Seane in Cambodia
August 2007
I was in the middle of a garbage dump in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. I was standing on a mound of crap, covered with flies, with my hand over my nose to try to block the smell. I was speaking through a translator to a group of children that lived at the garbage dump pretending to be engaged, but really I just wanted out. My breath was short and I was getting anxious. I kept thinking about how sad and unfair life can be and how hopeless the circumstances are. I was thinking about our government and how quickly we trade a life for a life. I was thinking about the corrupt Cambodian government and the incomprehensible genocide that happened here to have put these people in this situation.
Just in that moment, I felt a small hand take mine and I looked down to see a young boy looking up at me. He looked to be around eight, but like all the children, he was severely underdeveloped and was probably closer to thirteen. He was filthy, of course, and his head was covered in rags for protection from the scorching sun. Rather than asking me for anything, he just held my hand and watched my face, looking straight into my eyes. Then he squeezed my hand and smiled. It was the first time I saw a child smile in that place. We just looked at each other, him smiling and me probably looking confused, though I felt oddly calm. It was such a curious moment of connection between he and I. Finally, I smiled back at him. Asking for nothing, not saying one word, he nodded his head just a little bit before he let go and walked away.
I watched his little body as he walked off and then realized that he had placed something in my palm. I turned my hand over to see what it could be…
I went to Cambodia to serve. I went hoping to facilitate change and be a part of the healing and growth of an oppressed culture. I went to give, but in this moment I was the one who received an unimaginable gift. I was left transformed by all I saw and by all who offered me their wisdom and light. Some moments in this life take your breath away, open your soul, and break your heart.
This was my moment.
CAMBODIAN CHILDREN’S FUND
I had gone to Phnom Penh to meet with my friend Scott Neeson, who runs the Cambodian Children’s Fund. This fund created five local orphanages that provide shelter, food, medical attention, and an education for over 400 children. Scott not only raises the money for these orphanages, but runs them as well. He has been a dedicated champion to these exploited children by creating a safe and structured environment for both their education and healing.
It was important for me to visit Scott and experience the work he’s doing in Cambodia. Scott had been a student of mine in Los Angeles and gave up everything in his world, including a powerful Hollywood position as President of Fox International, to help save the lives of and empower the children of Phnom Penh. He walked away from material success and comfort and used his talents and skills to be of service in a way that would be unimaginable to most. Scott received a call for change that spoke to his soul. Unlike many, he chose to answer that call, even though it brought him to an unfamiliar world with impossible circumstances. I was fortunate to witness this call because it happened in front of me, on the floor of a yoga room in Mexico.
Scott was your typical over-worked, hyper-motivated, type A personality. He would come to class and do extra push-ups between his poses. Beet-red and rushed, he’d whip through his practice and approached yoga with the same determination and effort that he brought to everything in his life.
It was when Scott went on a retreat with me in 2001 that I witnessed something that I could have never imagined possible. One afternoon, Scott was in pigeon pose and as I spoke aloud about the path of healing and truth, I watched his body shake and crumble. He began to release tears.
Afterwards, Scott asked if we could go for a walk. We walked towards the ocean and he said that he had a clear epiphany while in that pose: He hated his life and thought it had no purpose or meaning. He hated his job and thought he needed to leave the film industry. He spoke clearly, but there was a tremor in his voice as he came to grips with the enormity of his revelation. I listened and took his feelings very seriously, yet from experience I assumed he’d head back to LA, write a huge check to some organization, and then get caught up in his responsibilities, comforts, and pressures until the next yoga retreat.
It didn’t happen like that at all.
Scott decided to take time off work and travel around Southeast Asia. He found himself in Phnom Penh and was drawn to the children he saw and the poverty that was rampant in their lives. Scott knew he needed to help in some way and that this was where he needed to be. Shortly thereafter, he quit his job, sold his car and home, and used his organizational and business skills to begin the Cambodian Children’s Fund (CCF). In only a few short years, he raised millions of dollars, opened five orphanages, opened a community center, and has saved the lives of countless children and their families. He moved from a mansion in LA to a small apartment in Phnom Penh that he shared with four other men. His life there is very different from the one he had in LA and I’ve never known him to be so happy and completely fulfilled.
MEETING THE CHILDREN OF CCF
It brought me so much joy to see the orphanages for the first time. It was surreal to remember the walk on the beach and then see the smiling faces of children as the physical manifestation of Scott’s vision. He did it, I thought. He created something out of nothing and dedicated his whole spirit to make it happen. Only four years ago, these teachers, this building, the classrooms, and the opportunity for children to fill them didn’t exist. It seemed a dream to stand in the entry way, yet the surrounding laughter of children brought me firmly back to earth. I was reminded that there is still so much work to be done, and thank God there are visionaries like Scott who aren’t afraid of the challenge.
