That Stare.

This is another one of those posts that I’ve been thinking long and hard about, and I don’t even know how or where to start. This sentence actually marks my third attempt at an appropriate beginning. I initially wanted to title this post something witty like “Dorothy We’re Not in Kansas Anymore,” and talk about how I feel like so much of an outsider here. It seems as though even if I wanted to just fit in, I never could or would. Maybe this is how Dorothy felt in the mysterious land of Oz? I’m not pedaling around wearing a blue-and-white checkered dress, but sometimes I feel like I am. Here in Cambodia I’m the strange girl who’s taken up residence on the locals’ terrain. While Dorothy is the only girl in Oz who comes from Kansas, and I am the only girl at the Amelio School who comes from a different country, or perhaps even a different town. Here I am the only.  

Why does being the only warrant blank stares almost everywhere I go from almost everyone that I pass, from cyclists to tuk-tuk drivers to those sitting on the side of the road? Yes, I have light, curly hair and blue eyes so you’re probably correct if you guess that no, I’m not Khmer. I understand that we’re different, but does that make me less of a person? I don’t think, and while you might not either it certainly seems that way from the look that you’re giving me. It’s just that your stare makes me feel so small. There really is no need to stare at me like that. Ok?

As you read please do not take that dialogue the wrong way; not everyone looks at me in that way. In fact some people offer me their smiles, directing friendly “hellos” and accompanying waves in my direction as I ride to and from school. I just felt compelled to write about why I don’t like the animosity. I do not want to be made to feel small from the sets of staring eyes that give me those looks, but it just seems to happen. I also need to express the difficulty in knowing that here I’ll never fit in, no matter the language I speak, the work that I do, or the currency I use. In Cambodia I will never simply be; I’ll always be from or that. That girl, that snob, from America.

I’ve given much thought to these looks and their effects on my sense of belonging, so I’ve hesitated to post anything until now. Even as I’m writing ideas go in and out of my thoughts. How many other people are made to feel this way, small and belittled, in one way or another every single day? Not only for a six-week period but for a lifetime? I cannot even imagine how difficult that must be. The looks from being the only are something that I’ve experienced for a very short time, and although I do not enjoy them, I know that they will end. At this time I cannot begin to comprehend what it must be like to experience similar looks and sentiments every single day.  This is where this post stops being about my feelings and focuses on something that is out of my realm of understanding: the stories behind the Khmers’ blank stares. After enduring the trauma of the Khmer Rouge, the American bombings, and the forced re-entry from refugee camps by the Thais, I believe that each blank stare is actually an untold story. Why? Because I realize that the whole Khmer population, has experienced the unthinkable.  

Before I arrived I was quite uninformed about the Khmer Rouge and the plight met by the Cambodian people in the mid-1970s and beyond, which is astonishing to me because it is estimated that almost 2 million people died under the Khmer Rouge in addition to the hundreds of thousands who perished from the US bombings related to the Vietnam War in northeastern Cambodia.  That marks almost 25% of their population.  How is it that we’ve heard about the genocide in Kosovo and in Germany, but not a thing about what has happened on the soil that I’m now living on? In order to learn much about Cambodia, it seems as though you almost have to be here to gain the exposure and the former sense of destruction. In the market, in restaurants, and on the street, I cannot escape the articles about the Khmer Rouge in the papers, the magazines, and even the books that mine victims sell so that they can put food on the table and clothing on their backs.  

The current articles critical of the Cambodian tribunals prosecuting Brother Number 2 and other seniors Khmer Rouge leaders, as well as the statistic finding 25% of the population still suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder are astounding. Yet, although they are astounding, I was unable to comprehend their magnitude and the level of suffering endured until I finished Theary Seng’s account of her childhood under the Khmer Rouge in Daughter of the Killing Fields. The people of Cambodia have felt small for decades, or at least that’s how it seems. First the Khmer Rouge broke them down and made them feel less than human; next they stripped the Cambodians of their culture, their families, their freedoms, and eventually their lives. Their neighbors next door, Thailand and Vietnam, belittled them further. The Vietnamese soldiers appeared peaceful in their invasion and occupation of Cambodia compared to the Khmer Rouge, but that’s only a comparison and look who they’re up against. The Thais forced fleeing Khmer refugees back across the border into the Cambodian mountains strewn with mines at gunpoint. If the Thai soldiers didn’t shoot them, the mines often accomplished the soldiers’ intent. While physical safety finally came for the Khmers as refugees in countries such as the States and France, it did not guarantee complete safety. Being a refugee in an at-peace country did not shield the Cambodians from the stares and strange looks they met, adding to the infinite emotional scars.

After considering all of that, I feel that I can hardly get upset about my situation here in Siem Reap. Sure it’s tough to be the only, but it cannot even be compared to the history of the people with whom I’m living alongside. Seng recalls a conversation with her Aunt Ry about her Aunt’s mindset under the Khmer Rouge: “You know, during the Khmer Rouge years, the expectation was death. During the four years, I was only waiting to die… I only came under extreme shock the evening we were scheduled to die. The day before when we dug our own grave, I had little reaction” (260). Keeping Aunt Ry’s words in my thoughts, I can’t help but question myself: so what if I’m the only? Surely it cannot be that bad. I might be talking to someone who remains the sole survivor within their family. The blank stares that I see originate within the two black eyes looking through me. But those two black eyes staring in my direction might actually be giving the only look they know how: an unresponsive, blank stare. After all they’ve experienced, who am I to know what they see now or have seen in the past?