I'm enough

One of the hardest aspects of being home is telling my story. I’ve found myself going to silly lengths in order to avoid meeting up with friends and family just because I don’t want to talk about my life. Catching up always seems to involve me telling dramatic stores about the intricacies of my life abroad. And yet, each time I tell my stories I’m left with a betraying emptiness. It’s as if in the telling I’ve not only cheapened my own experience but somehow violated a sacred truth. It’s not that my stories are false or embellished. They aren’t…they really are intense and life altering. They are every bit as scary and vibrant as the way I tell them. I've come to realize that it’s not the stories themselves that lend to this hollow feeling but why I've chosen to tell them.

Why do I choose the most extreme examples of depravity or danger to describe my experience? It's as if I'm trying to justify the path I chose. I'm trying to validate myself and my decisions in the eyes of my loved ones and peers. I'm telling my stories so I feel valued, accepted...loved. That’s why it feels empty. It’s empty because I'm peddling a cheap knock-off version of the real me.  It’s a me trying to make everyone like me by telling them what I think they want to hear. I’m crippled by a desperate need to please. 

The past 2 years abroad were part of an incredibly intimate journey into the deepest part of myself. It was a process of unlearning and rediscovering the essence of who I truly am. I had moments of profound loneliness. The kind of loneliness where you truly are alone. Times without any distractions from home, no internet connection or even phone service; moments when you don't recognize one familiar face or smell or sound. It’s moments like this you experience that “stripped to the bone truly ALONE” loneliness. It's in these times I learned how to feed my soul amidst what felt like a desert.

Guwahati, Assam

I thought I went to India to help others. I was going to help “fix” little boys and girls suffering from devastating facial deformities and babies starving to death. I did help…to an extent. But the honest reality is that I was the one who really needed help. I was the one hiding from my deformities.  Like our patients who show up to clinic with rags or veils covering their face to hide a part of themselves they are taught is too ugly to show the world, I too was afraid to show the world who I really was. My veil wasn’t physical; it wasn’t a piece of cloth draped over my mouth. My veil came in the form of accomplishments, acts of martyrdom or good deeds, a pretty face, a kick-ass resume, or a willingness to say what I thought others wanted to hear. The real me, the naked boiled down, make-up-less me wasn’t good enough to share with the world.

Ironically, surrounded by true physical starvation and poverty, I realized my soul was in a similar state. I might look healthy, laugh readily and smile on demand…but inside lives a terrified little girl looking for acceptance everywhere but within. The reality is life didn’t drop me in India because I was exceptionally prepared to offer my talents or for what I could do for India, but for what India would do to ME.

India taught me one of the greatest lessons I’ve learned in my life. I am and always will be a contradiction. Humanity itself is a contradiction. India is a breathing, living, incredible land of contradictions. It’s an impossible dichotomy of breathtaking beauty and profound tragedy.

It’s vibrant and dull; it’s deeply spiritual and soulful and painfully cruel and discriminating. One moment you are walking past a starving child and the next you’re senses are filled with rich smells of curry and dhal. Women dressed in brightly colored jeweled saris to sweep dirt streets.
It’s life, it’s real, it’s raw, and it’s an imperfect beautiful tangle of contradictions.

I spent mornings bicycling through dauntingly dangerous traffic to the clinic where I was greeted by twenty to thirty mom’s and babies wearing their best clothes and sitting for hours on dirty clinic steps to see surgeons. I found so much joy at the clinic. Not by saving lives or making a big difference on any lasting level. Honestly it was the little things. I played with babies and made them laugh. They touched my face with their grubby little fingers and studied my skin. I spoke in the only language we shared, love. I embraced scared teenage girls. I hugged worried mothers.

Together we shared in something so universal, so primal, so real. It wasn’t because of my education, the decimals in my bank account, the brand of my shoes or clarity of my skin that I gained such exclusive access to the souls of strangers. All I needed to make a profound connection was my humanity. The rare, raw, sacred ability to connect a heart that needs to love and with one can loved is an innate instinct.

