Reflections Part I

If I could sum 2011 up in a word, it would be “life-changing.” There’s something wonderful about finally feeling settled, ushered through each day with that everlasting scent of calm. Never anxious with meeting expectations or living to appease, but simply just living – floating through the mess and mass like a leaf on a long breeze.

Growing up, it’s hard to believe that this day would ever come. You watch people bickering, faces drooping and wonder whether a stage does exist – that you are simply content with the world that has been carved out for you. Yet it must… Some of us search for contentment in the face of luxury, derived from monies… But still feel empty, yet there are those who hardly carry a penny but celebrate every breathing moment.

Yet as I sit on my niece’s barbie bed, I am hit with the most eye-opening fact. Life was always simple, always wonderful, but we make it complicated. We spend vast amount of time trying to understand the thoughts of others and not disappoint people, when all we need to realize is that people are different and harbor prejudgements so regardless of what we do, the painting will never be pretty in their eyes.

We spend time trying to change their thinking, trying to churn negativity into something positive that we often overlook the praise, encouragement and support from those that matter.

At the dawn of the new year, one thought crosses my mind… I often contemplate what if, but in this instance… What if not.

Would I have met the love of my life? Would I have had the courage to pursue my passions and stand up for what I believed in?
Would I have known what it is I want and appreciate in life?
Would I have learnt my lesson in certain areas?

After all, that’s what life was like when we were children.

on white ribbon day (poem: guns can never love roses)

I’d like to dedicate this poem to victims of domestic violence.
It’s one of those silent terrors that is rarely spoken about and if you do, you are often stigmatised or otracised. For our men to take action on white ribbon day is a great initiative.

Have you ever seen a gun marry a rose?
I witness this every day.

The silent trigger whirs and shoots the
Bullet through the anticipating cathedral
And hits home with the sound of “I do!”

However,
The wounds are hidden;
Covered by the merriment of a
Vacation in the Bahamas
And buried by the euphoric
Tides that sweep the opening retreat.
And as the curtains close on the
Maiden night of a newly-decorated home,
The damage dawns

The morning breaks with a trickle
And the thick red of a primus rose sets itself through -
As the quarrel over money
Echoes itself through the bony walls

Have you ever seen a gun marry a rose?
I see it being staged every day.

The rose is only a bud
Her white dress is dragged
Down the aisle;
Her arms clenched firmly onto her fathers
And the thorns on her stem protects her

She stares at the gun at the altar

He is dressed in black

His trigger behind his back

Then “bang!”

The noise unheard

But the pain is shown
as the rose blooms
For merely awhile –
Allowing the tourist of the Bahamas
To see the dew drops gleam
On her pretty petals,
But the residents of her hometown
Will only see the wilting flower

On the beauty of Australian nature. Waterfalls part I

Some waterfalls I’ve visited part one.

on mothers and daughters being mothers…8 weeks to go!

Sitting on a hospital bed listening to the likes of Beethoven and Bach with howls of babies echoing through corridors, it made me realise the many complications and difficulties that comes with child bearing and only now can I really understand what my mum went through. Of course, there’s still 8 weeks to go, and I’m here for monitoring and treatment, but thanks to the limited wandering space, it gives you a lot of time… to reflect. One of the things which made me think of was my mother’s journey.

Of course, she didn’t have the luxuries as I do. She was about 2 months pregnant when she left Cambodia. Advice was for her to abort as the risks of carrying a child across home-made landmine fields, and diseased infested waters was high – for the mother and child. But she soldiered on. When I was 2 months pregnant, I was almost bedridden, could hardly digest food and felt my whole body might collapse – but I had the luxuries of a suburban white house minus the picket fence.

Morning sickness aside, she had many things to worry about such as possibly getting shot by militia, what to eat, where to sleep and bathe. Where I’m waiting to get the nursery done and deciding on what colour to paint it, she had one little sheet to use to sleep on every night. While I grow tired of the mash potatoes that decorate my lunch and dinner dishes, she scurried around for anything that was remotely eatable.

Some days I wish I had been a better daughter in my youth, such as helping out with the laundry and dishes instead of slumping on beds and couches reading and writing with my head in clouds or off in in la la land. But my mum tells me this is what her sacrifices are made for – to allow me and my siblings to live in comfort and not labour tirelessly for simple necessities. And all she really asks for is to treasure what I’ve been given, and to treasure her advice.

