It also has shown up in the Philippines and China though no deaths have been reported in those places.

How does it spread among humans?
Ebola spreads through human-to-human transmission by direct contact with bodily fluids.  Being exposed to blood, sweat, vomit, feces, semen, mucous, organs, or other bodily fluids can spread the infection.  Healthcare workers frequently have been infected because of their proximity to Ebola patients, especially in un-sterile field conditions in African villages without proper facilities or resources. 

The virus can be transmitted by even touching the bodily fluids of an Ebola patient. If an animal or patient dies, the virus stays alive on a surface for a few days, so even touching bedding, cleaning up waste, or eating infected food or drinking infected water is a danger.  In Africa, some cultures call for burial ceremonies in which mourners have direct contact with the body of the dead person, which also play a role in the transmission of Ebola.


How soon would they be sick and infectious?
Typically, symptoms appear 8-10 days after exposure to the virus, but the incubation period can span two to 21 days.  People usually aren’t infectious until the symptoms of their sickness emerge. 

What are the symptoms?
People usually start with a high fever, aches, acute weakness, headache, rashes, and sore throat.  It proceeds to vomiting, diarrhea, rash, impaired kidney and liver function, and in sometimes, both internal and external bleeding.

The problem with diagnosis is that the first symptoms also occur in ailments common to the region so before it can be confirmed as Ebola, malaria, typhoid fever, shigellosis, cholera, leptospirosis, plague, rickettsiosis, relapsing fever, meningitis, hepatitis and other viral haemorrhagic fevers have to be ruled out.

Can it be treated? 
There is no vaccine for the Ebola virus.  Several vaccines are in the testing phase but none are approved for clinical use. The only thing that can be done is to treat the symptoms Ebola causes, which include sever dehydration. 

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What happened with this current Ebola outbreak?
The current deadly outbreak is in Sierra Leone, Guinea, and Liberia, the first time big Ebola cases have hit those areas.

The numbers are growing daily, but as of July 28, 2014:

In Guinea - 460 cases, 339 deaths
Liberia - 329, 156 deaths
Nigeria - one case, one death
Sierra Leone - 533 cases, 233 deaths
There has been an approximate 40% survival rate.

To respond to the medical crisis, aid workers from Doctors Without Borders, containing volunteers from all over the world, entered infected areas to treat victims and help contain the disease.

Earlier in July, Patrick Sawyer, a government official in the Liberian Ministry of Finance, died at a Nigerian hospital. He was the first American to die in what health officials refer to as “the deadliest Ebola outbreak in history."

Shortly after, Nancy Writebol, an American aid worker in Liberia, tested positive for Ebola she contracted while treating infected patients.

On July 26, Kent Brantly, medical director for Samaritan Purse's Ebola Consolidated Case Management Center in Liberia, was infected with the virus while treating patients.

On July 29, Dr. Sheik Humarr Kahn, in charge of Ebola treatment at Kenema Government Hospital in Sierra Leone, died from complications of the disease.  The next day, The Peace Corps announced their decision to remove all volunteers from Liberia, Sierra Leone, and Guinea. 

July 31, 2014 The Center for Disease Control went to Warning Level 3, advising all U.S. residents not to travel to Sierra Leone, Guinea, and Liberia unless absolutely necessary.

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What are the chances of a serious Ebola outbreak in the United States?
That is almost certain not to happen. Awareness, medical treatment, and medical technology are so far ahead of conditions in African outbreak areas that any cases are sure to isolated and safely contained.  Epidemiologists would quickly track down people who exposed to the infection and make sure it can’t spread.

To cite an example, in May, the population of the Middle East was inflicted with hundreds of cases of the MERS virus.  Two infected people brought the virus to the United States but it never spread further.


Epidemiologist, doctors, and international medical professionals characterize the chance of even a small U.S. outbreak at “extremely unlikely.”

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Why do our children have to hide beneath their desks?

7/27/2014

2 Comments

 
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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. 

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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…

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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. 

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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. 

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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 

 


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A Cambodian curriculum vitae.

