heartshape

1. The country is under the highly centralized control of the military patronage system, a concept of oligarchy spawned by the early communist Khmer Rouge and the Pol Pot regime based on discipline and conformity.


2. The three problems arising from the crippled Cambodian environment include: distortion of social structures, social inequality, and lack of people's participation.


3. Cambodia is living through a vicious cycle of power-hungry military officials and warlords and its oppressed citizens refusing to trust anyone for fear of getting arrested.

Having emerged from a struggle against communism and absolute oligarchy, the aged Cambodians are far too traumatized to trust anyone as regards nation building. The lack of human resources is not so much a problem as having the capacity to use the existing human power. Concerned members of the academe both from Cambodia and the international community suggest ways to alleviate the unusual problem that has been inflicting Cambodia for several generations. Aside from gradually removing the military patronage system and establishing a democratic form of government - one that is not tainted with malice, greed, and megalomania, creating networks and strengthening linkages within local government units should be prioritized, and most importantly, bringing back the trust among people.

Mr. Estoconing asked how development can be achieved in an impossibly torn country like Cambodia with its high militaristic rule, xenophobic values, and widespread apathy. Regardless of its painful past and conforming present, instilling trust back to individuals remains to be the toughest challenge. I always believe that behind a properous country is a unified citizenry. And in the case of Cambodia, healing the bitterness of the past can be a good headstart.

Its about time for Cambodia to come out of its shell and show off their exotic cultural heritage. The country's sociopolitical aspect may need mending but culturally, Cambodia has so much to offer with its unique traditions, arts, and architecture, among others. They can even bank on their hideous yet interesting past and the fact that some areas considered as sacred still have landmines waiting to be stepped on. People live to tell stories and nothing excites tourists more than a story on struggle and survival. Surely, these Cambodians after having been imprisoned in their own land for so long would want to express themselves through their craft. Cambodian dances are fast getting into the international scene so why not capitalize on that?

Culture plays an important role in bridging the gap not only between the rich and poor but among all Cambodians. Whether in a form of song, dance, painting, sculpture, prayer, architecture, or oral lore, it encourages people to express themselves (and creatively at that) which in turn enhances self-esteem and confidence, an essential tool in a peaceful group participation. It may be a long process (who says healing isn't?) but at least culture binds the people and gives them something in common, leading to the path of unification.

***

hmm...I just felt like writing this so as not to soil my pride. I just had to prove myself that I actually learned something from the case on Cambodia; that no matter how I'm judge, I'm confident of my brain's capacity to stimulate and process ideas.

I've been trying to convince myself that cleanliness isn't necessarily next to godliness and a little dirt actually helps enhance an individual's immune system but really, having survived our kiosk's opening week without so much as cringe for failing to scrub the small space clean or arrange stuff the way I think they're supposed to be arranged is a feat.I played quiet well in the game of nonchalance with the wet and grimy construction site, mosquitoes feasting on CBA blood, and too much solid waste not to mention leftovers and plastic utensils crammed in the same makeshift trashcan (gasp!) as my opponents. That and more would've easily sent me packing, shivering 'til I'm a hundred percent certain the whole area is thoroughly disinfected.

I could come up with something, not really grand, but enough to sort out the mess that's been invading our kiosk since day one. I could buy a kick-ass cleaning arsenal and wage war against molds, mites, and mildew. Or, I could cry, alone and defeated, in my room after a long and busy day's work.

On second thought, I could just adjust. And relax.Who cares if it rained noodles on the floor? Who cares about overflowing inharmony of unsegregated garbage? Or of cakes of mud on a rainy day? Or of the fact that [dirty] loads of money pass by my palms while I cook pancit canton or (gasp) eat tuna sandwich with unwashed hands (double gasp!)?

Me taking all these unsanitary part of life into consideration is like a meth addict thinking of giving rehab a chance. But really, the thought should, could, and ought to scare me but I feel pretty normal. Even I surprise myself when I try and succeed at looking at grime and then ignore it. (Whaaaat???!!???)

If surviving all these is normal, and being normal means being less of a neat freak, and being less of a neat freak means being more considerate of dirt then.......

Oh dear God I'm becoming BURARA???!!!!?????

*killing self now...*

“Do you like the movie?” My Japanese host mother asked, putting another ladleful of do-rai ka-re, dry curry, on my almost empty plate.

As I was in the middle watching my favorite Japanese animated movie and chewing my octopus sashimi, all I could do was nod and utter a barely audible “Hai!”

“Anime suki dessyo?” You like Japanese cartoons, I remember her ask.“Hai. Daisuki desu yo.” Yes, I like it very much, was my reply.

