My Dear Town

This photography is not mine. 

There is more to this town than meets the eye–only domiciled individuals can truly relate–not even a thousand obelisks could inscribe her beginning and growing in the heart of every resident. Decades have come and gone, and yet she stood the test of time. Amidst the taunting haunts of life’s uncertainty and seemingly endless odysseys, she will continue to stand and thrive for the rest of our lives. Like a mother to a child she caresses and cuddles us. She has been around and will be there from the cradle to the grave just to show her unstinting devotion. She has proven her love through thick and thin, and for countless circumstances. This town named Ipil will remain beautiful in the eye of the beholder.

Proud to avow, I grew up in this place. But left in my late teens to run after my aspiration. Of course, it was a forgivable decision and a justifiable reason. Like the rest of the youth before me and my generation, we followed our hearts to find the greener pastures. I did. That was twenty-four years ago of homesickness and the longing to feel the warmth embrace of a place I once called a home. I’ve been away, but no, every memory of my dear town hasn’t lost in the mists of time. It has been with me all these years in vivid description. I only have one thing to say when I visited there last year… I was a total stranger. Wish I could bring yesteryear back when everybody knows everybody. It is a hope against hope for sure. Well, I still had fun spending time with my family.

These photos are not mine.

Poetry

Head over heels, yeah, that’s the right idiom to describe my love for poetry. I fell so in love with poems my younger years. I could read tons and be charmed word for word. Funny me, but I could even slog away hours and hours just to write this seemingly boring literary work. Really. Aside from essays, writing nonsense verses or made-up word was always indulging. When I wrote one, I felt the world spun non-stop. A day or a week to spend for it was too short–like a little amount of leisure time. But those were the days.

I had a notebook in high school, a collection of original compositions of poems and songs I wrote over those years. Sad to say, I burned it because I was deceived by a fanatic Christian not to write such stuff. I was young in faith you know. Then I started to write in University again, but not much when I went to postgraduate schools. If I had a free time and was in a good mood–a rare chance, I tried to write still after those scholastic journeys. Oh, please do remind me, the last time I think held a pen for this literary genre was almost a decade ago. It feels like I am getting blunt. The longest piece I had written was a twenty-two-verse poem in less than two hours. Last night I became a born-again poet–more ambitious one who tried to beat my longest work. Failed. But I’m very pleased that I can still write.

Let me share a portion of what I did yesterday evening, the first one in many years. It is a seven-verse poem I wrote in less than five hours:

A Dirty Word

By AL Kemuel

Verse 1:

Flowers, as always, they tickled you pink,

Whether it’s a piece from the wild or a bouquet of peonies;

You know each language, kind, and scent so well,

That undying fascination tells me something else then.

Verse 7:

My sincerest apology to utter a lame persuasion–no, a regretful one,

Words you know didn’t come easy to me after all;

Tell me, I want to understand, it’s hard to absorb,

Why such a proposal or a marriage or a wedding is a dirty word?

A dirty word!?

Awkward Cold War

Thought I would only last a week from that cold war–an awkward battle triggered by their own ignorance. But I was aware from tip to toe, what it is like, the feeling of a wounded pride. I didn’t come to wage war in the first place. More than just winning over new friends, my utmost intention is to offer help–a solicited one so to speak. Then I wavered. It was a commitment I’d break if I found out ahead of time what’s being here like. To cut to the chase, I stayed despite such bizarre episode–and struggled to stay I meant. Although the ticking of the clock seemed slow, and to survive a week was very agonizing emotionally and mentally, I decided to stay still. If I had to change my tack, I’d do it because there was something to prove. I felt impelled to correct their misconception about me and the situation. I made the right decision. Like the rest of the decisions I did under pressure, for innumerable times in the past, I’ve proven myself once again that this “small me” is no big quitter.

Glad that the awkward cold war is over. It lasted for a while. In an unfavorable circumstance as this, you just have to be diplomat and as meek as a sheep to instill your purest intention. I am speaking for myself. Needless to say, it wasn’t easy like eating peanuts, but it was worth giving another chance. I gave myself a second chance rather. Aside from this and that to accomplish, I will have one more important workshop to conduct for this institution I am currently working for–my last project for this year–so soon. And then I’ll be off in two months’ time. “See? You guys had really nothing to lose but gains” my mind seconded the whole scenario. I may not be the famous educator in the world (I don’t have to for goodness’ sake) or the most sought-after teacher (do I really have to?), but for more than once in my life, I stood my ground to show kindness. All in all, this experience I’d look back in the future for old time’s sake.     

       

Reading

Why is it reading, in all forms, is out-and-out a hell to a lot of children in Asia? I wish I had the best answer, but I can make a guess for sure. Motivation starts at home or at school at least for kids who do not have good parents. When adults do not even lift a book and tell their children how important this is, young ones would see it the same way. If teachers aren’t readers themselves, their learners undeniably are reflections of what they are. It happens. I grew up in a home where nobody read books–we never even owned a book. But at my aunt’s house which was fifteen kilometers away from us had tons of them. So I used to walk far just to indulge myself a craving for books. I did it like million times when our school’s library was closed for summer and weekends. Of course, I got the motivation to read from teachers at school and from my church.

