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runawaysiren940 · 7 months ago

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Kunthea has never driven a tuk-tuk before. It looks imposing, sitting there in the driveway where her husband had last parked it. He’d tried to show her once, when he’d been drunk, laughing as she struggled to turn it around the corner and avoid running into their neighbors, stray dogs and passerby. It had been a joke, of course, because women don’t drive tuk-tuks. You could hail one, or drive a moto or a car; but it went unsaid that it would be a bad idea to interact with so many strangers. Unpredictable strangers. Besides, she was smart. Kunthea had finished high school, and knew enough English to work at one of the guesthouses nearby. She liked her job there, mostly. The boss, Mike, was an Aussie who didn’t care if she drank a beer or two, or cooked a meal for herself on the little electric grill they used to make toasties for the guests. Her husband would drop her off there and then wait outside for someone to walk out.

Usually, it was Maddy. She went to the gym every morning. She’d told Kunthea about it before, how important it was to stay healthy here. Kunthea didn’t think that she realized that if she could afford to go to the gym, she’d have spent the money on something more useful. New pots and pans. A better mattress. Sheets she hadn’t sewed back together half a dozen times. But that was the way that the city worked. There were different types of people here. The ones who worried about running in a box with air conditioning and free water, and those who were planning how to make rice last till the end of the week. It didn’t matter anymore. It was just her and her daughter. Her husband had had rice every day and still died, just like everyone else.

There were a lot less rules now. The quiet ones no one had to say seemed to have been brushed aside like the evening dirt from the stoop. People like herself and Maddy smiled, and waved hello, but were never really friends. Except now, no one owned the bar where Maddy lived, and the other two serving girls were still children. No one to pay rent to, but Maddy (the only female lodger) still put money in the till when she grabbed a beer. There was far too much food lying around to bother paying for it; the clothing stores were more like libraries, and the makeup counters desolate, and avoided. The streets were half as busy. Phnom Penh was half as loud. Some places were completely deserted as women congregated together, either going catatonic, or stealing themselves to take care of those they couldn’t. There were so many bodies, and so many funerals; none held by monks, only by those who mimicked the rituals and tried their best to attain that same sense of reverence. It didn’t work much. Whatever was out there had stepped out of the room. And that left Kunthea where she was now. Picking up the pieces, because even though it felt as if the world had ended, life went on.

Life was continuing on, and that meant going back to work. Just in case someone did come to collect rent, or the ten bags of rice she’d hauled home ran out sooner than she’d thought. Maybe, Kunthea thought hysterically, the month would turn and Mr. Sen Sok would knock on her door, his hand held out for that month’s sums, and smoking as he asked, ‘Not late, are you?’ And even if nothing did happen- even if the rest of her life was going to be this way (and what did it mean to be a widow in a world where everyone by definition was defined by loss, widow or widow to be?), she couldn’t just stay at home everyday after her daughter went to school.

So there was the tuk-tuk.

Yellow, slightly dented on the right front bumper from it’s previous owner, good leather on the roof and seats inside (her husband had always been proud of that, the fake YSL logo in primary colors), fake grass on the passenger floor, the front wheel a little deflated, the back two having sunk slightly into the grass- it was the same as it always was.

Kunthea cleared her throat, even though there was no one around to hear. Her hands felt warm and wet around the keys. It was only morning, but already the heat was beginning to sink into the concrete, like a stove warming up. Now, she thought to herself, willing her legs to move. Now. As if they had heard the words slightly late, they jolted like a newborn foal towards it. She tripped, by instinct, caught herself on the frame and- now she was sitting inside. There was a layer of dust on the floor, covering the sandals her husband had left inside. A half empty water bottle.

First, you turn it on. Click, he made the noise with his tongue and mimed the movement. Just like you do to me.

Like she was the afterimage of a ghost, Kunthea did the same. The engine roared to life.

Gotta make sure there’s gas. The tourists get upset if I have to stop with them inside.

“It does. But no tourists today.” Not anymore, not with so few women who could fly planes. Those that could were doing more important things than bringing tourists to Cambodia. You couldn’t even get one to Thailand if you were sick anymore. Only buses ran regularly, and not many.

That stick? It’s a gearshift.

“I know what a gearshift is. You forget, my father was-”

Was an important man, I know. You may have had a driver as a child, but I see the doctor and do not know why he does what he does, or how. You can stand to learn from your poor husband sometimes.

“Gearshift, drive.”

Gas, and go!

Kunthea realizes that her foot was on the brake already. Part of her remembers this, remembers that day and all the others where she had perched beside him, and the tuk-tuk moves.

There is no rush to get to the bar, besides an internal sense of punctuality that feels somewhat meaningless. After all, it’s not like either of them have anything else to do. The lack of pressure makes it a bit easier to maneuver the tuk-tuk down the empty street. There are still cars, trucks and motos, but far less than usual; most of them are moving at a slow pace, as if cruising, or meandering.

Gold Finger Bar is open, she notes, driving past the line of ladybars. The doors are both flung open, uncommon for the early hour, and the sun seems unaccustomed to passing through them, hardly penetrating the dark room. Like the old men who gathered around futbol games played on a single TV, cheering and relishing more in the shared experience than the game itself, four women sit around a plastic red table. It’s covered in cans, most of them empty. Scattered among them are bottles of wine, cigars, plates of half eaten food.

“Bong!” One of the women calls. Her hair is swept out of her face in an unbecoming ponytail, the kind that never would have been approved of if old Lee was still around. Juice from the fruit she had been picking over darkens her white t-shirt like a sweat stain.

Kunthea hadn’t realized she’d slowed down until she’s a few paces past them. The tuk-tuk runs into a full trash bin, knocking it over, and bringing the cart to a stop.

