Writer Somanette Seang at Angkor Wat. She left Cambodia when she was 7 years old. Her return to visit Cambodia is a life experience.By Somanette Seang
For The Inquirer
It had been more than 26 years since I was in Cambodia. I survived the Khmer Rouge genocide of the 1970s and, at age 7, emigrated to the United States with my mother, grandmother, aunt and cousin.
Until last summer, I never felt ready to return to Cambodia because I struggled with feelings of survivor's guilt. Why did I live when an estimated 1.7 million Cambodians died?
My fear was that I would be just another tourist instead of Khmer. In the end, I was a Khmer tourist.
I arranged to volunteer as an English teacher in Siem Reap through the nonprofit organization Journeys Within Our Community (http://www.journeyswithinourcommunity.org/). I would be teaching two English classes at Wat Thmey (New Temple). Wat Thmey is an old temple with a modest memorial dedicated to about 50 people who died at the hands of the Khmer Rouge.
My "classroom" was the open foyer of the temple, and I had a dry-erase board. My students were teenagers and young adults who could not afford to enroll in a high school or university. Poverty is prevalent throughout Cambodia, even as the country builds and develops.
My 17 students did not know what to make of me initially. I looked Cambodian enough, but there was an intangible characteristic that made me not quite truly Khmer. I told them my story of emigration and the loss of the father I never knew. Several of them told me stories of their impoverished lives in the rice paddies, helping their families find aluminum and plastic reusables in the polluted city, or selling beef on a stick and coca (soda) along the dusty and crowded streets of Siem Reap.
The students did not dwell on their struggles; they showed hope and determination. For the week I was there, they rode their bicycles - the luckier ones rode borrowed motos - to class. We studied present-tense verbs and vocabulary for different modes of transportation. But mostly, we talked about Cambodia. They were eager for me to know and love their country.
Because they wanted me to see the true beauty of Siem Reap, two of my students, Saphour and Vanna, picked me up on Saphour's moto (it is amazing how many people ride at once on a moto) and took me to Angkor Wat. I had read and seen pictures and movies about the 12th-century stone temple built with three levels and four galleries. The galleries' walls are covered with hand-carved, detailed scenes of battles, gods, heaven and hell. When I walked onto the gateway of Angkor Wat, I felt completely proud to be Cambodian.
My students thanked me for being their teacher. But truly, I was the most thankful. I may have taught them grammar, as my father might have done when he was a teacher, but they taught me about hope and self-acceptance. It was fine to be a Khmer tourist.
For The Inquirer
It had been more than 26 years since I was in Cambodia. I survived the Khmer Rouge genocide of the 1970s and, at age 7, emigrated to the United States with my mother, grandmother, aunt and cousin.
Until last summer, I never felt ready to return to Cambodia because I struggled with feelings of survivor's guilt. Why did I live when an estimated 1.7 million Cambodians died?
My fear was that I would be just another tourist instead of Khmer. In the end, I was a Khmer tourist.
I arranged to volunteer as an English teacher in Siem Reap through the nonprofit organization Journeys Within Our Community (http://www.journeyswithinourcommunity.org/). I would be teaching two English classes at Wat Thmey (New Temple). Wat Thmey is an old temple with a modest memorial dedicated to about 50 people who died at the hands of the Khmer Rouge.
My "classroom" was the open foyer of the temple, and I had a dry-erase board. My students were teenagers and young adults who could not afford to enroll in a high school or university. Poverty is prevalent throughout Cambodia, even as the country builds and develops.
My 17 students did not know what to make of me initially. I looked Cambodian enough, but there was an intangible characteristic that made me not quite truly Khmer. I told them my story of emigration and the loss of the father I never knew. Several of them told me stories of their impoverished lives in the rice paddies, helping their families find aluminum and plastic reusables in the polluted city, or selling beef on a stick and coca (soda) along the dusty and crowded streets of Siem Reap.
The students did not dwell on their struggles; they showed hope and determination. For the week I was there, they rode their bicycles - the luckier ones rode borrowed motos - to class. We studied present-tense verbs and vocabulary for different modes of transportation. But mostly, we talked about Cambodia. They were eager for me to know and love their country.
Because they wanted me to see the true beauty of Siem Reap, two of my students, Saphour and Vanna, picked me up on Saphour's moto (it is amazing how many people ride at once on a moto) and took me to Angkor Wat. I had read and seen pictures and movies about the 12th-century stone temple built with three levels and four galleries. The galleries' walls are covered with hand-carved, detailed scenes of battles, gods, heaven and hell. When I walked onto the gateway of Angkor Wat, I felt completely proud to be Cambodian.
My students thanked me for being their teacher. But truly, I was the most thankful. I may have taught them grammar, as my father might have done when he was a teacher, but they taught me about hope and self-acceptance. It was fine to be a Khmer tourist.
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