What started out as a slight obsession for Japanese animation eventually lead to countless nights of devouring information, which only heightened my desire of one day exploring the unique archipelago of Japan. It began as a silly admiration for perky cartoon characters with big sparkling eyes and wind-tossed hair of different colors. I couldn’t remember what charmed me into what other people may think as nonsense entertainment but I knew I was gradually getting interested in the country from where these cartoons originated.

Amidst the pressures of high school, I could still find time to browse through Japanese history books (mindful of the fact that no detergent could ever remove the stain Japan left in our history), memorize complicated lines from Japanese books, or bring our trusty Countries of the World almanac to school just in case my Asian History textbook failed to mention why Japan’s capital was transferred to Tokyo.

Time passed and I went to college, bringing along butterflies in my stomach, must-haves in my luggage, and passion for animes in my heart. Perhaps one of the reasons why I enrolled in Silliman was its Japan Student Exchange Scholarship Program. Four sophomore students could get the chance to study in Japan for a year, all expenses shouldered by the Japanese host institutions.Destiny played on my side when, during my sophomore year, I applied for the said scholarship and got chosen as one of the four exchange students for the school year 2004-2005. It was, to put it mildly, unexpected. I remember waking up to the harsh ringing of my phone the day after the interview, with my friend on the line shouting the good news.

Wow…

I never felt guilty and excited at the same time. Guilty because I never told the panelist that Japanese anime had a lot to do with my wanting to study abroad. Sure I was curious about the Japanese culture, but part of the reason why I wanted to experience it was to confirm what I’d been seeing on TV. Do high school girls really wear short skirts as uniforms? Are their houses really typically small? Do gadgets come as ordinary as clothes?

It was one of those moments when I imagine myself in a different environment – be it exotic, high-tech, or laid-back, wearing different costumes, and eating various cuisines. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to tour Rome on a motorino, get lost in one of Baghdad’s bazaars (a childhood fantasy inspired by the book Arabian Nights), conquer the slopes of Mt. Fuji, or work my way to the ends of the Great Wall. How long have I waited for this opportunity?

Nineteen years is a very long time.The years spent waiting for my first international trip paid off from the moment I exchanged sharp glances with the PAL flight attendant (who was so mean considering her job) on my way to the Land of the Rising Sun. It was on that bright morning of September 5, 2004 that I made sure this trip would be something special.I've heard stories about Japan's incredible inventions and expensive lifestyle, patriotic citizens and disciplined society, but nothing prepared me for what I saw. I never really dwelled on the fact that Japan would be so... different.

My first few months were spent gaping at what would have been ordinary things like vending machines (practically scattered everywhere), automatic doors in probably 90% of Japan's establishments, automated ticket machines at train stations, rush hours, Japanese fashion statements, and earthquake-proof skyscrapers.A year in a foreign land wouldn’t hurt especially if it’s an all-expense paid excursion. Especially if you don’t allow that teeny weenie thing called Language to get in the way. I want to say that my experiences were all roses but I just couldn’t forget those times when my fellow exchange students and I had to pester several Nihon-jin (Japanese national) for directions. Most of the time they would just give us sorry looks with a curt “gomenasai” (Sorry) or an emphatic “No” gesture.

With little knowledge of the Japanese language, we would resort to sign language, or just flash our (hopefully) cutest smiles to those naïve enough not to realize our poor command of Nippongo!Exploring Japan, or at least Tokyo, meant experimenting with trains and subways, which would’ve been easy if it weren’t for those irritating Kanji, Japanese characters read in various ways. My companions and I were often left standing on ticket booths looking at subway maps - a multitude of Kanji characters, trying to figure out which one read “Shinjuku.”

Fortunately, it didn’t take long for us to get used to the hustle and bustle of Japan. We studied Nippongo’s complicated grammatical structure and worked our way from Greetings to Buying to Asking for Directions to Familiarizing the Kanji. I admit my Japanese is poor since we only had classes three times a week. I haven’t learned all there is to learn about Kanji and I absolutely still can’t read a Japanese newspaper. One has to know at least 2,000 kanji to be able to read a newspaper, and at least 5,000 to be able to understand a serious novel.Honestly, we only become “students” during our three-days-a-week Japanese Language class. Although my friends and I were “exchange students,” 90% of our time was spent touring major cities in Japan.

