Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Belated Epiphany - Beth Morgan
This past Friday was the celebration of Epiphany and because I (Chris) was in Mexico and pretty busy whilst there, I neglected to get this great submission posted. So please accept my apologies and enjoy this song from Beth. You can listen right here with the player and go to the podcast site HERE to listen to audio from the fire bowl, subscribe with itunes and download selections for your MP3 player. Thanks Beth!
Friday, December 23, 2011
Death By Presents - Aron Smith
I will always have fond
memories of my first real Christmas, which occurred when I was 28 years
old and a law student. Having grown up in a non-Christian culture,
Christmas barely moved the needle on my compass; it was nothing more
than a two-week school holiday during which I would escape the icy New
York winter by traveling to Florida with my parents and sisters.
In fact, until I was ten years old, I never felt I was missing out
on a thing. Sure, we didn't have a Christmas tree, blinking lights or
piles of presents, but neither did any of my friends with whom I
attended a deeply religious private school. Even in my public junior
high and high school, the very large number of non-Christian students in
the community resulted in Christmas being muted into a virtual
non-entity.
Things changed for me a bit when my family moved about 70 miles
north midway through my junior year of high school. I'd always gawked
at the Christmas displays at the mall, secretly in awe of the garish
decorations and lights, all geared to suck the parking lot full of moths
into the capitalist flame. But this was my first experience with a
school where they literally decked the halls, At home, we'd tune in to
the local radio station in the morning while we were eating breakfast
and getting ready for school and work. I'd listen attentively when the
jewelry store commercial came on, always starting with a vocal rendition
of "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas." If the announcer
finished reading the news and put on a recording of "Silver Bells" or
"The Little Drummer Boy," I knew my mother would quickly change the
station. But I picked up what snippets of Christmas culture I could so
that I didn't seem like a total doofus at school. I smiled, I nodded
and I pretended a lot, leaving an explanation that I was of a different
faith as a very last resort, knowing the looks of pity I'd receive.
Our family trips to Florida during Christmas vacation yielded some
amusing moments from time to time. The drive took about 24 hours, and
we'd frequently be on the road on Christmas Eve. As we rolled through
rural areas of the South on the interstate, only one or two radio
stations wuld come through the crackling static up and down the dial.
If a preacher was holding forth or the ubiquitous Christmas music was
playing, my mother would yell at my father, "Turn that off! I don't
want to hear it!" But sometimes it would be late at night, Mom would be
sleeping and my father would need to play the radio to stay awake as we
cruised down I-95 through Virginia and North Carolina. My sisters and I
would be in the back seat, with me in the middle to keep the girls from
fighting, where eventually I'd endure one sleepy head conked out on
each shoulder. On the radio, José Feliciano would be singing "Feliz
Navidad." One of my sisters would wake up and we'd listen closely. We
didn't understand a word of Spanish, but later, when my parents weren't
in the room, we'd try to imitate what we thought sounded something like
"fay-less buh-dee-dud."
The year I was 12 years old and my sisters were eight and ten, we
stopped for dinner at a roadside diner in South Carolina on Christmas
Eve. The waitress proceeded to gush over how cute we were. "Is Santy
Claus gonna bring you lots of presents tonight?" the waitress cooed.
The three of us looked down, embarrassed, in silence. "They're shy," my
father apologized. All of us knew that there are many places where it
is just assumed that everyone is a Christian, particularly such a lovely
looking family with such cute children.
When I graduated from college and started working, that's when I
really started to appreciate Christmas. No one wanted to work that day,
giving me the opportunity to pick up extra shifts and overtime money.
But it wasn't until I moved to Massachusetts to attend law school that I
experienced Christmas firsthand.
My first year in law school, I disappeared right after final exams
to make the trek to Florida by car with my parents. My sisters had long
since married, moved away and had started their own families. I
grabbed my girlfriend and the four of us headed south. Things did not
go so well on this particular trip; my parents argued incessantly,
alternately yelling at each other and at me. I vowed that this would be
my last time.
The next year, I stayed put in Massachusetts for Christmas break.
