Between short naps, my neighbor quietly studied his
book on the origins of Christian churches. I stared out the window, mouth agape and camera at the ready, as our plane flew over the mountainous snow-capped islands of southeastern Alaska. I'd once backpacked the untouched wilderness of Patagonia, Chile, but this land, a white, unpainted canvas, was like nothing I'd ever seen. So clean, so pure, it was hard to believe such soil could be part of the red, white and blue.We flew west, the sun to the south. Despite the glare, I snapped frantically as the small islands gave way to larger masses, rivers, cliffs. My hypnosis was broken by the flight attendant, who urged me to shut the window; the light, she said, was bothering the other passengers.
Please, I asked, is there anywhere I can open a window? A weekly task for her, a life milestone for me, she finally seemed to sense my urgency. Once she pointed me to the rear emergency exit, I politely asked my neighbor, would you mind, and graciously thanked him before bolting to the back of the plane.
Fifteen minutes later another flight attendant ushered me (for the third time) away from the emergency door window on her side of the plane. I reluctantly returned to row 47.
Thanks again, I told my neighbor as I took my seat. Of course, he replied -- I've flown this way so many times and never realized we came here. Amazing, he remarked when I showed him my recent acquisitions. Is this your first time going to Asia?
Yes, I was on my way to Korea; I'd found my way to pay off my previous travels by traveling some more. Admittedly it wasn't where (or who -- I mean, elementary school English teacher, really) I expected to be even two months before, but as they say: wherever you go, there you are.
So there I was, sharing stories about my prior travels, all driven by journalism and the addiction to seeing, living, absorbing the world firsthand. About my desire to pursue development economic reporting, a passion I'd fallen for in Ghana. He seemed caught somewhere between amazement and amusement at my independence, my ability to pick up and go, and my openness and curiosity for cultures foreign to my own. It's not something many people have, I said. Hopefully I'd be able to use it for some good.
It wasn't until I realized I'd shown him nearly all my cards -- I usually let others do the talking -- until he would share his story. Upon hearing it, I came to realize why.
En route to Cambodia via Seoul, Linh was on his way to Hagar Ministry in the capital Phnom Penh with a delivery. Along with the first aid equipment in his carry-on overhead, he was bringing the donations from members of his Westminster, Calif.-based Vietnamese Baptist Church to the small organization dedicated to the "rehab" of about 80 Vietnamese girls as young as 7 years old, all former victims of child trafficking.
Children are taken from poor towns in Vietnam, Laos and the like, he explained, and brought to Cambodia's manual and sexual labor markets. There are several organizations in Phnom Penh that try to "rescue" these children from their destitute occupations, but for the simple need for day-to-day sustenance, many of them return to where they know they can find a wage.
He opened his laptop to show me the poverty he found, sharing photos of the ministry and the thin girls there -- many of whom looked, to me, far younger than the ages he was describing. Trucks and vans on the bumper-to-bumper road packed passengers to the brim, piling onto tailgates and roofs. In an area prone to flooding, homes were built on rafts. Linh played video clips of small boys seated in buckets, paddling their way to and fro through the muck; neither car nor bicycle could have been of much use in that Cambodian Venice.
In one wall-less house, a mother and three children sat on the floor with an elderly couple (grandparents, neighbors, I can't recall). The mother, whose AIDS progression was evident in her drooping eyes and forehead, had forced her oldest daughter, 8, out of the house to make room for the third child, also with evident facial signs of AIDS. The 8-year-old had been left to fend for herself until Linh made a personal plea for Hagar's directors to take her in.
Moreover, he explained, the challenge lies not only in keeping the girls off the streets, but rescuing them in the first place. Prostitution isn't illegal there, but raiding them is. As in many developing countries, Phnom Penh's police would accept bribes from prostitution house owners, then alert them if they heard of any upcoming "rescue missions." Another photo showed a girl at Hagar in her early teens, weeping inconsolably over news that her sister could not be saved from a local whorehouse.
Surviving on donations like the $500 a month raised by Linh's church, Hagar and other organizations around town provide trauma counseling, elementary education and vocational training to give the girls a brighter possibility of changing their future. Hagar trains the teens in nail and hair styling. "That's all they focus on because they're only able to help a few," Linh explained.
Since his first visit to Hagar in 2006, he has been compelled to return "because of the depth of the tragedy," he said. "It's not known; it's not reported. The trauma is so deep.
"I cannot think of anything worse than that for people."
Beyond just convincing fellow church members to go to Phnom Penh and see the places they help, Linh also adopted a 16-year-old girl from Hagar this year after a long bureaucratic battle. With a fresh start in California, she has entered 11th grade, despite her limited English skills and 6th grade education. Acknowledging that this is an exponentially better situation for her, Linh is also on this fourth trip to Cambodia (and third to the ministry) to scope out the possibilities for his foster daughter's friends to find new homes in the States.
We talked for moments longer, about the U.S. Homeland Security's own efforts to help the situation, about our agreement that the stories that need to be told the most are often underreported. "Many of these girls don't have a voice," he said. When the stories of day-to-day life have already been told, the world's attention turns to the next great catastrophe. I passed him my email address in case he had more stories to share.
Our conversation wound down as my internal clock begged for rest, impervious to the glaring sun outside that never set. Before one last attempt at a nap, I jotted a quick entry:
"Rejuvenated.
Still on the plane...I've found inspiration in the man two seats down from me, Linh. The first subject of my blog, he's en route to Cambodia for his 3rd visit to Hagar Ministry...It reminds me of the story that needs to be told, and that I'm the person to do it...
Now I'm trembling with enthusiasm that I might be getting my chance to be myself -- and be good at it! -- once again."
I hoped this was not just a fleeting moment of confidence and that for the next year I would continue to encounter other people who might impress me just as well, who might shine a light on worlds I have yet to know, and who might guide me to purposeful journeys down paths I'd always hoped but was never sure existed.
The plane landed on time at South Korea's Incheon International Airport. We stood to gather our belongings and go our separate ways. "It's nice to know you," he said and wished me luck.
Nice to know you, too.
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