Three days after our arrival, we participated in our host institution, Ferris University’s Japan Study Tour to Hiroshima and learned how an industrialized city collapsed, and recuperated.Our planners were practically filled with monthly excursions that we fondly called “Major La-ag”- be it a day of fun at Tokyo Disney Resort in September, a day of food tripping at Japan’s largest Chinatown in October, Ferris Festival Conference in November, or a Christmas Party at the Philippine Embassy on December. We waited for year 2005 at the cold Yamashita Park shivering and praying for the rain and snow to stop. We expected numerous fireworks to light up the Yokohama skies only to find out there aren’t going to be any fireworks display after all.

The first day of the year found us lounging in McDonald’s eating our very first meal, comparing Japan and the Philippines.Experiencing the Japanese culture was never this hilarious. During our visit to Kyoto and Osaka, we had to reluctantly take a bath – naked, of course - with a bunch of other naked ladies (foreigners and Japanese alike). Try as we did, we couldn’t get past the dressing room in swimsuits since, posted beside the youth hostel common bathroom door was a giant note, “Do not wear swimsuits in the bathroom…Enjoy the Japanese culture…"

I didn’t feel nervous on my solo trip to Nara, the ancient capital of Japan, to see the bronzed Great Buddha, and Kobe, the city once struck by an earthquake that affected not only Japan’s citizens but its economy as well. I remember my friends saying “ka-isog nimo oy!”I never felt so happy in my entire life during our two-day ski tour in Nagano. There’s nothing more therapeutic than skiing, assuming, of course, that one already knows how to ski. Snowy Nagano was equally as inviting as sunny Okinawa, where a different kind of Japan exists. Palm trees and hibiscus graced us as we toured several World Heritage sights and ate traditional Okinawan delicacies.

Oh, and did I mention the food? The foooooooood? Where else can you find an affordable Shakey’s All-you-can-eat treat? Well, probably in other highly developed nations but still. Japan has one of the world’s most unique (and expensive) cuisines. For the best Japanese food, head to Nagoya and you surely won’t feel fats lining your jeans until its too late. Except for that slimy natto (which Verna and Jan unsurprisingly love so much), wasabi, and some wagashi (Japanese sweets that always made Michelle smile), Japan’s palate treats never fail to make my mouth water.A large bowl of ramen (Japanese noodles) can already appease one’s hunger but one is never enough when you see someone heartily slipping noodles in his mouth, feasting on the spicy flavors of beef, pepper, garlic, and herbs.

Now, my craving for tebasaki (Japanese-style fried chicken wings) and miso soup, curry rice and norimaki (rice wrapped in seaweed), and all kinds of sashimi lathered in fish paste is all I have. That is, until I go back there and grab myself an ichi-go-san-sai (a complete Japanese meal of rice, soup, vegetable, and meat or fish) or pig out at one of the tabehodai ­(eat-all-you-can) restaurants in Japan.

As I watched my calendar make way for another month, I dreaded the thought of leaving. August, our final month as exchange students has finally arrived and summer has become more overbearing. Summer in Japan is indeed hotter than summer in the Philippines.I admit I studied hard to be able to understand animes. However, Life was too exciting to focus on trivial matters as Japanese animation. What I’d seen on TV was mostly true. Most of the people (young and old alike) have dyed hair, most of the girls wear skimpy skirts as uniforms, and small as it seems, a typical Japanese house is tall and narrow because real estate is expensive.

I was full of dreams when I went there – childish dreams that involved attending an anime conference in Tokyo, collecting as much videos and comic books as I can, or even meeting a few graphic artists. However, Animes were nothing compared to the sights and sounds, to the seasons and festivities, to real images and actual situations of Japan. I did not attend any anime conference, buy expensive videos, or meet a graphic artist.However, I was able to visit Japan’s most significant shrines and temples, see maple leaves turn red in Autumn, and admire the cherry blossoms (which only bloom for two weeks a year) in Spring. Fun from watching perky cartoon characters with big sparkling eyes and wind-tossed hair of different colors was nothing compared to the joy of dancing in the year’s first snowfall, my first snowfall.

I was able to enjoy Nature’s Wisdom in the 2005 World Exposition (which happens every five years) in Aichi, ride a hydrogen-fueled bus, and get on a magnetically levitating train. And for my final “major la-ag,” my friends Mich, Verna, Grace, and I climbed Mt. Fuji, the 3,776-meter monster volcano, which, thank God, didn’t erupt while we were there. We didn’t reach the summit though because our bus might leave us (such a lame excuse). But still I’m proud to say that we reached the 3,500 mark. The trek was excruciatingly tiresome but what the heck…I have climbed Fuji!

Beat that Anime!