6/12/2014

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This is what a resume looks like in Cambodia.  I was sitting at a bar, eating some grub on my last evening after a 4-month stay, and got to chatting with the bartender, a pleasant local woman.  She pulled out this resume and looked it over and showed it to me, since I was the only person in the bar. 

She remarked that the young man who submitted the resume must be from the province because he really has no work experience and not even a photo to submit.  There are really no jobs in the province, she explained – they’re all in the main cities and especially areas of tourism like Siem Reap and Angkor Wat (a world heritage site,) Phnom Penh, and the beach town of Sihanoukville.   So everyone comes to those “big city” or tourism areas to try and make a living. 

“He did graduate high school,” she said,  “The most important thing on resume – any resume – is that he speak a little good English. So
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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    :-)
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See you later - but never goodbye - to Cambodian orphans Jenny and Jenna.

6/9/2014

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By now, many of you know the story of Jenny and Jenna, orphaned sisters here in Cambodia that grew up in desperately poor circumstances, separated from each other and with no food, money, or anyone to care for them.  Luckily, they were helped few years back by an American expat, Cowboy Bart, who managed to reunite the sisters and arrange for them to live with a family in a jungle province not far outside the main city.  Things were better but they still lived in humble circumstances, with barely enough food, attending school only sporadically, and having to sleep outdoors many nights.  

But things got much better for Jenny and Jenna recently.  Thanks to your generous donations, and the hard work of the true champions in their lives – two Cambodian medical students nicknamed Keep Calm and Keep Hope, along with Cowboy Bart, they were accepted into an orphanage in Siem Reap, a northern tourist town where Angkor Wat is located.  The orphanage, the Children’s Improvement Organization, was founded by a kind local man named Sitha Toeung.  The girls safely transitioned up there a couple weeks ago after a hot, bumpy bus ride with Keep Calm and Keep Hope.  But before they went we brought them into the big city of Phnom Penh for a going away celebration, a day of fun and firsts they’ll never forget! 
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Today is my last day in Cambodia before I make my way back to the United States after a whole year in southeast Asia, 4 months of which was spent in this beloved country of Kampuchea, or Cambodia.  So I couldn’t think of a more fitting goodbye than to travel up to Siem Reap to visit Jenny and Jenna at the orphanage to say goodbye before departing on a plane tomorrow.  

 The last time I wrote about the girls, and also the “Children of the Trash,” in Steung Meanchey, I was bombarded with donations and well-wishes from friends from all over the world.  I put that money to good use here in Siem Reap, hitting the local market today to buy all the things the orphanage needs: two huge 50kg bags of rice, 2 jugs of cooking oil, industrial-sized laundry detergent, boxes of snack food, 25 toothbrushes, toothpaste, plenty of bottles of shampoo and soap, combs and brushes, notebooks and pens for school, art supplies, and a full bedcover set for the girls.  

On this, my last evening in town and in Cambodia after 4 months here, I hired a taxi to drive me out to the orphanage to meet up with the girls.  Eager with anticipation all day, it was heartwarming to have the girls run up to me with big hugs when I arrived.  I was pleased to see that the orphanage was a much nicer set up than their last family in the province, with big thatched bungalows high up on stilts (to keep away from floods during the rainy season and any critters that might venture in,) a wide open courtyard, a locking gate and fence to keep the children safe, a big separate outhouse facility, and a serviceable outdoor kitchen under a tin roof.  It was spotlessly clean and all the kids appeared pleasant and cared for, if not a little shy at this foreigner's caravan arriving.
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Jenny and Jenna looked happy and healthy, and Sitha confirmed that they were doing well – fitting it well with the other kids and making friends.  He did mention that they were lagging way behind the other kids their age in school, unable to read or write even their own Khmer language fluently because of sporadic attendance in the past.  But he assured me that they would catch up and learn well in time, and the orphanage even employed an English tutor on site to teach the kids in the afternoons, a huge advantage as most of the decent jobs require English in a country becoming increasingly dependent on tourism.  Sitha himself, he confessed, didn’t even start school until he was 20 years old, but he earned a college degree not long after.  