Along with several other law students, I was renting a room from empty
nesters who had found themselves rattling around in a huge house and
decided to have all those empty bedrooms help pay the bills. In early
December, as I was pulling all-nighters and generally freaking out about
impending final exams in several classes in which I was not doing well
at all, the McGees put up an enormous Christmas tree in the living room,
decorating it with tiny lights and many ornaments that their children
had made or given them over the years. Soon, gifts started appearing
under the tree. I noted the steady accumulation as I headed out the
door to school each day. It began as a trickle of boxes and ribbons,
and slowly picked up into a stream, a river and then a veritable
torrent! By the time I had finished my last exam and my girlfriend
drove up from New York to spend a few weeks with me, one side of the
living room was covered with a deep pile of literally hundreds of
gifts. The McGees' four children would be home for Christmas, three of
them with their spouses. There were many gifts for everyone, which Mrs.
McGee had lovingly purchased throughout the year. One of her
sons-in-law, who grew up without a mother and was not accustomed to such
holiday hullaballoo, dubbed this spectacle "death by presents." As for
me, well, I had never seen such a thing in all my life. I gawked in
awe. And I knew there was only one thing to be done: When in
Massachusetts, do as the Yankees do. I headed for the card shop across
the street from the law school, bought several rolls of wrapping paper
and began making my own contributions to the growing pile. After all, I
planned to be there on Christmas Eve, not in a car on the way to
Florida, and I wondered how many hours it would take to open all of
these, whether a shovel or a backhoe would be needed to reach the bottom
of the pile, and whether any of us would ever see the living room
carpet again.
It turned out to be a lovely experience. I wasn't quite sure of
the appropriate etiquette for witnessing the dismantling of Mount
Generosity, but it was comforting to me that I would be spared the
embarrassment of having to open gifts myself.
But sitting in the convivial glow of the fireplace, listening to
the laughter of the McGee family, sipping egg nog and watching the pile
of torn wrapping paper grow higher and the mountain of presents grow
smaller, I realized that I hadn't missed a thing growing up.
I could never have appreciated the beauty of Christmas back then.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Drama in the rain - Chris Whitler
In May of 1991 I was in Romania. This was my second trip to the freshly democratic country that had undergone violent revolution just two years prior. Missionaries were sounding the call. The time was right for the gospel in this hurting nation. People were hungry for hope.
I was there with a Youth With A Mission (YWAM) team of 20 or so in response to that call. We were serving full time missionaries and churches by doing what we could to gather people together and communicate the story of Jesus to them. It was the early 90’s, it was YWAM and that means drama.
Not drama as it has come to be referenced these days with indignant bobbing heads and snapping fingers and a “I can’t believe she comes in here and creates all that drama!” I’m talking about mime make-up, costumes, a translated sound track and some amateur thespians acting out the great story to the best of our ability. We were performing a play called ‘Toymaker & Son’, an allegory with dance, physical theater and colorful costumes that was part Nutcracker, part Cats and part Shields and Yarnell.
As people gathered into the soccer arena for the “spectacol” so did the storm clouds overhead. We had set up the sound equipment and the props. We had marked the dirt square as our stage area. And now we were afraid of those dark, heavy clouds. So, we started to sing. We didn’t want rain to drive people away and postpone their chance to see this story. We sang, we prayed, we asked God to move the storm along. People still gathered.
As we fervently beseeched like we had never beseeched before for that storm to pass, a beam penetrated those clouds and the heart of the storm was shot through with light like the birth of a Thomas Kinkade painting. It happened suddenly and we all exclaimed excited praise and thanks. The show would go on! God is good!
Infused with faith and adrenaline, we took our places. I sat in the dirt, awaiting my cue. The music began. On that introductory trumpeted note, the rain began to fall - a sprinkle, some drops and then a full on shower. The dirt became mud. We all started laughing.
We carried on. We slipped through creation. We splashed through man’s rejection of God. We slid through Christ reaching out to his broken creation. We sloshed through the crucifixion. We splattered through the resurrection and the ultimate defeat of evil.
At the end, a local pastor invited people to the hope that Christ offers and many responded, coming forward to pray.