“Hello,” She calls back, uncertain of what exactly she’s meant to say. They vaguely recognize each other, but Kunthea doesn’t know her name, and doubts that the woman knows hers. “How are you?”

“How are you?” The woman counters, wagging a slice of green mango in her direction. “Sister, you din’t notice? We’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating?”

“A feast every day, more than we could ever hope to drink- all we had to do was suffer until now, and promise to suffer every day more.”

Kunthea keeps her foot on the brake, not using the hand held one. Something about this makes her feel uneasy. Unsettled. Everyone's a little confused now. Crying and laughing and screaming and drinking and starving- it’s like a carousel that never ends. But something about her- the whore, the prostitute, her mind helpfully supplies her, putting name to the distance between them- feels wrong. It is fine to keep living; they have no choice. Celebration is something else altogether.

“Sister, maybe you’ve had too much…” She cautions, trailing off as she realizes that she doesn’t know why she’s trying. It’s not her business, and she has somewhere to be.

The other women at the table seem more preoccupied with their glasses, and their own conversations, talking in that fast, slurred way that only drunks can truly endure. They, too, seem far too happy.

Ponytail slams her fist on the table, smile opening like a door. “Too much? No, sister. Too little.”

She laughs. The others seem to have noticed, or maybe they were always listening, these women who chose to make their living from the table scraps of white men, who she had always vaguely looked down upon for taking the easier path, even as she knew it wasn’t true; even as she now can see the ways that they have been marked by those greedy hands, reaching and grasping and taking, and giving little bites of destruction to make those moments easier to bare. They all start to laugh, at first like a joke, and then like a compulsion, like her mother used to be unable to stop pulling at the hairs on her chin, filling the air with it like smoke.

Kunthea remembers what the ‘R’ stands for, gearshifts, and pulls back in the wrong direction. The vehicle jerks as it pulls onto the sidewalk, and then back onto the road. As she drives, she passes by a few other similar scenes. Women drinking, women working, women mourning. Some of the ones she would have pegged just this morning as being inconsolable now seem to be smiling beneath the gleam of their tears, all the while struggling to breathe as if an invisible hand were choking them.

When she arrives at Mike’s bar, Maddy is waiting for her on the porch, a mug of coffee in front of her, and several piles of paper stacked around her. She only looks up when Kunthea accidentally jerks to a stop, a mere inch from ramming the mango tree casting shade on her. Maddy looks up, confused, and then grins broadly.

“You came,” She exclaims, as if she hadn’t believed that Kunthea really would.

“Yes.”

Maddy brushes a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and exhales, a tire losing air. “I was really worried,” She admits, gesturing for Kunthea to take up the free chair. “It seems like everyone I’ve tried to get in contact with is on the other side of the planet, or just going crazy.”

“Yes,” Kunthea says again. The chair scrapes against the concrete, makes a sound when she settles into the seat. “But I don’t know why you want me.”

“Well, that’s an easy one. Have you noticed anything different around here lately? Besides the obvious, I mean,” She amends.

Kunthea doesn’t know what Maddy is on about. She wishes she would get to the point. English is not native to her, and a lot of the complexities- like humor, or irony, are often lost to her. Straightforwardness is the best policy when two people come from such different places, but this is a lesson Maddy has yet to learn. She always speaks like she thinks whoever she’s talking to reads the dictionary in their spare time. Normally, it’s an annoyance, but in the absence of any problems small enough to address, it seems bigger than it is.

“No.”

“The trash? Or rather, the lack of garbagemen to collect it? No one is doing deliveries, hardly anyone is driving buses or manning the petrol stations. Hell, most of the grocery stores are open and running, with no one there to take the money. If the population hadn’t just been halved, we’d be starving to death.”

“There are no more garbagemen,” Kunthea points out. Was this what she wanted her to come by for? To tell her things she already knows?

“Kunthea, what do you think is going to happen to the world, when half of the people responsible for running it disappear? That’s not even all the way true, considering that many jobs have practically no women trained in them. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman drive a tuk-tuk until today.” And look how well you did, goes unsaid. Maddy continues, her face growing flush, “We’re going to have a huge crisis on our hands in less than a month unless people- unless we- pick up the slack.”

“Maddy, this is not a problem for me. I can’t help solve it.”

“Yes,” She insists. “You can. I don’t speak Khmer, and I don’t know these people. The expats I know, many are trying fool’s journeys to get home, but people like me? Those of us with our heads out of our asses know that we won’t be seeing home for a very long time.”

The problem weighs on her uncomfortably, and to dislodge it, Kunthea stands up. The bar has many windows, and given that it actually saw use during the day, is not nearly as cloying as the bar she’d passed earlier. She heads behind the counter, a comfortable space, and grabs two beers. It doesn’t take long, but she lingers, looking at the empty room, the state of it, and then glancing back at the street. The trash is starting to pile up. Already, the city is stinking. With stink comes disease. How long would her rice stockpile hold out for? How long until her daughter got sick from living in filth Kunthea couldn't keep at bay?

It occurs to her that there is nothing stopping her from delivering her own trash to the dump; or even her entire street. There were far less people around now, and less waste. If she did her part… it still wouldn’t be enough. And that was what Maddy was getting at, wasn’t she? She was stuck here because the few female pilots that existed were busy with more important things, which meant she had an interest in things not going to shit. And Kunthea- well, this was her home. Her daughter missed her father, but she also relished not having to worry about if she was dressed properly for when he came home. She stayed out every night until dark, playing with other girls with the bounty of toys their brothers had left them as a parting gift. What world would be left for her daughter if they all were content to mourn or celebrate, and do nothing else?

Maddy calls her name from outside. On a regular day, it would get lost in the traffic. Today, a single moto buzzes by.

Kunthea carries the two beers outside, as well as a notebook and pen, and takes her seat again.