Nothing in the world is better than seeing a happy and engaged child learning, creating, and relating in a community that is loving, safe and supportive. The children were so open and delightful and shined as I went from classroom to classroom to observe them in their studies and play. The orphanages are clean, spacious, well-stocked with food, and the children are gracious and grateful. They held my hand and hugged me and asked me about my family and life over and over again. I was charmed by their curiosity and fell in love with their beautiful spirits. I was so impressed with the facilities and recognized that Scott and his staff are committed not only to educating these children, but also to reintroducing them to cultural arts that have been all but lost since the Pol Pot regime. It is an inspiring environment and I am so proud of Scott and all his efforts.
We went into Scott’s office to find it flooded with children all vying for attention. They were holding up handmade pictures for us to see, books they wanted read, or some found object they desperately needed to tell the story of. They were excitedly talking over one another and were, basically, just being kids. He knew every child by name, and called each one over to check in. I heard him say “K’nyom aj jewey nget, ban the?” over and over and each time he did they would light up and smile. I asked him what he was saying and he told me it was something that they had never heard before coming to CCF, and that it often took them a while to understand what he meant and to trust that he meant it.
He was asking, “Is there anything I can do for you?”
He said the children had no comprehension of what that meant, or that they even had the right to want or need anything, or that if they did need something, they had no expectation that someone would tend to their desires. I learned the phrase as quickly as I could.
I had told Scott that I was interested in becoming a sponsor for some children at CCF. This means that for the duration of their stay at CCF, I would pay $100 a month for their educational, housing, and medical needs and develop a relationship with the child through email and letters. I asked him to pick any two that he thought would be appropriate for me. He said that I should take my time and speak with the kids; that it would help to connect with the child and see which one resonated with me. To me, however, it didn’t matter. I was happy to have any child, but Scott suggested that we go to Steung Meanchey, the city’s garbage dump, and see if we could find a couple of children to bring back to CCF. He wanted me to see their lives before they arrived at the orphanage to better understand their journey.
“Perhaps,” he said, “you will find your child there.”
THE STEUNG MEANCHEY GARBAGE DUMP
I have been to third world countries before, and certainly spent many hours in brutally oppressive areas such as slums and brothels, so I wasn’t too rattled when Scott suggested we drive out to Steung Meanchey. This is where Scott engages closely with the families that live and work there and was where all the children at the orphanage lived before Scott brought them to CCF. I know how I react to the face of poverty and in the past I would meditate and pray before entering into any environment that I knew to be confrontational. But, on this particular day, I decided that because I was experienced in the field and knew what to expect I could just jump right in.
Right.
We pulled into a massive mountain of garbage which was one-hundred feet high and eleven acres wide. Scott led me around the periphery of the dump where the homes are linked closely side by side with corrugated metal, random pieces of wood, cardboard, Styrofoam and any other found object. There were no floors, water or electricity in these homes, having been built on top of garbage. There were men, women and children lying about in indescribable filth and I continually had to cover my face because the smell from the dump was consuming and making me nauseous. I regretted wearing flip-flops because the wet, polluted ground was oozing over the side and covering my feet in grime. People in their homes were lying together in heaps, limb over limb, brushing away flies and trying to find space to sleep. Babies were crying and small children motioned at me for food. Their faces looked haunted and broken. Many were missing teeth and had countless bruises and cuts from the abuse that is the result of there being too many children, not enough food, and frustrated, angry parents. One after another, these children averted their eyes when I looked towards them and not once did I see a smile. I thought about the beautiful children at CCF and I struggled to picture them all here in this environment. Scott had told me that while about 85% of the children sleep at CCF and see their parents on weekends, some of them actually elect to come home to the dump at night to be with their families. I couldn’t believe that they’d want to come here when they have a clean bed and water at CCF, but it did warm my heart to believe that perhaps the mothers and fathers of those children provided a level of love that couldn’t be replaced by material comforts. The children at CCF are not up for adoption. They are being provided an education and the opportunity to elevate themselves and their families. The children at CCF had a chance at creating a life for themselves that included longevity, abundance, and even success, but what about these other children? Didn’t they all deserve a future that included happiness? CCF doesn’t have the resources to provide for all of them, and I could feel a lump in my throat as my sadness and anger rose.