---this article was originally submitted to the author's EL 33 professor

I withdrew even deeper into the world of language, cleaving the diamonds of verbs and nouns, plunging into the brilliant light of poetry’s regenerative mystery. Words gave off rings of white energy, radar signals from powers beyond me that infused me with truth. I believe what I wrote, because I wrote what was true. My words did not come from books or textual formulas, but from a deep faith in the voice of my heart. ---Jimmy Baca


Who would’ve thought that a ninth grade drop-out could come up with these exquisite lines with words only imagined to have come from the minds of the most educated writers? For someone who did not know how to read and write until his late teens, Jimmy Baca has pawed his way through the labyrinths of the English language, and endured Life’s punishments in prison – his unofficial classroom where he obeyed his thirst for language. No one knew of the experiences – good or bad, memorable or not – he had undergone while pursuing his goal of conquering words, molding paragraphs out of phrases, and eventually mastering the English language. I came across one of his works, detailing his struggles before “coming into language,” and realized that it is never too late to learn.

At times when I feel angry or frustrated about getting my homework done, I would look at the computer screen or stare at my poster-filled wall and utter, “Why, oh why, do I have to do this?” Then a tiny voice would emanate from the depths of my head, slowly but surely enumerating all the reasons why I need to do all my assignments.Math problems were never a problem. Sure, there was the traditional mind-boggling showcase of equations one needs to simplify in order to extract an answer. But that’s it: there is only one final answer. However, if one gets bombarded with reaction papers, essays, or research papers to be completed within the next few weeks, chances of procrastination are quite high, unless of course one adores writing as much as he or she loves a favorite pet.

I used to write poems and compose short stories that never went unnoticed. Back in high school, my teachers would encourage me to “edit” my work not because it needed improvement but because it had to be changed completely.What was I thinking? Why was I trying to become a literary disciple when I couldn’t even distinguish one right prose from a series of wrong ones; when I couldn’t even master my tenses? Hadn’t I learned my lesson when a teacher who I still despise humiliated me in front of the class for writing “plotform” instead of “platform”?

Essay writing contests would become a source of great anticipation only to have my works neglected; only to be condescended upon.“You’re compositions are not contest material.” I remember them say. Daunted, I abandoned my short stories, locking away my imaginations and hiding them in a chest full of disappointments, and found comfort in my journals. I remember writing about my rebellious escapades at fourteen, my turning points at fifteen and the seemingly endless quest for a better life at eighteen. I found a partner in my journal where I can write whatever I want heedless of parallelism, tenses, or focus.

From the moment I open my journal my imaginations fly free, as if knowing their places in every page. All these years I seek refuge in my journals that until now, I lighten up after thirty minutes worth of writing. But what started as a hobby didn’t exactly evolve into passion. To coin a phrase from Jimmy Baca’s story, it helped me “come into language.” Baca’s story made me realize that huge mistake I made about giving up and giving in to my fears. My teachers thought my stories were trash so I retreated, leaving them victorious. Regrets are not really sweet but how I wish (clichés, clichés) I had practiced…how I wished I were strong enough to go on.I wish I had discipline, just enough to slap my face once in a while. I admit to being an impatient person, and am contented with my hasty disposition.

I go into details and make sure I’m doing things efficiently, but when it comes to writing I tend to float and just blab it all away on paper. I wanted to create a prose that could move my readers, one that is contest material. I wanted to organize phrases into paragraphs that blend reality with fantasy. But somehow, my soaring imagination remains stuck in my journal waiting to be unleashed. Right now I can’t seem to get my head on the right words. I feel that whenever I start with a few lines, pen dangling between my fingers, and paper waiting to be doodled on, I seem to forget what I was supposed to write. You see, I like writing but it clearly finds ways of evading me.

This is probably why I ask myself “Why, oh why, do I have to do this?” when showered with reaction papers and writing projects to be submitted in the next few days.Who would’ve thought someone with more than ten years of education could easily get intimidated by small things like a bunch of English assignments? Who would’ve thought someone who once dreamed of creating a poignant story would just trash those dreams out of fear of being rejected?

I know Baca’s hurdles were nothing compared to mine, but he succeeded! His work transcends ordinary achievement, all because he worked hard to pursue his dreams. I’m currently dancing to the tunes of college pressure, and am learning to dwell on my strengths. I may not possess the gift of words but a vision of me finishing an inspiring novel lingers in my mind. My compositions may not be “contest material” but I know they are true.

Like Baca, I want to write “the way I wept, and danced, and made love” and think I would succeed.One way or another, I know I shouldn’t be afraid because the words I put on paper, the computer, or the wall, are words that resonate from the crevices of my heart.




---this was originally submitted to the author's EL 33 professor.