“So we need garbagemen. What else?”

The Day The Men Died

(A response to the many, many works which explore a gender suicide, and yet fail to represent the positive aspects of this change.)

Evenlyn Wise often felt that she did not live up to her name. Her husband frequently agreed, pointing out with lecherous joy whenever she did something worth criticizing. Sometimes, she felt that he was right, that she was wrong, but that her lack of knowledge wasn’t her fault. It filled her with a contradictory, aimless sort of anger, like a clogged drain with nowhere for the runoff to go. How was she to know that tires could be repaired if the nail was in the right spot? It wasn’t as if anyone had told her. The world was full of secret knowledge like this, which seemed to have never been researched, or asked about, but rather slipped into the minds of men, and of women smarter than her. There was secret knowledge that also operated the other way, such as that sheets and pillowcases needed to be changed weekly, or that toenails grown too long could shear them as surely as scissors; but it always seemed that that sort of knowledge was different, only important to that of the female divide.

Other times, it seemed as if his criticism was meant to drive right into the heart of her like a stake, said only for the sake of punishment. Of course Jonathan’s fever was only from a common cold. Wouldn’t any good mother know that? A smart mother would have plied it down digit by digit by way of tylenol, that negotiator of all childhood ills. And who wouldn’t know to remind him not to bring the loaf with nuts to his sister’s house? How should he be expected to remember that she was allergic? Only someone who was petty enough to gamble with her sister-in-law’s life would neglect to issue that regular warning. Those would be the words to start up another fight, which the battlefield of marriage seemed to never be able to put to rest. Inevitably, the spats would be brought up to a third party, though never an impartial one. Her husband preferred his mother's judgment, or in severe cases, Evelyn's mom, who would almost always rule in his favor. Such was the way of the wife. If she wasn't making her husband happy and bearing a grin of her own to boot, obviously she was the one at fault. Nevermind that whatever wife he was dreaming of had never been one she was willing, or able to provide. Still, whatever fantasies her husband had about a grinning Stepford, her own were far more morose.

Evenlyn found herself fantasizing about what it would be like if one of them disappeared. She didn’t mean death; being a widow didn’t sound very appealing, with all of the required grieving and pitying. But rather- she dreamt about her husband just one day leaving for work, and not coming home that evening. She would get home first, having a far shorter workday to compensate for having to pick up their son from school, and imagined herself slaving over a complicated dish all day. One of those delicious ones that she’d go nose blind too far before it was ready, unable to enjoy it the same way those interlopers into her kitchen did, having avoided the brunt of the olfactory offense until she called for Jonathan to set the table. Lasagne from scratch, or perhaps homemade ravioli- she’d set the table just like a picture from a Southern Home magazine, waiting, idling as the food cooled and Jon started to grumble; it would be for his sake that she would serve the first portions, gently, perfectly plated, and thinly portioned. The second portion would be out of worry, and then the third, because her worry had finally split open her stomach, making room for hunger, and then- A single solitary slice, plastic wrapped and placed in the fridge. That slice would grow cold, tough and congealed, each day bringing it closer to the trash, until finally, she could admit to herself that the left side of her bed was going to remain cold and empty. It would be perfect. No blame, a manageable amount of pity bestowed upon her, preferably in the form of free childcare and casseroles, and no issues in the transferring of the house or car or assets. She would have her grief, but a private, solitary thing, and a house that was quiet and clean.

It was far more rare that she would fantasize about leaving herself, taking nothing but a duffel bag and the keys to her car to start over somewhere distant and anew, and leaving her husband to the daycares and fevers, packed lunches and runny noses.

To find her husband dead beside her on an early Tuesday morning had not factored into these daydreams, but as Evelyn carefully pressed a finger into the stiff side of his once growing gut, she supposed she could make this work too. There was a sort of numbness that fell over her like a curtain across a stage play as she stared at him. There was drool along the side of his mouth, the left side of his auburn hair pressed flat to his scalp from where he'd slept on it. His face, one she had grown used to, like one would a morning sunrise seen on the daily commute, was frozen in a placid expression of discomfort, as if he'd been suffering from heartburn not bad enough to wake from. She took all of this in like one would a mess in need of tackling. It must have been a heart attack, or an aneurysm then. Nothing that could incorrectly be attributed to herself.

Evelyn should call the police, she noted, but should she muster up some tears first? Panic? Or would the eerie calmness be caught by the phone operator, and understood to be a sort of autopilot she had little control over?

She should call. Evelyn knows from her murder stories that calling immediately is important. Her hand is on the phone, suddenly, pulling it free from the charger like a fruit from a vine. There are messages from her mother, sister, friends whose names all blurred together. She doesn't even bother to unlock it, instead pressing the emergency call button. The phone dials once, and then a pause.

"My husband, he-" Evelyn stops. Her voice is oddly flat, but beyond that, another voice is speaking, half covered up by her own words.

"-unfortunately unable to answer your call at this time due to an unexpected influx of calls. Please remain on the line to be connected to the next available operator."

In the other room, the stillness of the house is interrupted by a resounding wail. Not a cry. No, she's too familiar with the sound of morning hunger, an aborted nightmare, the slight panic of an empty room. The sound is wrong, and fills her heart with panic that has her falling out of the bed. Feet tripping over the clothes her husband had left on the floor the night before, her neck lands hard on the edge of the half full laundry basket, cutting her air off like a hand around her throat. Still, even with the burn, she's back to her feet, reaching for the door. The hall is small, always seeming even smaller with the toys cluttering the floors, but it seems like a gulf now, one she struggles to cross.

