Unvisited Corners

It's been two weeks since I got back from the Philippines, ending my "journey to the motherland" and propelling me straight into a different kind of madness -- no, not the chaos of the streets of Manila but the hustle and bustle of the holiday season. I haven't really had a chance to properly process everything that I've been through, all the odd emotions that have swept through me. But alas, the year is coming to an end (still don't know how this happened so fast) and I'm sitting here, reminiscing as I always do...

I've spent the past year all over the place. After graduation (a milestone I often overlook), I took off to travel and explore the wider world. Thirty cities, nine countries, and three continents later, I'm here exhausted by all the moving around, but bursting at my heart seams with a lifetime of memories and an even greater passion for all of life's adventures.

2011 has just been one big love story, albeit an unconventional one. You see, I've fallen a little bit in love with every city and country I've visited. Whether the scenery, the architecture, the culture, the food, or the people...I'm always enamoured by something and I never fail to find something to appreciate. And at the end of every trip, a certain melancholy sets in as I leave a part of myself there. In Florence, I left myself on the steps of the Piazalle Michaelangelo, up top the Alps of Switzerland, in the night clubs of Berlin, on the canals of Amsterdam, in the chocolate shops of Bruges, the riverside in Phnom Penh, the temple mountains of Angkor...

But that's where the Philippines is different. I don't think I've left any part of myself there, but rather I've found pieces of myself. This trip has been in every sense a journey...not just an exploration of some country, but of my roots. On so many occasions during my time there, I felt national pride for a country I've barely spent any time in. Yes, I was born there and am, by blood, a Filipina...and yet, I've spent my life in Canada and for the past nearly two decades, that has been my home. It's an odd feeling. When I read Jose Rizal's books (our national hero), look into the faces of the people, look out into the country's natural landscape, travel through the madness of its streets, I can't help but feel such a strong affinity for and kinship with this place...

I'll never forget the time we were watching Manny Pacquiao's fight and the Philippine national anthem came on. Naturally, everyone rose to their feet. I don't know why but it took me aback...I've never had to get up for any other anthem but Canada's before. And I didn't know the words...I've only ever known Canada's. I am Canadian after all. And yet, as I stood there watching and listening to the people sing the anthem, I couldn't help but feel overwhelmingly patriotic. And it isn't just patriotism either, there's this familial feeling too where everyone, even strangers, becomes your Tita, Tito, Kuya, or Ate (aunt, uncle, big brother, or big sister).

It's like I've stumbled on to these unvisited corners of myself...and what a surprise to find them miles away from "home" (now a fluid word). And it's even more perplexing to hold on to these pieces and not know quite yet how and where to fit them all in the bigger puzzle that is myself...

It's like Pico Iyer once wrote, "every trip to a foreign country can be a love affair where you're left puzzling over who you are and whom you've fallen in love with"...

A Tale of Some Children's Books

My mom loves telling the story of when I first learned to read. It’s a simple one, but she loves it nonetheless. When I was a child, she would read to me every night before going to sleep. One night when I was about four or five she was too tired and, jokingly, she asked me to read to her instead. Much to her surprise, I actually did. She always tells the story with such joy and pride, explaining that she didn’t expect me to know how to read already.

I’m guessing my love of reading started with those bedtime stories and for years I’ve kept the books I read as a child. I never wanted to give them away, initially for purely sentimental reasons but after awhile, I figured it would be best to give them somewhere where they could truly be appreciated….to someone who would take the time to read to children like my mom and dad always did for me. 

And so my sister-in-law and I prepared a box full of my books and other educational toys that we could donate to an organization promoting education and literacy for the children of the Philippines. We had been talking about doing something like this for awhile but only now with my trip back home were we actually able to put our plans into action.

Museo Pambata (which translates to the Museum for Children) is one such organization that does exactly what we were looking for.  As the name indicates, it is a museum…but it is unlike all others in that it’s completely interactive and hands-on, promoting an alternative way of learning for children, especially for those who have no access to formal education. What interested me the most though was their literacy program. In addition to their in house library that’s open to all children, the museum also has a mobile library that travels around the impoverished areas of metro Manila reading to the children of those villages. That’s where I really wanted my books to go.