So here are some things I want to say I’m sorry for… mummy’s are always right.

Sorry for that boy. He seemed the perfect God-following boy. We grew up in the same church on the peninsula, wanted to do ministry work. He said he’d married me, even said it to you. And when all went wrong, I was scared to say anything because did not want to disappoint or hear the words: “I told you so…” People had warned me, you had warned me… yet emotions fly high and burn bright. A good thing we moved to Australia, and that’s history hopefully. It took me a long time to get over this but he’s not my issue anymore. Whoever thought that someone could use God’s words for their own personal gain right?

Sorry for going against your advice. Sometimes peer pressure gets the best of you, especially when you feel there’s no one else. What I noticed most is if this person is overly nice, there’s nothing wrong with questioning their motives. I found that many of my decisions were based on this person’s persuasion. I felt emotionally ridden and found myself doing something that my heart did not want to, but I did it anyway. This person played mostly to my compassion. When I resisted, this person would make me feel bad about my decision saying things like: ‘but we’ve already planned it.’ I remember just wanting to say that’s not my problem, but I recalled when I did say this, this person would make it out as if there was something wrong with you and that you had those problems with everyone, and you wanted to prove them wrong.

Sorry for not listening to you when I should’ve.

on why so many make the trip across the ditch.

avondale market from stuff.co.nz

It only takes one comment, or one glance to start you reminiscing.

Yesterday I attended a family friend’s daughters party, and while it resembled the typical Cambodian house party, there was something unique about this one. Most of the visitors were kiwi ex-pats, who had made the trip across the ditch to a larger, much cultured Wellington.

A shopping trip… whether to Parkmore, Dandenong or evidently Springvale, you can’t escape bumping into, or hearing the voices of another Cambodian. They’re there with their kids hunting for bargains, behind counters, dropping green mangoes into plastic bags.

And we are all connected with that one desire – to achieve greener pastures. Which is what most of us have achieved. But I can honestly say, only in Australia.

It made me wonder, what is the difference? Both countries have good systems of help, liberating and uncorrupted. And it dawned on me after one of the lady’s talked about the whole luxury and leisure versus work and bills aspect. Where in NZ, you can drop by anyone’s barbi and feel most welcomed, you, if not highly educated could not afford to save or indulge in luxury and leisure.

Therefore, if you were an immigrant, who regardless of what educational attainments you’d achieve (which, having been through Khmer Rouge, most did not) you’d be left on the assembly line, sewing for cheap, or selling food at low prices at the Avondale Market. What you made either went towards rent, mortgage or bills and necessities. The closest we had to Springvale Shopping Centre was km/s away over the harbor bridge in Mangere. It was a hike just to eat pho or yum cha. The rest of the time you’d left to wonder your backyard and hope no one threw glass at your house or made racist remarks.

This was the life. There was no future. No greener pastures. I once complained about this at school, of which the teacher replied… you should be happy you’d not in a war torn country and have rights to free education and not afraid of getting shot in the street. But I feel that it’s not enough, and so do many of the ex-pats. It’s not enough to just be grateful you won’t be killed by makeshift bombs in plastic coke bottles. No, we are all entitled to our greener pastures, entitled to our dreams. Whether that was living in a two storey house, eating mangoes cheap, lunch out at restaurants everyday, having the means to buy our kids Ipads or taking trips to attractions, that was our right.

And Australia gave this to us. It has pho at $8 a plate, mangoes at $1.99/kg and an adequate minimum wage. No matter how hard you worked, you had entertainment to take your mind of the pain and stress, yummy south east asian food to sustain you. We could be the middle class here, not the labourers, and it gave you a sense of dignity.

So… it made me understand why so many have made the trip across the ditch.

You could live in someone’s garage, but still have food at restaurants in the local shops. You could board in someone’s home, yet go to Lake Entrance for a short holiday.

Hear more at Journeys talk at Springvale Library http://www.eventbrite.com/event/2312564944/efblike

On why I do what I do (the opening of headspace)

A few years back, I was asked… why do I do what I do?

& although I didn’t reply comprehensively then, everyday I am confronted with the realisation that when all went wrong for me, there was no one there. No support, no one to speak out for me, no one to give that one piece of warm advice. It was also unfortunate that the pollies were distance, especially the one in my area.