The house is quiet again. Her hand on the doorknob, turning, and-

There's her boy, her baby. With the same bronze hair, and watercolor eyes she'd fallen in love with on his father, that sharp nose Iike her own, tangled in off brand train themed sheets, gasping, mouth wide like a fish out of water. She lunges for him, knocking her shin against the bed frame as she cradles him in her arms. He's cold. Not shivering like she needs to tuck him in, like a fever needs sweating- but like an engine gone cold. She imagines she can feel his heart chugging along the final mile, each foot passed leading to the inevitable shutdown.

"Jon, it's okay baby, mommy's here, I-" She chokes as his hand twitches, as if too weak to reach for her. She grabs it, curling his stiff fingers around her own. "Mommy loves you. Mommy's right here, she'll fix this."

But even as she asserts it, she knows she's lying. His body feels heavy. Leaden, like a porcelain doll that'll shatter if she drops it. She holds onto him, gathering him into her arms as she returns to the bedroom, more carefully this time. The phone is still on, blinking under the thin linen sheets. The sheets her husband rests cold and still on.

Her eyes keep flickering to him as she picks it up, switching the call to speakerphone. The line is silent except for the occasional chirp, as if to remind her that there is someone out there waiting for her, if she keeps waiting in turn. Her child and her husband, all in one morning- it seems like an unfathomable tragedy, the sort that only happens to other people.

She aches for her mother. It's a feeling she recognizes immediately, if only because she knows that the mother she wants is not the one she has; if Evelyn calls, she won't receive the comfort she wants, the direction she needs. Still, with shaking hands, she searches out her contact, only to pause as she realizes how many messages she's received. All capitals, ten texts from her coworker Anna, four nonsensical cries for help from her eight year old niece, and more, from women she hardly talks to, hardly knows. All repeating the same thing. The men are all dead.

#radfem #radblr #radical feminism #runawaysiren #youtube #Fiction #response to manhunt by gretchen transwoman

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greenpenthouse-blog · 6 years ago

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southeastasianists · 4 years ago

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They're called "red zones" - Covid hotspots in Cambodia's capital of Phnom Penh that have gone into lockdown. But those living inside say food - and help - is scarce, writes journalist Kiana Duncan.

Somal Ratanak had spent nearly his whole pay cheque when his neighbourhood in Phnom Penh was locked down on 12 April.

The area was eventually designated a red zone - he was left unable to leave his house or go to work as a cashier.

Mr Somal is now unsure of where his next meal might come from.

He had earlier this month received a standard government issued aid package of rice, noodles, soy sauce, and canned fish.

But these deliveries are irregular and Mr Somal cannot count on them, saying he has to "eat a lot less than before".

He's not alone. Harsh new restrictions aimed at controlling a late February outbreak have left tens of thousands trapped in their homes, with food insecurity a real problem.

Despite Cambodia being lauded for its tight Covid-19 restrictions and relatively low case numbers last year, the country is now seeing around 400 new infections a day, and has nearly 20,000 cases and 131 deaths in total.

Hospitals are over capacity, forcing authorities to create temporary hospitals in stadiums and care centres, with some people in need of medical attention told to quarantine at home.

As a means of containing the spread, the government has imposed progressively tighter restrictions on mobility, such as district lockdowns and colour-coded zoning.

Inside the red zone

There are an estimated 120,000 people living in Phnom Penh's red zones, according to the Center for Alliance of Labor and Human Rights (Central).

These red zones are Covid-19 hot spots, sealed off with barricades and strictly monitored by soldiers.

Phnom Penh currently has four such districts with individual sections still in lockdown, which will be retained until 19 May.

Residents in these zones are forced to remain in their homes under threat of arrest, fines or even violence, prompting aid organisations to express concern over human rights abuses.

Rules and regulations vary from officer to officer and inconsistent disciplinary action has left residents without a clear understanding of what to do, with some able to leave for food runs and emergency healthcare and others trapped inside.

The Ministry of Commerce has sent buses doubling as mobile food shops in some neighbourhoods to make up for the mass closure of small shops and markets - but some can barely afford even this basic spread.

Residents living in these zones are seeing prices rise by as much as 20% and their income fall, said Central.

NGOs have also been barred from the red zones - making it even harder to reach those in need.

Amnesty International's Deputy Regional Director for Campaigns Ming Yu Hah says the government's response so far has been haphazard.

The government's aid package for example, have been sporadic - reaching only a fraction of those in the red zones.

These were initially advertised as 300,000 riel ($75; £52) relief payments, which could support a family's food intake for at least a couple of weeks.

Instead, the government decided to deliver groceries but critics say the packages are worth far less than the $75 relief payments.

More than 20,000 families have received the aid, according to the government, but the instances of individual need are still overwhelming.

"The government should ensure access to adequate and nutritious food, healthcare and basic social assistance for the most at-risk Cambodians during this critical time," said Human Rights Group, Licadho director Naly Pilorge.

Chhai Boramey, a casino dealer now trapped in a red zone, says her household is one which has yet to receive any government assistance.

"Three of our family members are jobless," Ms Boramey said of her eight-person household.

"We still have to pay full rent, electricity, and loans. We also cannot afford the increase in the price of food."

In late April, hundreds of residents in two locations of Stung Meanchey district - a red zone - began to protest against food shortages in their villages.

But these demonstrations were met with backlash and name-calling from local media and officials, as well as suggestions they were stunts spearheaded by the political opposition.

Amnesty International, as well as others serving in the non-profit sector, have received reports that residents speaking out over social media or through protests were warned that they could be denied aid, but the slow relief response has left them more famished than frightened.

"I also am afraid to speak out," Ms Boramey said. "But because I have no food, I have to protest."