As it turns out, storm clouds break apart and storm clouds gather. God is still good. Sometimes rain is an invitation to have a little more fun.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Welcome Changes - Stephanie Mullen
My culture-crossing experience when I moved to Thailand wasn’t nearly as dramatic as I thought it would be. I imagined that I’d feel so out of place, see one too many cockroaches, and have some kind of public meltdown. While I definitely had my moments of frustration and utter confusion in that year and a half, many of the differences were welcome changes for me.
People see you. They say hello and offer you something, even if they have very little. The generosity is so humbling. They invite you into their home, they feed you, and they don’t waste any energy trying to portray some kind of A+ lifestyle. They put themselves out there, for better or worse; and they let you do the same. And thankfully there were no fashion police around. My hair drier caught on fire the one time I tried using it, so I was fine with settling into low-maintenance mode.
Life is simple. Homes are small, motorbikes or bicycles are sufficient, and the local shops or markets have everything you need (although maybe not everything you want, like Blizzards from DQ or granola bars). There were no malls or movie theaters, so you had to be creative and learn to enjoy the simple stuff. My friend and I used to buy ice cream and go sit in front of our favorite field when we wanted to do something special.
And people there share. They aren’t possessive of their things, but are happy to give whatever they have if it’ll help someone. Neighbors look out for each other. Actually, they need each other. They rely on one another for the daily stuff just to get by. In extreme cases, someone in the community will even take in a child as their own if the parents are removed from the picture for whatever reason.
It’s beautiful. There are so many things I saw and experienced that I want to keep with me back in here the US, but the longer I’m stateside, the less I’m shocked by a commercial for a pill that relieves dehydration, or by our sexualization of women, or our infatuation with celebrities. We’re encouraged to have more and better, and the clutter can be numbing.
But no culture is perfect, and there were things that I was sad to see in Thailand, too.
Many men cheat on their wives, and it seems to be expected. Customer service is non-existent at best, infuriating at worst. Conflict is handled by avoiding it, and it’s not okay to just bring up issues. I learned this the hard way when my friend was asked to find another place to live after we showed our frustration with her landlord. Also, it’s okay to tell a woman she’s fat... something I never happily embraced.
I’ve been able to feel at home in two different cultures, and at times feel like I was dropped from outer space into both. I hope to experience more, though, because seeing different ways to live allows you to decide if you want it or not. I think God had an idea of what everything would look like, how we’d all treat each other, and that we can see pieces of it in play in different places... like we’ve all taken a shot at trying to live with one another, and we’ve all gotten some things right while falling painfully short at others.
It’s contrary to the way I grew up, but I’m interested now in having less and depending on other people more. And I hope I don’t ever settle for thinking that I have it all figured out, but will be willing to feel like an alien if it leads to experiencing life more like it was designed to be.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Yes - Aaron Alford
Aaron is currently hanging his hat in Italy. This is Aaron's 2nd post in the bowl (1st is here). He is a YWAMer spending a sabbatical year as a citizen of the world.
Writing a story about crossing cultures should be easy for me. Lately, it seems it’s all I do. I am currently in the second half of a year in which my only requirement is to stay out of the United States. I’ve traveled from Canada to Thailand, from Thailand to Israel and Jordan, to Holland, to a Native reservation on Vancouver Island.
And within each of these geographical locations, I’ve experienced a dozen other cultures. I became good friends with Burmese people in Thailand. I was welcomed into the home of an Arab Catholic family and into a monastery of French monks in Israel. Here on Vancouver Island, I’ve been hosted by a family that is half Coast Salish Native and half Samoan.
Again, this should be a very easy topic to write about. But when given the charge, I find myself drawing a blank.
Perhaps it’s because I’ve crossed so many cultures lately that I find it hard to zero in on a single story. I could tell you about sharing a Burmese cigar with a man living at a garbage dump in Mae Sot. I could talk about the Palestinian cab driver who invited me into his home for tea and bread. Or perhaps I could talk about swimming in the Sea of Galilee with some French monks who welcomed me into their community. There’s also Ollie, the German-born man living in Holland who literally invited us into his castle. And of course, there’s that time we buried a pig to roast for an Island luau at a Native reservation. The list goes on.
So I find myself thinking about what it is that unifies these stories, both in me and in the people I met. What is it that made these stories possible?