That’s the real story. That’s what India is to me. It grounded me, but not before it stripped me and in so doing taught me that I am so much more than what I’ve done. I am not my degrees, I am not my bank account, I am not my area code, I am not a girlfriend or a wife, I am not a mother, I am not a saint or a sinner. I don’t need you to love me because I'm wonderful. The reality is...I’m ok. I’m just me. That’s enough; it’s all I need.

Impossible Beauty Welcome to the Dark Side

I recently accepted my dream job. Set in beautiful Cartagena Colombia, a block from the beach, a city full of salsa dancing and Latin men. I have a flexible schedule with the ability to spend 25% of my time volunteering for my favorite NGO that provides free surgeries for children with facial deformities around the word. My bosses are laid back and give me the autonomy and resources I need to make things happen. There’s just one little catch. I work in an industry that I once considered “the dark side of medicine.” I’m a cosmetic surgery nurse practitioner.

Yep, I’m “one of those girls”.  Before taking this job, I would stare at women with perfect breasts, tiny wastes and bubbly butts and think,  “damn she looks better than me. Whatever...I’m sure it’s fake. “ Without even realizing it, I objectified women’s bodies as a way to boost my own self-confidence.

Somehow knowing a woman had cosmetic surgery gave me license to discredit their beauty. My friends and I would make a game of it. We’d see gorgeous girls and ask each other, “fake or real”? How is it that objectifying other women makes us feel superior? Does going under the knife somehow diminish your authentic femininity?

We live in a society that values physical beauty but discourage us from talking about our insecurities. We are supposed to look amazing but never reveal how we do it. If it isn’t through diet and exercise or you aren’t born with it, you cheated. It’s an impossible contradiction. Pick up any women’s magazine. I guarantee you the cover will have some article about how to lose belly fat and next to it another article stressing the importance of self acceptance and the path to a better self image. What’s a girl to believe? Does working at your appearance make you a weaker woman?

Do we truly expect women to look naturally gorgeous without putting any obvious effort into it? Yes we do! It’s another headline you’ll see everywhere, ‘Look effortlessly beautiful in 10 steps!’ Ha! Make-up ads flaunt “invisible coverage”, undergarments boast they’ll squeeze you into a 6 without anyone knowing you’re really a size 10!

With such impossible messages it’s no wonder women are ashamed to admit they’ve had or are considering cosmetic surgery. I’ve been given a rare chance to learn about this “dirty little industry” from the inside out and guess what? The secrets I’ve uncovered made this feminist a cosmetic surgery advocate.

It’s time to come out of the closet girls. Let it all out on the table (excuse the surgical pun). You and I both want to be beautiful. We are both likely to spend thousands of dollars a year on anti-wrinkle creams, cellulite treatments, the perfect cover up or lotions guaranteed to erase your love handles. Let’s take down our pony tails and admit it, we all want to look good! We all want to feel beautiful! We are as real as they come. We are women, we have insecurities, we want to look our best and enjoy our bodies as much as possible. AND THAT’S OK!

The Happy Nun

It was scorching hot as I explored the beautiful ruins of Ankor Wat. I began the day at the ungodly hour of 4:30 a.m. to watch sunrise and now at 11 am I was turning into a tired 'hangry' grump. I was starting to feel the toll of 2 ½ weeks in South East Asia. Lack of sleep, excessive sun exposure, no breakfast and a parade of tuk-tuk’s fly past with happy couples cuddled up in the back was the perfect recipe for self-pity.

Originally I’d planned to be in Cambodia 4 days earlier. The intent was to join up with good family friends and tour around with them for 3 days. Yet due to a passport fiasco I missed my original flight and incidentally missed my friends' visit to Cambodia completely. Hence, here I was paying guides to take my selfies and eating alone at diners. 