His story is an incredible one – as dark and at the same time as uplifting as the human spirit can endure, like so many Cambodians who lived through the Khmer Rouge years of genocide and mass starvation.  He was born in 1969, only 6-years old when Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge came to power and systematically mass murdered 1.5 million people – about 25% of the country’s population - within only 3 ½ years.  Sitha told me that as a boy in Phnom Penh he grew up near the high school – then converted into an infamous prison and torture chamber.  He used to climb a palm tree and look over the fence to see people being tortured on a daily basis.   (continued at right)

(continued)
Sitha survived the scarce years after the war living in a pagoda upon the mercy of monks, and soon turned his trauma to something better – founding the Children’s Improvement Organization, where he's dedicated his days helping impoverished and orphaned children.

We talked briefly about these things, almost in whispers, as Jenny and Jenna and the kids ran and played with far fewer cares in the world than he'd had.  How far the people have come and how much healing has taken place in only one generation, we agreed, something to hang our hopes on even if things were still very hard for people in Cambodia.

Soon, nothing but joy and laughter resumed, as my taxi driver helped me unload all the goodies I brought for them.  They stood in a big circle out under the sun and helped me take everything out of the bags, lay it out for display so they could pick it up and talk about it, and then put it all in the bags again.  Sitha gave me a quick tour and Jenny and Jenna showed me their bungalow, where they slept on the floor on bamboo mats along with 10 other girls.    

Sitha also introduced me to his lovely wife, a kind soul if there ever was one, and the four young Taiwanese volunteers who had been helping the orphanage for the last year.  In fact, most of the buildings had been donated by Taiwanese organizations and their biggest donor was a kind-hearted but common Australian woman.  It was always a concern where the next donation would come from, and already he was worried about securing a renewal on the orphanage’s lease once their current one was up in a year.  I’d felt good for bringing so many things, but seeing that it had to take care of 37 children, I wished I brought more.  The bags of rice, seemingly enormous when I purchased them in the market, were dragged away to the kitchen by two skinny, shirtless Cambodian kids who looked 5 years younger than 13 and 14, their real ages, because of malnourishment.  

“How long will one of those bags last, I asked Sitha.”

“2 ½ or 3 days if they’re lucky,” he said, “ We have 37 kids and they eat rice three meals a day, so it goes fast.”  I couldn’t help but think, what would happen when those bags ran low?  For a second, I glimpsed the panic that must engulf their every day, though it was such a familiar play thing it was now just called, “life.”
Picture
The wind picked up and dark clouds rolled in from the horizon, stirring palm trees and sending street dogs barking.  It was monsoon season and we had some dirt roads to traverse back to town, so it was with unspoken agreement that we moved toward the taxi and said our goodbyes before we got caught in a squall.

Saying goodbye to Jenny and Jenna was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.  They hugged me and we waved goodbye furiously, the only real method of communication because they didn’t speak English and I, very little Khmer.  With Sitha’s translation, I told them that I’d be back as soon as I could, maybe 6 months, and that I would stay in touch with him and make sure they had everything they needed.  They smiled and hugged me.  I made my way five steps toward the taxi, and they hugged me again.  We went on like this again and again, until I had tears in my eyes, hidden by my sunglasses so my concern wouldn’t diminish their smiles at all.  How could I just walk away?  Six months was a long time – if that would happen at all.  What if I couldn’t come back?  What if they didn’t have enough food, or the orphanage enough money to renew their lease?  What if some other malady fell upon them, like what happens with too many Cambodian children?  How could I possibly keep them safe?  And all of the other 37 children in the orphanage that were quickly wining my heart? 

This time, I turned and hugged them before climbing into the taxi.  I would find a way.  We drove off, all of us waving vigorously until the very last second, when we turned a corner and Jenny and Jenna were out of site, but with me more than ever.

-Norm   :-)


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    Norm Schriever

    Norm Schriever is a best-selling author, expat, cultural mad scientist, and enemy of the comfort zone. He travels the globe, telling the stories of the people he finds, and hopes to make the world a little bit better place with his words.   

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