Scott walked me around and introduced me to the families that lived there. He knew them all by name and explained to me which child at CCF belonged to which parent. He told me that CCF often pays for their medical needs and rent to compensate for taking their children. The children are a large part of the family’s economy because they also work in the dump and bring an income into each household. Scott understands that sending a child away to be educated for their future good affects the present day circumstances of the family. As a result, the family is often resistant to letting the children go. Scott makes certain that the families don’t suffer any more than they need to and does what he can to support them. He has even provided employment at CCF to some. There is one rule that Scott has for the parents that cannot be compromised at anytime: The children can never again work in the dump as long as they’re being provided for.
Suddenly, a young woman reached out to shake my hand and I saw myself hesitate slightly before I took her hand in mine. I was aware of my disgust and my judgment of her and felt deeply ashamed. I looked away and saw an infant squat and defecate on the ground nearby. He wiped himself with his hand and put the feces directly into his mouth. There were adults nearby, but no one showed him a different way to behave or rushed to clean him up; there was no water available even if they wanted to. I put on my polite, compassionate face, but within I felt a sickening revulsion for these people and their predicament. I wanted to leave and go back to my five-star hotel and be alone in my pity and disgust.
Scott suggested we head back to the truck and unload the food that we had brought. I was aware that we were being trailed by some children and that other families were peeking through their doorways at us in curiosity. I reached into the back of Scott’s truck and lifted out a small bottle of soymilk and turned towards the children. Upon seeing the soymilk in my hand, Scott and I were suddenly rushed by children in all directions. I was pushed back against the truck and looked out at the crowd and into the eyes of what suddenly seemed to be about 100 children. I could feel their desperation and hunger, and was overwhelmed by the feel of their little hands pulling at my clothes. I could see the animal panic in their eyes and started handing bottles and food out as quickly as I could. I realized that we only had enough food to feed one-third of the children that were screaming at me and it was breaking my heart trying to decide if I should give the food to the starving four-year-old shouting at me, or perhaps the six-year-old holding the hand of another small child, or perhaps the pregnant mother carrying an infant in her arms. I shook inside with sadness and grief and I had to stop looking at their faces. I just stared ahead and randomly handed out food and milk without making any eye contact or connection at all.
SHRY HENG
After we were done giving out the food, Scott led me to a shack where I saw a young girl sitting on the ground near her mother’s feet. The mother was in the last stages of her pregnancy and was lying with her legs spread apart on the dirt floor. She was naked from the waist up. Her head was bandaged and blood was seeping through. As Scott and I approached, she made a feeble attempt to cover herself, but was too weak to complete the task. The girl covered her mother’s breasts with an old cloth. A man got up off the floor as Scott moved towards the mother, who Scott told me was her husband. He then said that the husband is an alcoholic and beats his wife and children. His wife was bandaged because he had hit her over the head with a hammer a few days before. They had had twelve children. Seven of them had died. The little girl at her feet was the oldest and had to take care of her four surviving siblings because the mother could no longer work. Scott thought she might have been around nine years old. He had been trying to get the father to allow him to bring her to CCF, but he refused. He wanted money. He essentially wanted to sell her, but that is illegal. Scott hoped my presence would make some kind of difference.
I approached the child and asked for her name. She told me it was Shry Heng. She had dark circles under her eyes and she seemed to have the weight of the world on her. I wanted so badly to lift her spirits.
“Hey,” I said, hoping to make a connection, “you have a scar through your eyebrow, just like me!”
She looked at my eyebrow quickly and then hurriedly stood and walked away just as I realized my error. Hers was not just like mine. Not even close. Had I looked closer, I would have seen the fresh blood and the other open wounds and scars on her face. This child had been terribly beaten. I watched her squat to rub her mother’s feet. I felt inadequate and foolish on top of everything else. I turned and looked helplessly at Scott who was speaking with the father. The father kept shaking his head and Scott gestured for me to come near, so I did, but my revulsion and anger towards this man made it impossible for me to meet his eyes. I kept glancing back toward Shry Heng, but she had disappeared into herself looking out towards the center of the dump. I felt like I had failed her as we walked away.
Scott felt discouraged that the father wasn’t budging and I could see he was in torment over Shry Heng’s future. I wondered how Scott managed to keep his center and not be overwhelmed, depressed and defeated by the struggle and challenges that he faced each day. He was so far from his family and support systems and was witnessing the results of a strategic cultural cleansing. Thirty years ago, the Pol Pot regime deliberately targeted the educated population of Cambodia. Doctors, poets, scientists, professors, and artists were all taken from their families and killed so as to create a subservient culture more easily controlled without resistance. Millions were gone. These children were the offspring of the poor and illiterate men and women that remained. I knew Scott’s intention wasn’t just to feed a child, but to provide that child with an education. Perhaps his work would help to develop the next generation of educated men and women and empower them to lead Cambodia into becoming a thriving and inspirational culture once again. How did he manage to stay positive, when I felt do discouraged in just one single afternoon?