Traveling alone begs those around you to ask that super annoying question all single girls in their 30’s get ‘how come you’re not married? No babies?’Arghhhh! "Nope not yet (fake laugh), unlucky in love I suppose. Table for one please?"  Incidentally this was the same question I was asked by the man who stole my i-phone in Thailand, a few days before. The nerve!

Although I am certain I love my life and I know it's ok to be alone I started to hear those familiar voices in my head. You know, the ones that warn you that if you keep this up you’ll be an old maid and die a sad lonely death surrounded by cats?

Per the usual when these voices creep in, I wrote the one girl who always makes me feel better, my sister Bria. As always her response was like liquid sunshine on my soul. “I have a feeling that something wonderful or revealing will happen in Cambodia- something you wouldn't have experienced had you gone with friends as planned. Something you'll be grateful for."

Bria was right, she’s always right about these things. So there I was wandering through the eighth wonder of the world, fully believing that any moment something amazing would happen. Little did I know my magic moment was just around the bend. As I stumbled through one of the temple alcoves I came face to face with the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen. There, cross-legged on a pile of stones sat The Happy Nun.

She motioned to me to come closer. As I did I noticed in front of her sat a small basket filled with florescent yellow and orange thread. She beamed at me with her toothless grin and motioned for me to squat down near her. Overcome by her palpable joy I did as asked. I followed her instructions as if a little girl again at my grandma’s feet.

Gently she cradled my wrist in her frail hands and tied three threads around it. As she did this she blew on my head and mumbled in Cambodian what I assumed to be a prayer. Then she looked me in the eyes and said, “Now you be lucky.  You blessed”.

I couldn’t wipe the smile from my face. She was so kind and so beautiful. Not of course in the classic sense by any means. She was missing all her teeth, her hair was shaved to a short silvery stubble and her bony body was shrouded in oversized clothes. Yet her soul shone so brightly her light was impossible to miss.

Feeling “lucky” and “blessed” I returned to the hotel for a much-needed nap. There I came across a flustered American frantically turning over couch cushions in the lobby. He’d lost his i-phone. Knowing all to well the pain of a lost i-phone I decided to help him look. After a fruitless search we got to talking and he recommended a little restaurant near the hotel called, Genevieve's.  Really?! Strange coincidence in Cambodia! Yet, there is some French influence here so maybe that’s the connection?

I decided at the very least I had to pass by and take a picture of the sign. I mean who doesn’t like the see their name in marquis? But once arrived the menu looked promising and a sweet waitress seated me at the “table for one” near the back. While deciding what to order I noticed the menu contained its namesake’s biography.

It turns out Genevieve was a 6^th grade Australian teacher. She was known for always seeing the best in her students and pushing them to excel beyond their expectations. She was beloved by her graduates and stayed in contact with them several years into their careers. Genevieve died of cancer in November of 2009. In an attempt to amend his grief her widow, Richard, traveled to Cambodia. 

As fate would have it, his travels introduced him to a Cambodian woman in need of work. Together they opened Genevieve’s. The vision was to create jobs for anyone who needed one regardless of experience level. The staff shares in restaurant profits, as does the community. 10% of all proceeds are donated to sustainable efforts to improve the lives of Cambodians in Siem Reap. What an incredible way to honor the life of such a vibrant woman.

As if the day didn’t hold enough magic, hanging directly above my table was a poster-sized photo of the very nun I met among the temple ruins that morning. There she was smiling down at me with that same toothless grin and basket of thread. The tears started streaming. I knew in that moment, I was exactly where I should be. I am already living my magic moment.

My life didn’t exactly turn out the way I thought it would when I was thirteen.  I have far less to show for my 35 years than most American girls. I don’t own a car, a house, a couch, or thanks to a Thai fire dancer even a cell phone. Yet I DO have absolute confidence I’m living out the life I’m born to live. I have a peace that reaches to my core and a lightness about me that I'd never trade for conventional success. The cost of saying “yes” often means living in limbo longer than you think you can stand, yet as I learned in Siem Reap…just when you think you can’t take it anymore, wait. Because that’s when the magic happens.