#Southeast Asia #Cambodia #Covid-19

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reachsiemreap · 3 years ago

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Finding the Best Bike Ride in Cambodia

Cambodia is a land of incredible natural beauty, exciting urban adventures, and dreamy, small-town getaways – they don’t call it the Kingdom of Wonder for nothing! As with any travel destination, figuring out how to get around can be a challenge. Cars are relatively scarce, aside from the fleet of huge Lexus and Hummers favoured by the political class. If you’re staying in Phnom Penh or another urban centre, tuk tuks are a fast, fun, easy and affordable way to get around. If you’re travelling further than that – and really, if you’re going to Cambodia at all, you should be trying to see as much of the country as possible – You can get around by bus, train, or in some cases, by plane.

However, if you’re spending time in one of the country’s many smaller towns, we really suggest renting or buying a bicycle. They can be purchased outright for under $50 USD – sometimes as little as half of that – and rented on a daily basis for considerably less. They’re not as fast as a motorbike or scooter, but they are much safer and are likely to cause you far fewer headaches. For our money, they are the best way to get around and take in some of the gorgeous, sleepy countryside that surrounds the townships in places like Siem Reap, Kep, and Kampot. We’ve put our heads together to share what we think are some of the best bike ride Cambodia wide.

Kampot While we weren’t blown away by the actual township of Kampot, the surrounding areas, with their lush forests, flowing rivers, and seemingly endless banana plantations, are the perfect setting for a long bike ride. You will see plenty of tourists zooming around on motorbikes and scooters, but you’ll also notice a staggering amount of bandaged limbs and nasty-looking scars from road accidents. So don’t feel intimidated, a leisurely bicycle ride is the cheaper, safer, smarter, and – in our humble opinion – more enjoyable option.

Siem Reap Siem Reap is home to Cambodia’s world-famous Angkor Wat, the largest religious structure anywhere in the world and an absolute must-see if you are planning to travel to Cambodia. You can take an early morning bike ride around the enormous temple complex, and we strongly suggest doing that to get a good view of the main temple at sunrise. But the town itself and surrounding areas offer no shortage of wonderful sights and fascinating historical locations. Do yourself a favour and enjoy them all.

Battambang Less crowded than Siem Reap and more of a local vibe than Kampot, Battambang is a hidden gem offering gorgeous colonial architecture, delicious French-Khmer fusion food, and stunning natural vistas best enjoyed from atop a bicycle. You can see the whole town in a day or two, but why not take a week? Time stands still in this lovely little town, so you can too!

Stay Safe As we’ve already mentioned, whether you’re in the heart of the city or way out among the rice paddies, a good old-fashioned bicycle is one of the safest options to get around Cambodia. But that doesn’t mean it’s totally risk-free. Always wear a helmet, and wherever possible, travel in groups of two or more. Keep your wits about you and you’re up for one of the greatest adventures of your life!

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juliehiggins · 5 years ago

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The Story of Lucky

Far far away in a far-off land, in the city of Phnom Penh, Cambodia, there lives a little boy named Lucky. And if you knew the story of this little boy, you might have to wonder how he ended up with a name such as this? You see, when Lucky was born, his parent/s would not, or perhaps could not, look after him. Alas, for whichever circumstances led to this, we shall never know. He was found a few hours after birth in a garbage can, was rushed to the hospital for immediate care, and this was how he found his way to the Sacrifice Families and Orphans Development Association (SFODA).

Lucky is but one of the 57 children between the ages of 2 and 18, currently residing here, each with their own story. Some, like Lucky, are orphans, either by abandonment in their early years or through the death of their caregiver. A minority of them were born with disabilities which their parents were unable to cope with, and some of these children were victims of abuse, trafficking, or exploitation and were removed from dire situations.

Founded in 1997, their purpose is to provide a safe environment to children, where they may receive ongoing health care, suitable education, vocational training, and emotional support, and to lay a solid foundation which will lead them to a much brighter future (SFODA ). This NGO relies solely on the generosity of donors and sponsorships to cover the cost of their rented land and premises, the handful of employees’ minimal wages, food and clothing, toys, health care, and education. In 2009, Cambodia suspended all intercountry adoption due to the surge of babies being sought out and sold by impoverished families to foreigners for minimal sums (LICADHO 2018). Chances are slim that any of these children will be placed into a new and loving home, and Cambodian organizations such as SFODA now fight the continuous battle of proving themselves to the world as a valid and trusted organization which brings true goodness, and not harm.

Yet the aim of this blog and photo story is not to focus on the sadness which may lie beneath the surface, but rather to put a spotlight on the gift of a future which has now been given to these children. You may notice within my photostory that conditions are not perhaps what we in the Western world is used to seeing and that financially they live day to day, yet SFODA is determined to continue to provide these children with a stable and loving home for as long as there is a need.

This organization is within my local context due to the nature of my job, and in January I had a chance to visit them and interview the Executive Director, Ms. Ouk Moninarom for the purpose of this blog. I have chosen SFODA specifically, as I truly believe they actively contribute towards the achievement of several Sustainable Development Goals, even under extremely challenging circumstances.

youtube

References:

LICADHO, March 30, 2018-last update, Statement: Cambodias Stolen Children: Fraud and Corruption in the Inter-Country Adoption System. Available: http://www.licadho-cambodia.org/pressrelease.php?perm=432 [Feb 3, 2020].

SFODA, Sacrifice Families and Orphans Development Association. Available: https://sfoda.org/ [Feb 6, 2020].