In missionary and NGO circles, we tend to talk a lot about “cultural sensitivity”, and honestly, I find the subject somewhat tedious. Of course, I don’t want to be insensitive and end up rubbing a Thai monk’s head with my bare feet (I’m sure there’s a series of incidents that could make such a travesty happen), but God knows I’ve known a person or two who was very culturally sensitive, and whose personality was best described with an expletive. What I don’t want is to become so entrenched in my own pre-conceived ideas of what another person may find offensive that I actually limit my opportunity to experience the life of that other person.
And I suppose that’s what it gets down to. A person. What made each of these experiences possible was openness to another individual. My first rule of travel is, “Say Yes.” Say “Yes” to the other, in whatever they may offer. In this, I open myself not merely to “experiencing another culture,” but to experiencing another person within that culture. In saying “Yes” to their offer, I am in turn offering myself. It may be for just an hour, or it may be for a lifetime, but I say “Yes” to the possibility of friendship.
We can become trapped in insecurity and close ourselves off to relationship because of our own fear. We forget that a person is not merely the sum total of their culture. We must step past our own fears of offending, and embrace the moment.
Perhaps each person is simply a culture of One, each culture rich with what makes it unique. Each with its own sense of art, of beauty, of tradition. Each with its own unique way of offering kindness and hospitality. It’s true that what may be welcomed by one may offend another, but kindness and humility go a long way in forgiving small ignorances. What makes the journey of crossing over into another’s culture possible is that simple word: “Yes”.
Kindness. Openness. Humility. Love. Such things are understood in any culture, from Arab cab drivers to homeless Canadians. We are, each one of us, a culture of our own, waiting for another to say “Yes” to us. And each of us, each culture of One, has something of great value to give: Ourself.
Writing a story about crossing cultures should be easy for me. Lately, it seems it’s all I do. I am currently in the second half of a year in which my only requirement is to stay out of the United States. I’ve traveled from Canada to Thailand, from Thailand to Israel and Jordan, to Holland, to a Native reservation on Vancouver Island.
And within each of these geographical locations, I’ve experienced a dozen other cultures. I became good friends with Burmese people in Thailand. I was welcomed into the home of an Arab Catholic family and into a monastery of French monks in Israel. Here on Vancouver Island, I’ve been hosted by a family that is half Coast Salish Native and half Samoan.
Again, this should be a very easy topic to write about. But when given the charge, I find myself drawing a blank.
Perhaps it’s because I’ve crossed so many cultures lately that I find it hard to zero in on a single story. I could tell you about sharing a Burmese cigar with a man living at a garbage dump in Mae Sot. I could talk about the Palestinian cab driver who invited me into his home for tea and bread. Or perhaps I could talk about swimming in the Sea of Galilee with some French monks who welcomed me into their community. There’s also Ollie, the German-born man living in Holland who literally invited us into his castle. And of course, there’s that time we buried a pig to roast for an Island luau at a Native reservation. The list goes on.
So I find myself thinking about what it is that unifies these stories, both in me and in the people I met. What is it that made these stories possible?
In missionary and NGO circles, we tend to talk a lot about “cultural sensitivity”, and honestly, I find the subject somewhat tedious. Of course, I don’t want to be insensitive and end up rubbing a Thai monk’s head with my bare feet (I’m sure there’s a series of incidents that could make such a travesty happen), but God knows I’ve known a person or two who was very culturally sensitive, and whose personality was best described with an expletive. What I don’t want is to become so entrenched in my own pre-conceived ideas of what another person may find offensive that I actually limit my opportunity to experience the life of that other person.
And I suppose that’s what it gets down to. A person. What made each of these experiences possible was openness to another individual. My first rule of travel is, “Say Yes.” Say “Yes” to the other, in whatever they may offer. In this, I open myself not merely to “experiencing another culture,” but to experiencing another person within that culture. In saying “Yes” to their offer, I am in turn offering myself. It may be for just an hour, or it may be for a lifetime, but I say “Yes” to the possibility of friendship.
We can become trapped in insecurity and close ourselves off to relationship because of our own fear. We forget that a person is not merely the sum total of their culture. We must step past our own fears of offending, and embrace the moment.