Scott wanted me to see more, so he had me change my shoes and put on thick rubber boots for protection. The children then led us into the dump. We were walking on thousands of tons of waste including paper, clothes, broken glass, needles, rancid food, toxic waste, and shit. The children told me how they often find body parts because the local hospitals used this dump as well. Scott whispered into my ear how sometimes the children find the bodies of abandoned babies and that they have a small area where they will bury them. Most of the children were barefoot or had on a random flip-flop or shoe. I could see that some of their feet were bleeding and had filthy rags tied around them as makeshift bandages. They held onto my hand and guided me through odd paths that cut through the mountain of garbage. They led me to walk on specific paths so that I didn’t fall into one of the dozens of sinkholes, where I could be sucked under like quick sand, and where many of the children often drown. Scott told me that only 27% of the children that work in the dump survive. Besides sinkholes, there is the everyday danger of being run over by one of the many huge dump trucks that roll in and out of the area. They also die of dehydration, infections, disease, and malnutrition. While some of these children live with their families, others have been abandoned and live alone, running the risk of being taken from the dump by pimps and sold into prostitution. All the children, Scott told me, work tirelessly at the dump, some as young as three years old, to collect metal and plastic for recycling. They make about thirty cents a day. Most have no education and have other duties besides working, like scouring the dumps for food to feed their brothers and sisters.
I stood in the center of this massive field and could see small bodies all around me digging aggressively into piles of trash for any treasure that might bring some value. One by one, little kids kept edging up to me gesturing for water or food. I had none. I looked for Scott and saw he was cleaning out a child’s wounded foot and applying a new bandage. He was smiling and chatting while he mended the child. I knew he was asking questions and trying to access this child’s situation to see if he could bring him to CCF. I wanted to take them all. Why couldn’t we take them all? How could Scott bring me here and suggest I pick a child when every single one of them needed help?
This environment was the result of governmental corruption and I thought about the genocide that is happening in Darfur today. I thought that history was once again repeating itself and that we are not doing enough to stop it. I thought about the abused prostitutes I had worked with in India and the countless number of people I have met who are dying of AIDS. I thought about the adolescent female prostitutes I taught in Van Nuys, CA, who wore engagement rings from their pimps as a sign of their “love.” I thought about Shry Heng and wondered if she would ever know joy. I thought about God. Why are some so blessed and others so denied? If everything happens in life to evolve the soul, if all moments are synergistic and ultimately lead us to union, where was evidence of it in this horrific place? My mind was racing, but I kept asking myself two things over and over: “Where is God here?” and “How do I serve this?” How the fuck was I supposed to serve this?
THE BOY
I waved the flies away from my mouth and eyes in futility, surrounded by about fifty children all needing attention, all needing food, all needing water. The translator was telling me which ones had parents, which ones were the head of the household because the parents were both dead, which ones had been abandoned there to fend for themselves. The rage was readable on my face. I could feel that the children had some expectation of me. They think I’m here to do something, anything, to help them. I wanted Scott to come and get me and take me away.
It was in this moment that the small boy took my hand. I looked down at him and waited for him to ask me for food or water, or to study—which would mean that he wanted to go to the orphanage to learn. He said nothing, and only stared into my eyes, taking in my face. Finally, he squeezed my hand and smiled. I smiled back. He nodded his head, let go, and walked away. As he moved away from me and back to the work he had waiting for him, I realized that he had placed something in my palm.
I often find myself among unusual angels, and always, if I’m open to truth, they reveal themselves in the most extraordinary of moments and in the most unexpected of ways.
In the center of my hand was a small mound of dirt, but because of its weight I could tell there was something beneath it. I quickly broke the soil apart to reveal a bright red, heart-shaped medallion glinting in the sun. All I did was stare at the filthy charm, but my heart began to beat hard. All of the pent-up emotions stored from that day began to move through me and I lowered my head and began to cry. Of, course, I thought, of course. Staring at that small gift, I finally remembered: It’s about the love.
Squeezing the medallion tight, I looked all around me and for the first time that afternoon I became very present. The trucks were still there, as were the children bent over working slavishly, but I didn’t just see the garbage or the oppression or the abuse or the poverty. Instead, I saw the souls attached to these bodies. My heart suddenly opened to their humanity and their journey, but not with pity, judgment, nor revulsion. It opened with a sincere empathy that I knew was coming from compassion, not fear. Finally.