#maketravelmatter #sdgs2030 #payitforward #uwtsd #childrenarethefuture #sfoda

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coursetrust · 2 years ago

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Gary glitter interview bbc

Glitter, in an interview with BBC News in May 2006, denied he was a paedophile, and claimed not to have knowingly had sex with anyone under 18. Judge Hoàng Thanh Tùng said "He sexually abused and committed obscene acts with children many times in a disgusting and sick manner." Glitter continued to deny any wrongdoing, claiming to have been framed by British tabloid newspapers. The sentence included mandatory deportation at the end of his sentence, and payment of 5 million Vietnamese đồng (US$315) to his victims' families. The following day he was found guilty and sentenced to three years in prison. On 2 March 2006, Glitter was tried on charges of committing obscene acts with two girls, aged 10 and 11, facing up to 14 years in prison if convicted. After having received compensatory payments from Glitter, the families of the girls appealed for clemency for him. Glitter could have faced execution by firing squad if found guilty of child rape. The charge of rape was dropped for "lack of evidence" (according to Glitter's lawyer), although the singer admitted that an 11-year-old girl had slept in his bed. Glitter was held in jail throughout the criminal investigation, which was completed on 26 December 2005. Six Vietnamese girls and women, aged from 11 to 23, claimed that Glitter had had sex with them.Īfter his arrest, Glitter was turned over to provincial police from Bà Rịa–Vũng Tàu and returned to Vũng Tàu and held on suspicion of having sex with the two underage girls. He was arrested on 20 November at Tan Son Nhat International Airport in Ho Chi Minh City while trying to board a flight to Bangkok. A 15 year old girl was found living in his flat and questioned by authorities. He came to the attention of Vietnamese authorities after being banned from a nightclub for allegedly groping a teenage waitress and eyewitnesses reporting seeing him take two young girls into his home. He subsequently settled in Vietnam.įrom March 2005, Glitter resided in Vũng Tàu, Vietnam, where he rented a luxury seaside villa, and applied for permanent residency in the country. In January 2003, he was deported from Cambodia to Thailand on a flight to Bangkok. In late 2002, he was detained over his previous sex offenses and spent four days in jail before being released on bail. After his real identity became known in Sotogrande, he moved to Cuba, then to Cambodia, where he rented an apartment in Phnom Penh. He told the locals his name was Larry Brilliante, and spent his time frequenting local bars and surfing the Internet. He lived in Sotogrande for six months, in his yacht which was moored at the marina. It was later revealed that she had sold her story to the News of the World and stood to earn more money from the newspaper should Glitter be convicted.įollowing rejection by the British public and facing scrutiny from the press following his arrest and conviction, Glitter fled on his yacht Voyageur to Spain. The child had had a relationship with Glitter for some years. He was cleared of a charge of having sex with a 14 year old girl in the late 1970s. He was castigated in the media over the allegations additionally, his appearance in the Spice Girls' musical comedy film Spice World was cut, though a truncated edit of the scene, featuring a version of Glitter's "I'm the Leader of the Gang (I Am)", was left in the film.Īt Bristol Crown Court on 12 November 1999, Mr Justice Butterfield sentenced Glitter to four months in prison and placed him on the sex offender register in the UK after he admitted downloading more than 4,000 items of child pornography. Further images were discovered by police in searches of his homes in London and Somerset. In November 1997, Glitter was arrested after a technician discovered pornographic images of children on the hard drive of a laptop that he had taken to a computer retailer in Bristol for repair. In case anyone is unaware of Glitter's story.

#Gary glitter interview bbc

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pharen366 · 2 years ago

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Are you looking for a new place to call home? Look no further than this property, which is located in the heart of Khan Toul Kork, Khan Chamkarmon and Khan Bueng KengKang.

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seosingapore-589 · 3 years ago

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rentexcambodia · 4 years ago

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Majestic Villa For Sale In Phnom Penh