Perhaps each person is simply a culture of One, each culture rich with what makes it unique. Each with its own sense of art, of beauty, of tradition. Each with its own unique way of offering kindness and hospitality. It’s true that what may be welcomed by one may offend another, but kindness and humility go a long way in forgiving small ignorances. What makes the journey of crossing over into another’s culture possible is that simple word: “Yes”.
Kindness. Openness. Humility. Love. Such things are understood in any culture, from Arab cab drivers to homeless Canadians. We are, each one of us, a culture of our own, waiting for another to say “Yes” to us. And each of us, each culture of One, has something of great value to give: Ourself.
FRENCH MONK
Frére Dominic and I are taking this trail down to the water. Would you like to come?
YOU
Oui!
---
BURMESE REFUGEE
(Hand motions indicating an offer of tobacco)
YOU
Ho' ke!
---
SAMOAN YWAMER:
Would you like to meet at Fraser’s house at 5 a.m. to bury the pig for the luau?
YOU
(deep breath) Absolutely!
PALESTINIAN CAB DRIVER
Would you like to come to my house for some tea?
YOU
نعم !
Monday, October 3, 2011
Circular Thinking - James Harrison
After three flights of stairs we entered Timothy's office. The five of us sat down in his small seating area and gladly gave him the respect he was due. As a gentle, experienced missionary in a very hard place, it was a privilege to spend time with him.
We each sat with slight smiles and focused faces and asked questions. "How long have you been here?"
"Is it hard having an HIV/AIDS ministry?"
"What is it like living here?"
He quietly answered our questions with exceptional English and revealed that he had a partner who began the ministry with him and that this man had passed away.
Quietly, I asked a direct question: "When did he pass away?"
"We started working together 14 years ago," he began, "after we met..." The story continued for a quarter of an hour as Timothy shared their history as partners, how they served God together and how the man eventually became very ill. He ended the story, "He died seven years ago."
Leaving Timothy in his office, I had forgotten that I asked the question that spurred that narrative. When the meeting was over and we descended the stairs, one of the girls excitedly pointed out what we'd learned about Circular Thinking - a mindset prevalent in Asia where an indirect answer can be given out of respect or other reasons - and how our host had used that when I asked about his partner's death.
I was strongly impacted on how important it was for Timothy to tell the whole story of his partner. Because of how much he meant to him, he had to give the big picture; to list his partner's service and sacrifice for the gospel, even to death. My blunt question was gently answered in an inspiring missionary biography that left me surprisingly refreshed.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Place of the Wolves - Dave Skene
Dave Skene is a Metis of Scottish, French, Menominee and Cree decent. Dave is one of the Co-Founders of Global Youth Network an international organization working to educate and mobilize young people towards making positive change in their world. He served as the Executive Director for Global Youth Network from 1995-2010. He recently resigned from that position to work with Global Youth as their Indigenous Program Coordinator. Dave has lead numerous teams of Canadian youth on international volunteer and education projects. He has taught on justice and community development across Canada and Internationally. At present Dave is developing youth programs in Kenya, Brazil, Korea, and several First Nations communities in British Columbia. No matter what Dave puts his hand to he is first of all a youth worker, supporting youth to discover how they can create a more just society. He also been a member of the YWAM Canadian Leadership team since 1996. Dave has been married to Liz Becker for 25 years and right now they make their home in Duncan British Columbia.
Place of the Wolves
place of the wolves
old beyond your years
your ugliness has become the thorn that pricks the conscience of the human heart
the rose
flower of greed
hides the truth of your toothless smile
old beyond your years
your ugliness has become the thorn that pricks the conscience of the human heart
the rose
flower of greed
hides the truth of your toothless smile
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
S-21 - Phil Cunnigham
Phil is one of the founders of Steps of Justice, a YWAM initiative to educate and inspire the Church to become engaged with global justice issues. He is currently gearing up for the "Justice and Worship Tour" (coming to Modesto in October!). Phil loves to his family, tacos and helping people take simple steps toward a more just life. You can read more from Phil at his blog... http://philnamy.com/
Two weeks ago I landed back in the USA after a two-week trip to Cambodia. I went over there with a group of twenty-one other people on the Steps of Justice mission trip. We had a few reasons for going on this trip:
1. To get away from the USA and Canada to experience another culture in order to see our culture with different eyes.
2. To learn about the different injustices in the world, specifically poverty (which leads to hunger), water issues, human trafficking and slavery.