Thankfully he recently resigned and the young people can have someone to go to – when you’re young & unable to drive, closest is best. We’re hoping for a shift here soon to someone who cares

A few years back, there was no Facebook, the closest you had was a forum – which was moderated by someone who often had an agenda.They set the discussion topic and moderated your comment if it didn’t suit them.

You couldn’t go to Facebook for quick opinions or a throw-away moan… in fact, the closest I had to confidential counselling was at the care house behind a church in a peninsula. A few years back, it seemed counselling or mental health issues carried with it a massive stigma. You could rarely speak to your ‘friends’ about personal issues without them judging or belittling you. It seemed like a different world. I listen to my brother’s conversation nowadays and watch his friends speak very openly on facebook about their worlds, problems & relationships.

The pendulum has somewhat shifted and It’s okay to not be okay.

It’s okay to ask for help. I got it and it’s made my world and those around me better.

That’s why I’m very happy that a headspace office is opening in the City of Greater Dandenong, a place that I’ve come to deeply love. It’s a service for young people age 12-25. http://www.headspace.org.au

Ann’s Ode to Never Knowing (UTBS)

Oh mother! They won’t know what happened
behind these thin cream walls.

They’ll never guess we called, for someone to save their poor souls.
They’ll go on revelling, and partying
Like hawks with no heart or sense, or need
To make amends, fix humpty on his fence.
And they will keep on walking, as they cut
Our balance sticks! They will keep on driving
Through the worst accidents! The train will keep
On chugging, as bodies lie deep beneath,
And we keep on weeping, to our last breath.
Their eyes will keep on staring! No quick fix.

Oh mother! They will never know our pain
As if they speak, there’s nothing to gain.

They will never know why we cried, or how
The tears have blinded our sights, and sent us
Into an unpleasant state, a rock, a strike, a tick

The judge, on his high throne, will never see
The scars, he will hammer down on his block,
Exert his dubious powers. Person
In the chair, like a person on a plank!
A verdict carved inside his past, a page
Already inked – They will ask the questions:
“Oh why did we let you in? Such criminals,
Filth! Oh great grief!” Yes! They will keep thinking,
Wondering how and why! But they will never know.

But, Mother! Mother! I know your story
And plan to tell it with all its glory.

Another year has shown its face, Mother!
Filled with masks, knives and falls from grace
Pregnant girls! That suicide! Plain guffaw!
Suburban pride! Rings around tall poppies
Grow, cutting those who choose to fly. Making
Girls lose their worth, before they have a chance
To see how much they can give society.
Then there is us! Our slanty eyes – they are
Afraid of what we hide. But I wear no hat
Of red with stars, just a girl who dreams far!
I feel your pain, I feel the burn! But oh!

We try and try, to win and find success.
But it comes plummeting down in distress.

Is this the world that you wanted to see?
Oh, Mother, I wish I could’ve seen your dream.
I see the barrows that cross the dry fields,
And know how you fought your ordeals.
Young and lively! Wide-eyed and ready! But you
Were plunged into the fields – the civil war
Brewed in your youth, its civil strife that made
You cry. But they will never see your pain,
Or know of your sacrifice. They see me
As another explorer, and that’s it.

 

no matter how high you fly, the menacing wind will always blow you down

It’s a sad realisation that there are people of whom try to find fault or dissatisfaction no matter how much you’ve done or achieved. What’s even worst is how we often let these people plague us with their unreasoned rationing of actions – and it’s often coming from people who can’t even stand tall on their own two feet.

But as the saying goes by the wonderful Bob Marley:

““Who are you to judge the life I live? I know I’m not perfect and I don’t live to be. But, before you start pointing fingers, make sure your hands are clean.”

But luckily I have a good support group, however it does concern me how this is a trend, especially in small communities.

Young people are being made to feel ‘not good enough,’ and funnily enough, it’s rarely by their parents (as cliche dictates). It’s often by people who are not closely related or have no ties to us, and inside of wiping their comments and opinions away like an old dirt on a glass table, we spin it around in our heads, thinking of what we could do, or could’ve done to make them think of us better.

But evidently, they’ll have their negative views no matter what you’ve achieved – whether it’s buying a house or winning a Nobel prize. It seems that the only thing you can really do is just make the world around you better, and it’s those that cherish your work that matter.