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rwaggs81 · 7 years ago

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It’s 8:00 pm here. I just woke from a nap. I really needed it. As you may have noticed, my mood on these posts is mostly positive. Part of me wants to keep it that way. The other part of me realizes that if I don’t keep this real, there’s no real point in doing it in the first place. Today was when the homesickness bit me really hard for the first time on this trip. I know 3 days in seems early, but knowing myself, I expected as much. I am prone to homesickness. I am very reliant on routine. I am rooted. Part of why I planned this thing the way I did was because of my understanding of my nature. This morning, I parted with my room of the first two nights. The place was uncommonly quiet and calm for Ho Chi Minh. Just what I needed, in a way. The room, however, was quite isolating and a tad depressing, if I stopped to think about it. I checked this morning if they still had the room available tonight, just in case, but they didn’t...which ultimately is probably a good thing for two reasons. 1. I need some good sleep to get past the initial jet lag, and I wasn’t getting it there. I’d sleep really deep for about 4 or 5 hours, and that’s it. 2. I need to not get frozen in place. Each day here so far, I’ve started with a pretty positive energy. This morning was no exception. At 9 am, when I left with my bike all packed up with bags, the air was still somewhat cool, I was in good spirits, and I had the knowledge that I needed to find a new place to stay tonight. Part of me wants to stay in one of the hostels in the backpacker district, but I think that the back of my mind knows that I’m not feeling that social just yet. I also wonder if there’s part of me who feels like an imposter in that setting due to my age. I suspect I’ll find out soon. The first place I went this morning was the backpacker section of District 1 to look around. I ended up sitting at a table on the street with an older German fellow named Axel. He was nice enough, and it was nice to just interact with someone, but uniform to the other days here, the place started wearing me down over the next hour. The street vendors who constantly approach with the sames wares and the same robotic sales tactics were in full effect....(points to my sunglasses, then to a similar pair on his mobile display)... Him: “I have same, but real, not fake” Me: “That’s okay, I only need the one pair.” This back and forth goes on about 6 times, before he just stands there and stares at me for about 30 seconds, pulls the same routine with the German guy, and finally leaves. In the course of an hour, this process repeated itself at least 10 times. Sometimes glasses. Sometimes a wallet. Sometimes this unique flint and tinder style lighter, and sometimes fabric wares. I point to my bike bags to show them that I literally have no room to add to my belongings. No dice. Eventually, I just have to go into broken record mode. Them: “Hello, look...” Me. “Khong, Cam On!” over and over until they give up and leave. I think that the charm of the backpacker district is lost on me. By day, it’s as I described, and by night, it’s something that I may have enjoyed when I was 19 and heading up to dance clubs in Canada. It drains my energy. Axel explained to me that he has a “girlfriend” during his visit. You can see these couples walking around the district. Older men with younger Vietnamese girls, in a kind of consensual partnership. Axel gives a pretty good breakdown of how this works. He approached this girl at a bar and started talking to her. She gloms on to him, comes to his room, basically acts as an escort. He buys her nice things, and presumably pays her something when it’s time for him to leave. He told me that he went briefly to the place where she lives. 8 people living in a small apartment. Motorscooters stored inside at night. Everyone sleeping on the floor and still each paying $100 per month in rent. Each engaged in various hustles to get by (if you don’t have a hustle here, you are FUCKED.) Axel, frankly, seems like a normal guy. Am I not normal in that I could never, EVER envision myself pursuing an arrangement like this? I’m uncomfortable even thinking about it. This place stokes my empathetic nature, but there’s no way to personally assist literally millions of people. It’s just a way of life to them. When Axel takes his leave, I decide it is time to figure out my room situation. Turns out that I’m as indecisive about this as I am about where to travel next. I kinda just ride around aimlessly for awhile. Then I stop to look at booking sites on my phone. I finally settle on something a little more expensive than I’d done the previous two nights, realizing that my emotional state is likely being hindered by a lack of sleep and wishing to isolate myself better for a night. A “western” feeling hotel, which costs relatively less here than back home... I find one. It says District 1. I book it, and start navigating to the address. I didn’t realize how expansive the area that qualifies as District 1 was. A couple miles of riding, and I’m in what must be the “Japantown” I’ve read about. This may seem weird, but I’m already in a state of adjusting to one culture, and I’m not super thrilled with being in that culture’s version of another culture...but whatever. I navigate to the place, and it even has the address written fully on the gate..but is CLEARLY not the place, or even a hotel. I log back into Hotels.com. I’m going to try to cancel the booking and go back towards the area I’m more familiar with. I must call. I have very limited actually call minutes. I get a girl on the phone, explain the situation and am put on hold for 5 minutes. Ugh. I can’t do this, so I hang up the phone and just ride around the area for a while, and finally find the place. Every reference to the place online is the wrong address. I can’t possibly be the only one who’s run into this issue. Anyway, its big, and western. They view my sweaty appearance with pretty thinly veiled annoyance, and are probably not thrilled with my bike. Elderly white tourists pack the downstairs restaurant bar. I’m a little disgusted with myself for even being there, but I don’t care. I need sleep and quiet. I go upstairs to my beautiful room with beautiful view and even more beautiful double headed shower (first things first), and shut the world out. One call to the on site laundry service, and one quick trip downstairs for a shot of Makers Mark and a surprisingly excellent cheeseburger and downright heavenly mango smoothie (these people do not mess around when it comes to juice and such), and I’m back in my room at 3 pm and ready for a nap. GREAT nap. Insane dreams. I feel better. I feel like I will sleep again tonight well. I feel resolved that I’m going to head to Cambodia tomorrow or the next day. I’m going to book myself at a popular hostel there, throw myself in socially and stop taking myself so seriously. The hostel in question actually runs a pub crawl nightly...which seems a little juvenile, but the price they charge for it goes straight to educating local kids. They pay their local help a lot more than prevailing wage. Maybe that will make me feel better about things. I may head to the coast south of Phnom Penh after that. I will be a typical white tourist in Siem Reap and see the incredible temples. I think that I will then head to Bangkok for a bit, and then take the Central Thailand train route to Chiang Mai, with some interesting stops on the way. First, I’m going to go out here in friggin Japantown and get myself a beer. These plans are all subject to change. Asia, even when it resembles home, is weird. It’s actually weirder when it tries to cater to western tastes. It feels weird in the bones. It takes adjustment. That is all. PS. I’m fine, and safe, and healthy. I’m just being real, and I feel better for it. Love you all.

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southeastasianists · 6 years ago

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Indonesian filmmaker Joko Anwar is making moves in a surging industry. He directed the first season of HBO Asia’s Jakarta-set supernatural series Halfworlds and some episodes of its new horror series Folklore. He joins other local auteurs enjoying both domestic and international acclaim for movies like last year’s Marlina the Murderer in Four Acts, directed by Mouly Surya. The so-called “satay Western” about a wronged woman out for revenge won raves at 2017’s Cannes Film Festival, and is the nation’s pick to compete for Best Foreign Language Film at next year’s Academy Awards.

Filmmaking in Indonesia dates back more than a century, and movies were first shown there in 1900. The current resurgence comes after last century’s bumpy journey for an art form that never totally took hold of audiences’ imagination.

“We hear about a once-rich Indonesian cinema culture, but it was an illusion,” Anwar told Southeast Asia Globe.

He’s referring to the sagas of Sundanese legends that were popular with Indonesian audiences in the 1920s, but were told from the point of view of the Dutch directors who made them on location in what was then the Dutch East Indies. In the early 1930s, elaborate romantic melodramas were all the rage, but they were created by Chinese entrepreneurs who were flush from the Shanghai movie boom and extending their market around the region. Heavily financed foreign productions discouraged local film production, which was scattershot and based mainly in Jakarta. The Great Depression and Dutch taxes made this dream all but impossible by the mid-1930s.