3. To see and learn from other non-government organizations (NGOs) on what we can do to give a voice back to those who have had theirs taken from them (the poor and oppressed).
4. To "do justice." This was a huge one; this was not just an awareness trip, it was a trip where we intentionally left something, and did not just take something. So, we built a house for a very, very poor family.
Many of you probably know about the genocide that took place in Cambodia from 1975-1979. The Khmer Rouge marched into town after the Vietnam War ended and decided to create a communist society. They moved all the workers and laborers out of the city and into the country side where they forced everyone to become rice farmers and commoners. They abolished money and they also interrogated and executed everyone they felt was against the new government. They took out religious people, professionals, medical personnel, the educated, those who wore glasses or knew a second language and everyone else they saw as "enemies of the people." In total, over the span of four years one-third of the population died or was executed, up to 3 million people.
In 1979, Vietnam came in and overthrew the Khmer Rouge party. People started to slowly move back to their homes and into the cities. Many of them still died because they spent time looking for their loved ones instead of finding ways to make money and rebuild their society. One well-known place in the country of Cambodia is S-21 prison. S-21 used to be a high school, but when the Khmer Rouge came in they turned it into a prison and interrogation center. Approximately 500,000 people were interrogated and executed at S-21 over a period of three years. Seven months after the Khmer Rouge was toppled S-21 was opened as a museum. Seriously, this is unbelievable after only seven months.
I have been to a few museums in my time. Most of them are clean, well kept, non-offensive and expensive. Not S-21; S-21 is as it was. There are still blood stains on the floor, the torture devices are still there, the signs that the guards made to instruct the prisoners are still up and the handcuffs that locked them in their 5'x3' cells are still on the floor. Going there is like getting kicked in the face. It is hard, it is raw, and you can't even believe that something like this really happened in our lifetime. It doesn't seem like history; it still seems so fresh and real. I have been to S-21 six or seven times and it doesn't get any easier. I just get more numb, which is a fact I hate.
This country has been through so much and continues to go through so much, but she moves on and continues to fight for freedom and life. There are no secrets in Cambodia, just real people coming out of a horrible past and trying to make a better future. Maybe this is one of the reasons I love Cambodia so much--they are a people who have continually been knocked down, yet continue to get back up. I'm thankful for this country and will continue to bring people there, not only to see Cambodia changed, but to see us changed through her.
Picture by Vanessa Hadford
Two weeks ago I landed back in the USA after a two-week trip to Cambodia. I went over there with a group of twenty-one other people on the Steps of Justice mission trip. We had a few reasons for going on this trip:
1. To get away from the USA and Canada to experience another culture in order to see our culture with different eyes.
2. To learn about the different injustices in the world, specifically poverty (which leads to hunger), water issues, human trafficking and slavery.
3. To see and learn from other non-government organizations (NGOs) on what we can do to give a voice back to those who have had theirs taken from them (the poor and oppressed).
4. To "do justice." This was a huge one; this was not just an awareness trip, it was a trip where we intentionally left something, and did not just take something. So, we built a house for a very, very poor family.
Many of you probably know about the genocide that took place in Cambodia from 1975-1979. The Khmer Rouge marched into town after the Vietnam War ended and decided to create a communist society. They moved all the workers and laborers out of the city and into the country side where they forced everyone to become rice farmers and commoners. They abolished money and they also interrogated and executed everyone they felt was against the new government. They took out religious people, professionals, medical personnel, the educated, those who wore glasses or knew a second language and everyone else they saw as "enemies of the people." In total, over the span of four years one-third of the population died or was executed, up to 3 million people.
In 1979, Vietnam came in and overthrew the Khmer Rouge party. People started to slowly move back to their homes and into the cities. Many of them still died because they spent time looking for their loved ones instead of finding ways to make money and rebuild their society. One well-known place in the country of Cambodia is S-21 prison. S-21 used to be a high school, but when the Khmer Rouge came in they turned it into a prison and interrogation center. Approximately 500,000 people were interrogated and executed at S-21 over a period of three years. Seven months after the Khmer Rouge was toppled S-21 was opened as a museum. Seriously, this is unbelievable after only seven months.