Just before leaving the Philippines, I made the trip over to Museo Pambata where I was greeted by Kikay and Pamela, two street children who were there volunteering at the library to read to other children visiting the museum. And in an instant, I knew my much beloved books had found a home…

Watch the video below for a tour of Manila’s Museo Pambata.

For more information about the museum, visit www.museopambata.org.

Angkorin' Around

A complete contrast to the horrors of the Killing Fields and the S21 prison, a trip to the heart of the ancient Khmer civilization at Angkor presented the positive brilliance that mankind is capable of. The monuments of Angkor are truly awe-inspiring and no words I sculpt could ever do justice to what the Khmers did with their hands on stone...I'll show you instead.

A Prison Without Walls

Cambodia has always been one country that I’ve been fascinated in. Rich in history and culture, Cambodia shows the two sides of mankind’s capacity for greatness – our greatness to imagine, to build, and to create …and on the flip side, our greatness to destroy. I took the last few days to explore this country of contrasts—making the pilgrimage to the wonders of Angkor to marvel at the truly magnificent ruins that is a testimony to man’s brilliance, but also visiting the horrors of the Killing Fields to bear witness to man’s cruelty. It was a bit of a rollercoaster as I went through the heights and the depths of the Khmer civilization.

Let me start with the oft overlooked atrocities of the Khmer Rouge…not exactly a huge tourist draw given the weight of the subject, but still an imperative visit for anyone traveling to Cambodia.

A quick background for those of you who are not familiar with Cambodia’s modern history…the Khmer Rouge (led by Pol Pot) ruled over the country from 1975-1979 implementing one of the most radical, and not to mention cruel, restructurings of a society ever attempted. Influenced by the communist ideology, the Khmer Rouge’s goal was to eliminate all remnants of the past – even declaring 1975 as “Year Zero” – and to create a peasant-dominated agrarian society. In reality, Cambodia was turned into a prison without walls as the Khmer people faced an onslaught of forced labor, starvation, and of course, political executions. Some 1.7 million people lost their lives (that’s 21% of the country’s population) during the time of Pol Pot…an outright genocide that continues to permeate the lives of many Cambodians today.

Last week we visited the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, which was known as Security Prison 21 or S-21. It was once a detention center set up by Pol Pot at the beginning of the Khmer Rouge regime. Over 20, 000 people were held there – most of which were political prisoners, monks, nuns, lawyers, doctors, and other members of the Khmer intelligentsia. I can’t even tell you how harrowing of an experience that was…there it stood, right in the middle of an ordinary street just barricaded by concrete walls around which regular Khmers would go about their day. As our tuk tuk driver pulled up to the entrance, we were surprised to know we had already arrived at our destination. From the outside, you could never imagine the atrocities that once took place within those walls.

But the moment you step foot inside, it’s as if you’re transported to the past. The actual building itself still looks very much as I imagine it did before. The rooms worn down, holes in the walls, the makeshift cells still largely in tact…perhaps it was just my imagination, but I could swear there were still blood stains on the ceiling of one room…it was all just too real and never before have I gotten so many shivers, not even when I visited Auschwitz two years ago.

What is most disturbing about S21 is the fact that it was once a high school. Each room was, in fact, a classroom…and the chalkboards still hang next to the many brick cells that once held innocent prisoners. To think that what was once supposed to be an institution of progress was turned into this menacing symbol—no, reality—of evil and barbarism. That, I think, is what stunned me the most. 

But the day didn't end there. We then proceeded to go to Cheoung Ek, what is more widely known as the Killings Fields...a mass grave of victims bludgeoned to death with a hammer or some other heavy tool...bullets were too expensive to use and these people were obviously not worth the cost. It's a deceptively peaceful place with a large green field and even a small pond making for a perfect place for quiet reflection. It was once an orchard actually and butterflies continue to roam free as chickens walk within the depressions in the fields…pits where the dead (or the dying) were buried. You wouldn't think anything of it really and it would be easy to forget where you are, but if you look closely enough, you'll see fragments of the brutal past. And when I say fragments, I mean real, physical fragments: teeth, bones, and scraps of clothing lie on the ground untouched. Every time it floods, these remnants continue to resurface. It's as if the victims can not rest.

It was a harrowing experience to say the least, but a necessary walk into man’s heart of darkness…