As a long-time yoga practitioner, I know that I have tools to use in the face of any challenge. I know how to breathe, how to stay present, and how to be non-reactive. I can remind myself to be unattached and to just be a witness, with compassion, to what is. Unfortunately, because I didn’t center myself before I came to Steung Meanchey, I brought my small self into that environment, got triggered, and shut myself down. I wasn’t in truth, I was in judgment. I got enraged, my shit came up, and I was uncomfortable at my edge. None of my tools were working, because I forgot to use them. When I became frightened and confused, I protected myself by separating from and distancing my emotions. By shutting down, I disconnected myself from every human being I came in contact with, because I wasn’t really there. This is what happens when we don’t take the time to process. We separate, we disconnect, and we stop being present. My shadow came up and my instinct was to judge and run. I couldn’t be of service. I wasn’t even in my body. I couldn’t truly be there for another being because I was seeing from my head, rather then witnessing from my heart.
I held the heart next to my own and breathed deep. I felt so humbled and consumed with gratitude towards that sweet young being. I was in crisis and he gifted me the remembrance that I wasn’t just there to feed them, I wasn’t just there to take them away to get a better life, and I wasn’t even there to serve them. He reminded me that I, we, are here for one purpose only, and that is to love. We are here to love bigger and deeper than we ever imagined possible. We are here to witness each other, dignify each other, hold each other sacred and recognize the Self as the same in each soul. Isn’t that what yoga is? To unite and to love? This is the only way in which to live this life, it is the only way in which to serve, and it is the only reason why we should ever feed a body, cure a disease, end a war, touch a hand, or guide a soul. He reminded me that beyond the filth, the poverty, the oppression, and the abuse there is only one thing that is stronger, more powerful, and has the ability to heal, and that is love.
Where was God here? It was in the eyes of every man, woman and child. It was in the filth, in the blood, in the desperation, in the poverty and in the tears. It was in my confusion and in my fear. It was in Shry Heng’s scar and in the hand that made it. It was in that small boy’s touch and his generous gift. It’s in the bringing of food, and in the faith of the journey. God is in all moments light and dark and it is up to us to look beyond the fear and recognize the light that radiates--regardless of the circumstance. When love is the guiding force, everything teaches, everything illuminates, and everything transforms.
Every moment serves.
TO SERVE WITH LOVE
I had thought that I was there to serve these children, when it was actually the children whom, that day, served me. They showed up like spiritual guides to remind me of what life is about and bring me back to my center and my truth. My work in this world is to serve, but my dharma is to do that service from a place of sincere compassion and love. To serve without love separates us from the hearts we are touching. It is this separation that creates conflict. It is this separation that creates war. I want to be a part of creating a world united by honor and love. I want a world where we live together with mindfulness and respect, celebrate diversity, share our bounties, and live free from prejudice, violence, hate, and rage. I want a world that honors all of life. This can only happen when we experience ourselves in each other. When we experience ourselves in each other, we witness the light and the love of God.
I spent the rest of that day engaging the children and their families. I didn’t see the poverty of earth, but instead saw the richness of spirit that shined deep in each soul I connected to. That young boy was the answer to my prayers.
The next morning, after speaking at length with her father, Shry Heng came to live at CCF. It was not easy to convince him. We promised him money and committed to helping the rest of his family with food and medical care. He was distrustful, but let her go. I am her sponsor. She is thriving. She writes me letters and shares her life with me. She is surprisingly forthright and honest. Scott had sent me a picture of her. She was teaching another small child how to dance. Her arms were tossed above her head and her fingers were arranged in mudras; examples of a traditional Cambodian dance. Her head was thrown back and I could tell she was laughing. The other child was staring at her in awe. I could tell she was new to the orphanage and unsure how to respond to Shry Heng’s joy. Scott told me that Shry Heng has taken her under her wing and is her mentor. Service goes around.
Last month, Shry Heng’s father died at the age of thirty-one. Scott has no idea how he died. Liver disease, perhaps. His other children just found him lying unconscious. There will be no investigation, autopsy, or funeral. Like the impoverished in third world countries everywhere, his life was forgettable and he will end up in an unmarked grave. Shry Heng wanted to leave the orphanage because there was no one at her home to work and take care of the children. I was devastated by this news. When I told my own mother the story, she wrote me a check and paid the mother’s rent for the entire year. Shry Heng stayed at school.
She is happy.