Faces of Cambodia

It’s said that traveling opens your eyes and in turn your mind. I'm currently in Phnom Phen Camobodia and today, my mind and my heart were forever touched with stories I will never forget. 

The very year I came into this world marked the end of the horrific genocide in Cambodia. An atrocity I never even knew existed. How is it possible that with all my years of private school education, a bachelor’s degree, a graduate and post-graduate degree I’d never even heard of the Cambodian genocide until this trip? Is it my lack of interest in foreign politics, a failure of the U.S. education system, or the byproduct of ethnocentrism and political complacency?

Whatever the cause, I sit here today, stunned, ashamed and horrified at what happened to the Cambodian people less than 40 years ago. In an attempt to rectify my ignorance and perhaps process some of my experience I’d like to tell the stories of four Cambodians I met today. 

Meet Ritz. Yep, you got it, just like the crackers, or for those of you high rollers, Ritz as in Carlton. He is a 46 years old tour guide at the Royal Palace in Phnom Penh. I bumped into into Ritz during my clumsy attempt to make sense of the palace on my own. Ritz was a fantastic guide who expertly shared his vast knowledge of Cambodian history and culture. In so doing he told me about his own heartbreaking experience under the hands of the Khmer Regime.

Ritz telling me his story

At age 7 the Khmer Region murdered his father for being too educated. His mother was torn from her family and forced to do “women’s work” in a labor camp. His three brothers and sisters, left without caretakers and too young to fend for themselves, died of starvation. Ritz on the other hand learned to survive by fishing and eating grubs and insects. Some nights he supplemented by stealing bread from his neighbors. He quickly learned to eat quietly because he would be shot if they discovered him.

He was ordered to spend up to 16 hours a day turning cow dung into fertilizer with the other children his age. Though his mother was in the same labor camp they weren’t allowed to see each other. He described himself as “a prisoner without a cell in my own land.” If he ever left his camp he’d be executed. One night Ritz wandered out of camp and lost his way back. He feared for his life as waited for nightfall. “But I am lucky, I saw a group of laborers from my camp walking home and I followed behind them.”

On January 6, 1979 he awoke to an abandoned camp. All the Pol Pot soldiers fled in fear of the Vietnamese. His mother, who’d secretly been following his movements, ran to find him and together they escaped into the jungle to meet the Vietnamese military. He counted himself as “lucky” once again. “The Vietnamese didn’t kill us. They wanted to gain our favor so they brought us back to Phnom Penh.” 

I’m amazed at the ease with which Ritz told me his story. He just smiled as he answered my embarrassingly ignorant questions about the war. A story, indirectly I as an American, took part in and yet knew nothing about. Despite all the suffering and death he witnessed, not to mention the starvation of his brothers and sisters and the murder of his father he still somehow considers himself “very lucky”. Ritz is resilience incarnate. 

Next I’d like you to meet Bou Meng. I met Bou while visiting the Khmer Rouge Genocide Museum. He is one of only two living survivors of the most barbaric prison known as S-21, under Pol Pot's reign. Out of the 16,000 people who were mercilessly tortured and brutally dehumanized at S-21 only 14 lived to tell their story.

He and his 28 year-old wife were arrested from their village and brought to the prison on the same day. Bou Meng attributes his survival to his ability to paint. His wife was murdered in the killing fields, but he was kept alive to paint pictures of Pol Pot.

The prison, formerly an elementary school housed it's captors in the old classrooms. The first floor had tiny cell blocks for political prisoners or those who despite pledging allegiance to the Khmer Rouge, Pol Pot imprisoned for suspected treason. The next two floors held bodies chained and shackled by their feet and legs four rows deep. All light was blocked out of the tiny classrooms and they were forced to relieve themselves in eroding metal boxes. Bou Meng was kept in a tiny cell, nearly naked, shackled to the cement floor.