One could tell a million reasons perhaps depending on a circumstance. And reading as a disinterested activity in individual’s life makes me wonder until this very day. This specific issue goes to older persons as well–they are no exceptions. But I discovered one more surprising reason as I edited my boss and his team’s project proposal yesterday. They address the same problem–the agony of reading–kids and people don’t really read. Their specific research shows that kids who are in fifth to seventh grades can’t even read. So how do we expect them to pick a book and read it? I bet this justification is applicable to adults who are not literate. This is just a rare case. Who is to blame for this negligence? Teachers and school administration without a doubt.

Untold Portraits of Mine

Here is another skill I should have had grabbed if given the chance–the ability to draw or paint a portrait. No, it is not just a portrait, but only adroit and blessed human being has the ability to execute a beautiful art or a breathtaking pictorial representation of a person. Unfortunately, I don’t possess such talent. Yeah, right, a gift is a gift and it comes when you don’t ask for it—it was never a choice. Collecting portraits isn’t my cup of tea though because I prefer abstract sort of stuff. And so, having only two portraits (of my face) which I’ve been keeping over the years justifies that. These were even unwanted or, better still unexpected labor of artists I’ve met for real.

The first masterpiece looks funny. The artist humorously entitled it “The Last Drawing I’ll Ever Do”. He drew it while we were at the teacher’s lounge chatting. This artwork made my day and still is until this time. Tim was a nineteen-year-old Australian volunteer I co-teach with for three months in one of the non-profit schools in Cambodia way back in 2010. I felt so honored to have known him even just a short time. The second obra maestra was from a total stranger, a European guy who was studying Vietnamese language at the same University I went to. It happened a year after the first portrait incident (laughing out loud). I was writing some pages of my dissertation in my favorite coffee shop downtown Saigon when this man approached me. “Do you mind if I draw your face?” he asked–he meant a portrait. “It’s alright.” I said although a bit surprised. There it went. That was the first and the last time I had seen him and the last portrait of me since then.

P.S. Below are some of my close-up photos. Do they really resemble? I will leave it to you to think of that. 

         

Sculptors

I don’t only see zealousness from this symbol of Buddhism, but inborn skills of two men who carved these twenty-one statues of a religious icon. Wish I could do the same. I had seen it my eyes every single day, for the past few months how these gifted men meticulously engraved in details these wooden images to form beautiful masterpieces. I enjoyed watching them–like in endless awe–over and over wondering how such ordinary hands could produce extraordinary stuff to behold. I struggled to understand its complexity. They were having so much fun like eating peanuts. Such a talent!

If I constrained my mind in just one side of the coin, then there is no much difference saying… “It is someone’s credence, but somebody’s disbelief.” Does it really matter? Perhaps not, but I’d like to see it this way—it is the gift of each sculptor what impressed me the most—it is what counts this time of the story. I am sticking to it. And if there is another talent I would ask for from my maker, sculpting is the perfect word I think. I might learn it in the future to see what chance there is in stored.    

First Week of P’chumben

Nuns and women empower the community through their service and devotion. In Buddhism, this people group in particular plays a significant role–an inseparable role. Kudos! Elders and men do play a vital role the same. They usually work side by side with monks, if not for the temples in general. This is how they set as examples to their children, grandchildren, and so to the community in embracing such religion—a life with passion and complete devotion.

It is the first week of P’chumben, the longest celebration in the country as far as Buddhist observance is concerned—when nuns and elders, men and women swarm the temples to express their devotion. To emphasize, they also show their service to monks through feedings and giving money for three weeks. The celebration will last for another fifteen days and is anticipated by monks young and old. This time around you will hear the beats of drums at dawn and dusk. I am so immune to the sounds by now. The monks will also chant and exhort night and day using loud speakers for the whole community to hear. Above all this, every ceremony is graced with traditional food to offer to monks and to everyone joining the ceremony. And everyone enjoys the meal. This only the first week of P’chumben, the longest holiday in Buddhist calendar. 

Up-close Encounter with Bears

It is not that I don’t like bears or afraid of them, what I had in mind was pretty embarrassing reason in fact. I love bears and find these giant (not all of them) creatures cute. In spite of their intimidating paws and human-threatening claws, I’m in awe every time I gaze at these beautiful species. OK, I admit, it is very expensive to have such excursion especially taking with you like a bunch of less fortunate kids. Neither myself nor my past organization could afford it. And so, for the past trips in previous years, we only had passive encounter with this kind of animal in particular and just took photos a bit of this and that. We were happy, of course!

When my new boss (in my new organization) asked me to help take care of the kids during our recent “zooturaday” educational trip, I wasn’t that excited because I had been there for countless times. Besides, I had been to several large zoos in some parts of Asia as well, and this one is the smallest. No big deal. I knew how it goes, I thought, but I was wrong. The experience we had was a turn-up for the book instead. This time, the kids and I got to know about Cambodian bears (the sunbears and moonbears) a little too well. Thanks to the advocacy of “Free The Bears Organization” for taking its stand to save bears in this country and other countries in the world. Aside from that amazing privilege to look at the bears closely–only a few inches away, we also had a wonderful time preparing foods and feeding the bears. It was undeniably exciting! Forget about our overwhelming obsession with bears (I mean ourselves) with endless clicks of selfies and groupies to mind. All in all, it was another meaningful trip from the grace of kind sponsors.