I have been to a few museums in my time. Most of them are clean, well kept, non-offensive and expensive. Not S-21; S-21 is as it was. There are still blood stains on the floor, the torture devices are still there, the signs that the guards made to instruct the prisoners are still up and the handcuffs that locked them in their 5'x3' cells are still on the floor. Going there is like getting kicked in the face. It is hard, it is raw, and you can't even believe that something like this really happened in our lifetime. It doesn't seem like history; it still seems so fresh and real. I have been to S-21 six or seven times and it doesn't get any easier. I just get more numb, which is a fact I hate.
This country has been through so much and continues to go through so much, but she moves on and continues to fight for freedom and life. There are no secrets in Cambodia, just real people coming out of a horrible past and trying to make a better future. Maybe this is one of the reasons I love Cambodia so much--they are a people who have continually been knocked down, yet continue to get back up. I'm thankful for this country and will continue to bring people there, not only to see Cambodia changed, but to see us changed through her.
Picture by Vanessa Hadford
Friday, September 16, 2011
Cultural Disorientation - John Rosenbaum
This is John's 2nd post here at the Fire Bowl. Read the 1st one HERE.
I once journeyed to a far and distant land, a land of loggers and loonies, the home of hosers and Hortons. I am, of course, referring to our Canadian cousins to the south (don’t buy what “maps” will sell you... every conspiracy theorist worth his or her salt will tell you that disorientation through the transposition of compass directions is the first step in population control used by the powers that be [those powers being... oh, I don’t know... SATAN?!]).
My first human-to-Canadian interaction was a little disheartening, to say the least. As my wife and I were simply trying to enter the country, the customs lady laid us out under an endless barrage of questions: “What’s the purpose of your visit? Where will you be staying? How long are you planning on staying here? How do you know this friend you will be staying with (and is it the bearded guy waiting outside)? What do you do for work in the States? Why did you move to Washington? How much cash do you have on you? Are you using a debit card? How much money do you have in your account? You recently moved to Washington and have no roots; you don’t have a job and are visiting a friend you used to work with in the States--how do we know he doesn’t have a job that will pay you under the table waiting for you up here?”
In short, Canada was offended that I, an unemployed, homeless man, would come into their country and not be seeking work. “What, you’re too good for our jobs?” Well, yes, Canada, as a matter of fact, I am. I’m a philosopher--judging by the employment history of philosophers, we are all too good to be employed. At all.
After riffling through our personal belongings customs sent us on our way: we clearly weren’t trying to stay in the country being we brought little more than our toothbrushes with us.
Aaron, our host (the bearded guy waiting outside) then took us on a tour of the little port-town of Sydney. I ate a moose and Rhiannon consumed an entire galaxy. After our hearty meal we were driven to the native reservation, and what a beautiful and scenic, though painfully slow, trip it was (really, Canada? An average of 35 mph everywhere?). Aaron took us to a dock where we watched the light set (the sun proper was already set), smoked a pipe, and watched bats play across the surface of the water. There was even a fireworks show!
The next day I experienced for the first time the single greatest contribution Canada has made to the international community--Tim Horton’s (did I just hear a cheer rise up from the crowd?). It truly is like nothing I have ever seen. It’s much too nice to be a Dunked Donut, too pastry to be a WacDonald’s, and too convenience store to be a Startruck (I know what you were expecting me to say!). Really, though: those donuts are glorious. They look like something you would see in a movie (think Hook) but instead of tasting like p00p (think of the appearance-versus-taste scenario of Ukrainian cakes) THEY WERE AWESOME!
Well done, Canada. Well done.
Our cultural experience did not end with Tim Horton’s (again and again and again). We had the much-acclaimed Swiss Chalet (another home run) and were even privy to the Canadian Generation X’s childhood memories thanks to YouTube. You’re my new best friends, Hinterland Beaver, Robin, Loon, and Hoser! And I was so moved by Aaron’s favorite song-put-to-cartoon that I myself want to marry a log driver who can waltz!