A handful of enterprising filmmakers dipped their toes in the water in the 1940s – just before film production was banned under the Japanese occupation. Government-approved political films saturated the post-Independence era until a string of indie domestic films enjoyed huge success in the 1980s. The 1988 political biopic Tjoet Nja’ Dhien was the first Indonesian film to be invited to Cannes. Soon after that victory, local filmmaking took a big hit when the government lifted a ban on the screening of foreign films. Indonesian moviemakers couldn’t compete with blockbusters from Hollywood and Hong Kong. During Southeast Asia’s economic crisis of 1997, Indonesia’s economy tanked, along with box office sales and investment in domestic film production. Just six movies were made in Indonesia in 1999.

The industry has been recovering since the mid-2000s, and in most Indonesian cities, air-conditioned multiplexes are seeing relatively healthy sales. John Riady, an Indonesian entrepreneur and editor at large of the Jakarta Globe, describes Indonesia as “the most invisible country in the world”, referring to the rarity of good English writing about the country and poor tourism marketing. It’s home to a quarter of a billion people, and its capital, Jakarta, is a gargantuan tech-obsessed metropolis that sends more tweets daily than any other city on the planet. Metrics like that are impressive, but local cinema isn’t quite keeping pace.

“Indonesians used to have a closer emotional relationship with movies and cinemas, mainly because there weren’t many alternatives to movie-watching at that time, and cinemas were not in high-end shopping malls,” explained Anwar. “Today, going to a cinema requires more effort since most of them are inside places which the average Indonesian person – someone who lives outside of Jakarta, for example, or the average Jakartan who doesn’t visit luxury malls – has no access to.”

Anwar, 42, is a solidly built man who dresses and talks with the confidence of someone who tours the international film-festival circuit and enjoys a lucrative career. He grew up in a poor part of Sumatra and spent much of his childhood watching horror and kung-fu movies. In 2003, he wrote Indonesia’s first gay-themed film, Arisan!, and went on to write and direct a slew of films throughout the 2000s. His 2007 film, Kala, was lauded at the New York Asian Film Festival. His 2009 thriller, Forbidden Door, was screened at film festivals all over the world, and the Hollywood Reporter compared it to the work of Alfred Hitchcock.

The biggest challenge faced by Indonesian cinema is getting audiences in seats, Anwar explained.

“There are too few cinemas, compared to the increasing interest in cinema-going. For the past three years, Indonesia has enjoyed a [rise in] ticket sales for locally produced films, and it seems like we are going to surpass that also this year. However, ticket prices have crept up to keep pace with demand, and this puts a visit to the cinema out of the reach of most Indonesians, who either don’t have or can’t justify spending that kind of money on a movie ticket. There’s also the fact that the older traditions of movie-going are gone, and so unless you’re an upwardly mobile Jakartan, cinema isn’t on your radar at all. You watch TV. You talk to your family.”

Anwar then produced something unexpected: the 2015 dystopian A Copy of My Mind, set in Jakarta during the tense 2014 presidential elections. The urban drama and love story about a low-rent salon worker and a guy who writes subtitles for pirated DVDs featured Jakarta as a character more than a setting.

“My vision of Jakarta in A Copy of My Mind was meant to be a love letter to the city I moved to 20 years ago,” said Anwar. “Back then, I was penniless but I fell in love with the city right away. It was a very diverse place and people were more tolerant. Preachers weren’t spreading hate in mosques. Nightlife was colourful. We even had a gay film festival – imagine that, in the world’s most Muslim-populated country!”

Unlike the Hong Kong of Wong Kar-wai or the Madrid of Almodóvar, Anwar’s Jakarta wasn’t venerated, there was no background razzle-dazzle. In A Copy of My Mind, Jakarta is a bleak and ominous place, akin to the Phnom Penh of the Cambodian filmmaker Rithy Panh.

“Now, it feels like I don’t know Jakarta anymore. I believe that the 2014 presidential campaign started a kind of hateful atmosphere in the city, and in the country,” he said. “There were so many black campaigns launched, and they seriously damaged our capability for logic and cultural expression. Now hate has been normalised: you hear it from religious preachers, on the street, even in schools by teachers. With A Copy of My Mind, I guess I wanted to make a time capsule of that one particular year so 20 years from now, when things get better or worse, we can watch that film and remember what happened, and reflect.”

There are no film schools in Indonesia, but it does have five filmmaking education programmes at universities and institutes. It has just over 1,000 cinema screens, compared to nearly 15,000 in the comparable economy of India, which has a robust national cinema culture. In the Philippines, the industry employs a quarter of a million people and 50 million Filipinos go to the movies every year.

So why does Indonesia lag behind?

“First of all, good and entertaining movies in Indonesia are so rare that momentum in viewership can’t be sustained,” said Anwar. “This makes it hard to argue for financing, it makes it hard to motivate people to join the industry or take up training, and human resources in Indonesian filmmaking are already so rare. This results in a lot of untrained people making well-intentioned but poor-quality films. But most films are likely to get a theatrical release to fill cinema schedules, thus glutting the market with low-grade product – and this turns audiences off even further.”

Anwar hopes the current successes signal a turning point. He spoke of the increase in new movie theatres and educational opportunities, including the workshops and training offered through the government’s Creative Economy Agency.

When Southeast Asia Globe caught up with him, Anwar was in post-production after a long shoot on location in Jakarta and West Java for his next film, Gundala, based on 1980s Indonesian superhero comic books. Promo shots and poster art for it are plastered on Indonesian Facebook pages and in that deluge of Jakartan tweets.

After his work with HBO Asia, it seemed possible that Anwar would follow the money and work internationally, but Gundala suggests the exact opposite.

“I believe what’s important is making films that you can inject your own personality into, your views of life,” he said. “I think I will be happy making movies anywhere, as long as I am doing movies which I care about, with stories that I believe in, and with interesting characters. It still has to be a personal experience for me. As long as I’m allowed to do that, making movies anywhere will still be bliss.”

#southeast asia #Indonesia #Joko Anwar #Film #Movies #Director #People #Cinema

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