Prisoners were fed once a day about 3 spoonful’s of rice water. It was so little one prisoner said he only needed to defecate once in 3 months. Those prisoners who escaped death from starvation and illness were subject to barbaric torturing. Once Pol Pot got the information he needed all were "reassigned" to be murdered in the killing fields. Here the were neatly lined up, shackled together in a row overlooking their soon to be mass grave and bludgeoned to death in order to save bullets.

 

Schoolyard turned horrific prison camp

Box for relieving bowels

As I walked amongst the walls that witnessed the incomprehensible suffering of so many souls, my entire spirit ached. It was as if I could feel the weight of their souls pressing down on me. You can still see bloodstains on the tile floors and handprints on the ceilings. I stared into the eyes of hundreds of portraits taken of men, women and children on the day of their capture. I forced myself to look at the pictures of  emaciated bodies chained to metal mattresses and others of babies being thrown in the air as their captors used them for target practice

 

Portraits of the prisoners displayed in the class rooms they were held

The atrocities housed within the schoolyard gates are more than a soul can bear.  Outside there is an old swing set which was transformed into three gallows where prisoners suffocated as they were lowered face first into vats of excrement. Every room is covered with countless post-mortem photos of torture victims, the details of which I can’t bear to record. The last classroom contains hundreds of human skulls found surrounding the prison walls. When I thought my heart couldn’t stand to see more my gaze fell onto a glass trunk. I could hardly breath when I realized it was filled to the brim with the femurs of murdered infants.

 

Bou Meng's tiny cell

I also met Chum Mey inside the memorial gates. He is one of the 2 living survivors of S-21. Chum was selling his memoir and raising money for victims of the war. As I shyly approached he welcomed me with a beaming smile and began speaking to me in Cambodian. He motioned to his right side and a translator explained Chum lost his part of his vision and hearing when the guards poured battery acid on his face. He showed me his toenails all of which looked gnarled and green. Each one was pulled from its base in order to get a forced confession. He asked me if I’d pose for a photo with him. I was astounded by the irony that such a great man would want a photo with me. My entire body went weak as I walked away, never have I been in the presence of such a soul.

Next I met my guide around the memorial. She is a beautiful Cambodian woman whose name I won’t disgrace by trying to spell. She was 17 years old when the Khmer Regime murdered her parents. She was separated from her siblings and forced to work up to 22 hours a day in the farms. She described being so hungry at night her stomach pains kept her awake. While telling her story she rolled up her pant leg and revealed a nasty scar twisting around her leg. Here she explained, she was beaten with a rod for collapsing under exhaustion in the fields.

In the 1980's she worked up the courage to visit the area her parents were killed. There she came face to face with the man who murdered them. She asked if he'd show her their grave. He told her he'd do it for $200 USD. Can you imagine? The man who murdered her parents now wanted to make a profit off taking their daughter on a 'tour of their graves'. Her brother was so desperate to find closure he decided to pay the man. I have no words for this level of depravity. 

I cannot possibly pretend that I’m adept at drawing a picture of the horror I witnessed. Nor can I  begin to do justice in the telling the stories of these four beautiful souls. I’ve never in my life been so humbled, so horrified, so ashamed and so inspired by humanity in the same moment. It is my hope that as you read this you too can help their stories live on. How can we learn from the sins of our past if we don’t admit we have any?

The leaders of this genocide were every bit as human as we are. We too are capable of such extreme evil and such extreme tenacity. Our spirits equally house the same capacity for astounding resilience and compassion as they do for profound evil. The suffering and pain of my sisters is equally mine to bear. The lessons I learned today and the souls of those who suffered so greatly will forever be etched on my heart, and for this, I am thankful and like so many of them I too consider myself "lucky".