Cambodia: Part 2

-FAST FORWARD TO MAR 12th-

I’m on the 17-hour train ride from Ho Chi Minh City to DaNang. I left Cambodia on Mar 11^th; took the bus from Phnom Penh to HCMC which was supposed to be a 6-hour journey. We left at 0900 and only arrived at 1700 thanks to some engine issues that necessitated a change of bus halfway through. That left me in a slight state of panic as I wondered whether our passports had also made the switch. You see, you’re supposed to hand your passports to the conductor once you board the bus so that the immigration process at the border is expedited. I was advised of this beforehand and it appears to be the norm. I believe it goes smoothly in general and everyone is at ease with this arrangement. That is until your bus breaks down, you’re forced to quickly switch buses by the side of the dusty road and in the mini-chaos of people and luggage bags moving around, where no one speaks your language and you don’t get a response to the question “Passport? PASSPORT??” a bit of panic sets in. It’s very disconcerting. And this is me, a tourist who if all else fails still has access to resources to get myself out of the situation if need be. I can’t imagine what it must be like for the countless individuals who are trafficked every day, getting their documentation and money and phones confiscated once they get to a foreign land.

I wonder what AL felt on that fateful day 9 years ago when she had her passport taken away from her once she reached Malaysia…

More on AL later.

Outside the train window there is an endless scenery of lime green paddy fields speeding by. A small wooden house. A pond. A man setting his fishing rod. More paddy fields. Four coconut trees. More ponds, some littered with lotus leaves; no lotus flowers. The landscape of a country that over 40 years ago was ravaged by war with the US. I think of that infamous picture of a young girl running naked through a cloud of napalm, crying in pain as her skin peeled off her body. Horrible. The Vietnam War. A war that spilled over into neighbouring Cambodia. The American’s Silent War that helped sow the seeds of the horror that was to come with the Khmer Rouge.

Cambodia. A fascinating country. It’s a country of many facets. Those who have visited always highlight the usuals; the Angkors are magical, the people are so friendly, the Killing Fields are so tragic. And that’s true. But if you care to peel back a few layers and peer beneath the surface, you will find there is much more to this country and its people. And the reality is that while there is so much that is beautiful about this country and its people, there is equally just as much that will make you uncomfortable as you take a closer look. This is the facet of Cambodia I will reflect on.

-FAST FORWARD TO MAR 15th-

I’m on my second 17-hour train ride, this time from DaNang to Hanoi. 5 hours to go. Its cloudy outside, the weather forecast in Hanoi is not looking promising. Maybe it’s not such a bad thing; at least I might finally be able to complete this post.

Cambodia is not a rich country in the traditional sense of the word. It is a developing country; one that is getting caught up in the endless vortex of globalised capitalism. In the global-capitalist context, it’s people are viewed as cheap labour. They are of the “right cost” to be able to manufacture the branded garments and apparel at an acceptable cost that we in the more “developed” world constantly crave whilst conveniently closing an eye to the reality of where and how these products are manufactured.

Acceptable cost…acceptable to whom.

Cambodia used to be an agricultural country. It probably still is; one of the statistics quoted to me was that 80% of Cambodians still live and work in the rural areas on farmland. I admit I did not fact check this yet but based on my observations traveling overland in this country it would not surprise me if this was true. However, this has been changing over recent years. As in most places, many Cambodians especially from the younger generation are being drawn out from the farmlands to the “modern world”. They seek modern jobs in modern cities to afford modern luxuries and to live modern lives. This is the dream that has been woven for many of us by the capitalist ideology that has been at the forefront of the global economy. But at what cost?

Reading this you might be wondering;

“Who does this selfish w*nker think he is, begrudging these people the opportunity to live the life that he enjoys??”.

I do not begrudge these people anything. Everyone deserves the opportunity to seek a better life for themselves. Except the reality for many Cambodians is different…very different.

—|||—

“COFFEEEEE!! BREAKFAAAAST!!!”

 “Coffee please. Hot”

 “Hokay.”

 “How much?”

 “Twenty thousand”

 “Ok, here. Thank you”

 “Where you from?”

 “Malaise”

 “Hah?”

 “Malaisiee”

 “Hah??”