Sadly, our cross-cultural experience had to come to a close. We had one last touristy tour of Sydney, found one of the best (in terms of selection) though worst (in terms of price) used-book stores ever (Beacon Books), and boarded our vessel for home.
Entering into our own country was a pleasant experience--the customs agent gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder (and armpit, abdomen, buttocks, and legs). No problem! Oh, well, our car wouldn’t start...
I once journeyed to a far and distant land, a land of loggers and loonies, the home of hosers and Hortons. I am, of course, referring to our Canadian cousins to the south (don’t buy what “maps” will sell you... every conspiracy theorist worth his or her salt will tell you that disorientation through the transposition of compass directions is the first step in population control used by the powers that be [those powers being... oh, I don’t know... SATAN?!]).
My first human-to-Canadian interaction was a little disheartening, to say the least. As my wife and I were simply trying to enter the country, the customs lady laid us out under an endless barrage of questions: “What’s the purpose of your visit? Where will you be staying? How long are you planning on staying here? How do you know this friend you will be staying with (and is it the bearded guy waiting outside)? What do you do for work in the States? Why did you move to Washington? How much cash do you have on you? Are you using a debit card? How much money do you have in your account? You recently moved to Washington and have no roots; you don’t have a job and are visiting a friend you used to work with in the States--how do we know he doesn’t have a job that will pay you under the table waiting for you up here?”
In short, Canada was offended that I, an unemployed, homeless man, would come into their country and not be seeking work. “What, you’re too good for our jobs?” Well, yes, Canada, as a matter of fact, I am. I’m a philosopher--judging by the employment history of philosophers, we are all too good to be employed. At all.
After riffling through our personal belongings customs sent us on our way: we clearly weren’t trying to stay in the country being we brought little more than our toothbrushes with us.
Aaron, our host (the bearded guy waiting outside) then took us on a tour of the little port-town of Sydney. I ate a moose and Rhiannon consumed an entire galaxy. After our hearty meal we were driven to the native reservation, and what a beautiful and scenic, though painfully slow, trip it was (really, Canada? An average of 35 mph everywhere?). Aaron took us to a dock where we watched the light set (the sun proper was already set), smoked a pipe, and watched bats play across the surface of the water. There was even a fireworks show!
Well done, Canada. Well done.
Sadly, our cross-cultural experience had to come to a close. We had one last touristy tour of Sydney, found one of the best (in terms of selection) though worst (in terms of price) used-book stores ever (Beacon Books), and boarded our vessel for home.
Entering into our own country was a pleasant experience--the customs agent gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder (and armpit, abdomen, buttocks, and legs). No problem! Oh, well, our car wouldn’t start...
Monday, September 12, 2011
Crossing Culture - Chris Whitler / Beth Morgan
Hello all, Chris here around the fire bowl introducing our next batch of posts. We will be sharing stories of crossing culture. As I look at the site stats for our first month, most of our readers are, as expected, from here in the Western Hemisphere. However, there are a few surprises in there too.
China?! Moldova?! Sweet. And the majority of you are Mac users which does my heart good. Of course, all you PCs are just as welcome (Talk about crossing cultures...sheesh!).
Well, whoever you are, wherever you're from and whatever operating system you use, welcome to our little site. I am excited for what these posts will bring. One of the first submissions we received around this topic was from Beth, who is studying abroad this semester in France...learning Spanish and Portuguese! She sent me a collage from some of her travels which I will leave you to enjoy along with a question to ponder.
What have you learned or how have you changed by encountering another culture? Your comments and stories are welcome.
China?! Moldova?! Sweet. And the majority of you are Mac users which does my heart good. Of course, all you PCs are just as welcome (Talk about crossing cultures...sheesh!).
Well, whoever you are, wherever you're from and whatever operating system you use, welcome to our little site. I am excited for what these posts will bring. One of the first submissions we received around this topic was from Beth, who is studying abroad this semester in France...learning Spanish and Portuguese! She sent me a collage from some of her travels which I will leave you to enjoy along with a question to ponder.
What have you learned or how have you changed by encountering another culture? Your comments and stories are welcome.
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