Goodbye, my friend

     Sovann's father, Sambath, died yesterday morning in the local government hospital after 12 hours of needless pain and suffering. Many things in this country are broken - the healthcare system, the education system, the government - and now the hearts of his family and friends are broken as well.

     He was my friend, if it's fair to call someone a friend even if you have no common language. I spent time at Sovann's family home several times, and I was always treated as an honored guest. The whole family has been extraordinarily gracious every time I visited, and it has always been a privilege to have a glimpse into their everyday life in the countryside. Sambath and I could only speak with the help of Sovann or his brother-in-law translating for us, and we didn't even know each other's actual names until my last visit in September. He had asked me to call him "brother" and he always called me "sister."

     He was born around 1958, which meant he was a teenager when the Khmer Rouge came into power.  At some point he was shot while trying to cross the Thai border. His life wasn't easy.

     His arms were covered with magic tattoos to protect him.

     He had seven children, five sons and two daughters. He and his wife, Chandy, farmed a piece of land in Battambang Province, growing vegetables and then converting the land into an orange farm. In recent years, they bought a generator and ran a family business charging car batteries for people in their village, where there is no electricity. (Thanks to him, I know now that you can even charge an iPad from a car battery.)

     Sambath was a man of traditional values. He drank a lot of tea and smoked a lot of cigarettes. Though his wife banned alcohol at home, he was known to sneak off and buy a case of beer on important holidays, sharing it with his children and friends behind the house while his wife carefully ignored them all. When Chandy became a traditional spiritual healer a few years ago, he supported her work with enthusiasm. He was known for having long serious talks with his children, who listened attentively and with respect.

      His final hours were difficult and he died less than 24 hours after first feeling ill. His wife and most of his children were at his bedside throughout the ordeal, trying to make him comfortable and trying to get a doctor to help him. Due to the unimaginable inadequacies of the Cambodian medical system, there was no help to be had, nor any compassion or kindness. His family was left to carry his body to a van for the long drive home to Battambang. A day-long funeral ceremony and cremation followed within hours, as is custom.

     Sambath, my brother and friend, you will be missed. Though our language differences meant that our conversations were limited, the language of kindness crosses all barriers, and your kindness to me will never be forgotten.