(Say Malaysia you idiot, you’re not in Cambodia anymore)

 “Malaysia”

 “Ahhh Malaysia, good good.”

—|||—

In search of this better, modern life, many Cambodians usually take one of two paths. They either move to the cities or urban centres or they look for an opportunity to migrate abroad; both essentially in the hope of getting a job with a relatively good income. If they take the first path, it typically ends up with a job in one of the many manufacturing plants in the multinational garment or apparel industry.

Ok lah, can work for big multinational companies mahh.

Except it’s not ok. Conditions in many of these manufacturing centres is a subject that has long been investigated and reported on elsewhere so I will not delve into the details in this post; suffice to say there is lots of information online if you care to look. And if you do care to look you might not like what you find. What still irks me though is the “handwashing” approach taken by many multinational companies through outsourcing.

I will outsource manufacturing, therefore I am no longer responsible for the conditions under which those employees work. They aren’t my employees, they work for this third-party company. They are responsible for their employees. However, I will continue to press them to lower their costs. It’s business. It’s not up to me how they do it, that’s up to them.

So what appeared to be a promising move to a modern job in the city doesn’t necessarily materialize that way. An increase in wages is met with an increased cost of living. In the village, you could still grow some of your own food. You could share with your neighbours. In the city, you are more often than not left to fend for yourself.

Poverty is bad but urban poverty has to be the worst.

And what about those who choose another path. The path that takes them further than their domestic cities, away from the comfort and familiarity of their homeland. Agents and brokers are constantly selling the dream of that overseas job with an “overseas income”. It’s an idea that ignites many hopes and dreams. Perhaps for some they do come true. But for many others, they have a very different story to tell.

AL’s is one of them.

—|||—

RW << 2009

AL is 27 years old. Single. She lives in a small village, a very poor one. She has 8 brothers and sisters, a big family. Some are married with families of their own. She’s quiet, soft-spoken. She looks after her mother. She has big dreams. She seeks a better income so she can provide a better life for her mother and herself.

She calls her brother and tells him she is leaving. He is very surprised. Where to, he asks. Malaysia. When did you decide this? Who are you going with? What are you going to do? When are you leaving? Tomorrow, she says. He asks her not to rush it, that they should discuss it. She is determined.

USD$300 per month. That’s what the agent told her. It’s good wages, she thinks. In a country where the average wage in the city is between USD$150-180 a month, who can blame her. It’s an opportunity for a better life. She hopes that her big dreams can become a reality.

Hopes and dreams.

Excitement. Nervousness. She feels them both. Leaving the familiarity of home, of the people you know and trust. Going to a foreign land, an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people. Placing your trust in them. They have nothing against me; why should they have any ill-will towards me? Ah, this innocent trust that must surely only exist these days in the increasingly rare confines of close-knit communal living.

“How naïve!” I hear you exclaim.

But naivety is reserved for those who should know better. What if you didn’t know any better? In fact, so what if you did know better? Should you be apportioned any of the blame if you fall victim to the actions of the wolves who prey on the hopes and dreams of others?

Read. Reflect. Respond.

She arrives in Malaysia. She has a visa. There is a job.  It’s a job assembling cameras in a factory.

Relief.

Salary: MYR300. But…but…that’s less than USD$100. What happened to….wait, why are they taking my documents? “Passport? PASSPORT??”

Confusion. Fear. Panic.

I got my passport back. She never got hers. She is now an “illegal immigrant”.

—|||—

FF >> 2017

She is taking a break to have something to eat. She works in a restaurant now. They decided to run away from the factory many years ago; she and a few others. They live in hiding now. Hiding in plain sight. A few times she contemplated making her way back home via the Malaysian-Thai border. She’s heard that there are people who can get you across for a fee. But her instincts told her otherwise.

Thank god.

So she stayed on, continued working. She’s done different jobs over the years; making furniture, sewing clothes, cleaning restaurants. She earns whatever the employers are willing to pay to get by.

Her employer at the restaurant walks over to the table and sits across from her.

“Operasi”, he says quietly while subtly pointing his chin towards the street. A few seconds later a van pulls up. Immigration officers. Her heart starts pounding.

Fear. Panic.

She’s been here before. But each time it happens, the same fear kicks in. Is this the moment when she gets caught?

He tells her to speak to him in Cantonese. She looks Chinese so she might get overlooked if she blends in. She starts a conversation with him, speaking a language she didn’t know a few years ago. It’s broken Cantonese but she speaks with confidence. A few of the officers walk in, questioning some of the workers. She continues speaking.

Through the corner of her eye, she notices one of them staring at her. Her heart pounds faster and harder in her chest like it’s about to explode. On the outside, a completely different picture. Cool, calm. She keeps speaking. She’s been here before.

Finally, the officer moves his gaze on to someone else. It worked. After 20 minutes, they leave. She gets back to work.

—|||—

Her brother gets in touch with her. Their mother is very sick. He thinks she should come home soon. They are not certain what is wrong with her but it is not looking promising. Her heart aches with despair. How is she going to make it back home? How serious is her mother’s condition? Will she be able to make it back home…in time? What if she doesn’t get a chance to see her mother again? She weeps silently, alone.

I feel her pain.

—|||—

“There is an organization in Malaysia that I think can help your sister. I will pass you the number.”

“Thank you, thank you so much.”

—|||—

She is on her way home to see her mother. She is overjoyed and relieved. Her brother managed to get in touch with the organisation, Tenaganita. They moved quickly. Within days they had gotten in touch with her and had her rescued. She doesn’t know all the details that came after. All she knows is that they have managed to get her home. After 9 years, she will see her family again. She will see her mother again.

—|||—

MAR 8^th, 2018

I sit with my notebook in hand across from AL on the straw mat lining the cold, hard concrete floor in this house in a little village in a province outside Phnom Penh. Her 1-year old nephew lays in a sarong hammock, being rocked to sleep by her sister who watches us intently, curious. AL is narrating her experience to me in fluent Malay, a language she did not speak a word of 9 years ago. Her eyes are steely yet there is a sadness in them. I wonder if this sadness is from seeing her mother ill and in pain. I wonder if this is also a sadness of those hopes and dreams being extinguished. Perhaps a mix of both. I do not ask. I simply listen. This is her story to tell.

She tells me about the time her employer tried to withhold wages from some of her co-workers.

“Hoi! Lu tak bayar gaji diorang nanti saya report polis ah!”

(If you don’t pay their wages I’ll make a police report)

“Wah, lu banyak berani ah. Takder passport pon mau bising.”

(You’re very brave huh, making lots of noise even though you don’t have a passport)

“Kita takder passport bukan maksud lu suruh kita kerja tak payah bayar gaji tau. Takper la, saya repot polis dulu nanti kita tengok.”

(Just because we don’t have passports doesn’t mean you can make us work without pay. It’s ok, let me make a police report first and then we’ll see)

Their wages were never withheld after that.

Fiery activism from a once quiet, soft-spoken lady from a small Cambodian village. Leader of an informal labour union-of-sorts that morphed out of a situation of desperation. A sense of camaraderie that formed amongst a most unlikely group of individuals; those that found a common strand amidst their differences to bind themselves together to be stronger as one.

A labour union-of-sorts. I smile at the thought of what the Thatchers and Reagans of the world would make of this.

It is getting late and she is tired now. It’s been another long day in the village. I thank her for sharing her story with me. She waves it away and thanks me instead. She reminds me again, for the umpteenth time, to say thank you to my dad and Tenaganita. I promise to pass on her message.

I tuck my notebook back into my bag and lay down on the straw mat to sleep. Before I close my eyes, I glance over to the sarong hammock one more time. The little boy is fast asleep, his face so peaceful. He reminds me of all the other little children I’ve come to know over the past few years; my friends’ children. I think about their lives back home in Australia and Malaysia and how different it is for this little boy. Will he go to school? How will he do? What will he be when he grows up? Will he work on his father’s farm? Will he leave to the ever-growing cities? Will he leave and go abroad? What will his life be like?

I wonder what the future holds for him, in this beautiful, fascinating, multi-faceted country, Cambodia.

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If you’d like to know more about Tenaganita and it’s founder, Irene Fernandez, please visit their site: http://www.tenaganita.net

If you’d like to contribute to Tenaganita, I’m currently running a fundraising campaign on https://www.gofundme.com/tenagakita. All contributions are extremely important for them to continue doing the amazing work they do. Thank you!

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