Knowing When It's Time to Go "Home"

When it comes down to it, I guess I just feel ready and have that gut sense that it's the right time to go back. Does it make me all kinds of emotional? Oh yeah. I've already had several nostalgic crying spells and expect more before I leave. But it's still the right call. I miss the people, I miss this place that was always home before and maybe could be again.

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Asking the Hard Questions

I'm a freelance writer, but to what end? Presumably the writing I am doing now should be building toward something, should be part of a body of work that can be used to achieve a next goal. But what is that next goal?

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Yangon Days

When you're removed from the realities of a place, it's easy to think you know the whole story, to think you can prepare yourself to be there, to understand what's happened. I didn't understand. I couldn't comprehend the realities. The recent past was present in nearly every conversation I had. 

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Ready for the fall

It's been a little while since I concluded my series on my year of living in Chiang Mai. I hadn't planned on taking a break from posting on here after I finished that, but it appears to have been a good time for a break. Writing that series helped me get closure on a lot of things that happened during my first 12 months in Thailand, appreciate everything I've had here and cleared some mental space for what's next.

I went into the last full month of the summer somewhat uncertain of what the rest of my year would look like, but knowing I was feeling restless and ready for some changes. Since turning 28 in April, I have noticed an underlying sense of...urgency, perhaps, to figure out what comes next, a feeling that I've entered a new stage of my life.

Birthdays have never freaked me out; I never fretted about turning a year older. After all, another year on the planet seems a cause for great celebration, not despair. But 28 did freak me out. It's close to 30. It's firmly in the late 20s. Suddenly things that I used to put on the mental backburner seemed much more urgent and important: my health and overall well-being and what I was doing (or not doing) to maintain it; my finances; my professional ambitions; long-term goals for a romantic relationship and starting a family.

Earlier this year there was a lot of buzz about Meg Jay's TED Talk on Why 30 is Not the New 20. While watching it, I had a moment of fleeting panic - what if I've wasted my 20s? What if I've gotten everything wrong?

The panic subsided when I evaluated just what I've been doing for the past eight years of my life, and considered the investments I've made in myself. I graduated from college and grad school, gained valuable professional experience working at a newspaper and freelancing for reputable publications, traveled, evaluated long-held biases and embarked on a path of learning about people and the world that has changed my life.

Most importantly, I have invested in self-growth and development, which has changed the way I see myself, solidified my values and laid the groundwork for the types of enriching, supportive, healthy relationships I want to maintain and cultivate.

So all of that is great, and I'm thankful for the experiences I've had up to this point. It's been an incredible ride so far.

But that doesn't mean that there isn't room for growth (isn't there always?) and that it's not worth asking questions about what comes next, where I want to live and travel, whether my priorities are shifting and if so, what are they, where do I want to be focusing my energy going forward.

I still haven't answered all of those questions for myself, but some priorities have become clear. The top priority is my overall health and well-being. Once I started reading seriously about fitness and nutrition, I was alarmed to realize how much of my diet and lack of exercise were likely exacerbating my feelings of anxiety and depression. I won't go into all the gory details here, but suffice it to say that some changes needed to be made.

This is an ongoing journey for me, but an important one, so vital to making real progress in any other area.

I'm not sure what the future of my work life is and for the first time, that excites rather than terrifies me. I love writing and will focus on creating a body of work I'm proud of, though I am eager to learn new skills, such as design, that will allow me to do more professionally and creatively. I'm excited to think beyond my self-imposed constraints of “I'm a writer and that's it; that's all I will ever be” and see where that takes me.

I'm also not sure where I will live next, though I have some ideas in mind and all of them have some great potential benefits. In the meantime, I've continued hanging out in Chiang Mai and have decided to visit America this fall.

It will be the first time I've been back since I moved to South Korea, and I am deliriously thrilled to have booked the trip. For a long time, the prospect of visiting the States seemed daunting for a number of reasons, not the least of which was how much I've changed and how much my relationships with people there have changed.

But I've wanted to go back for a visit for awhile now, and decided that this fall would be the time to do it. The idea had been there for months, and then one night, I found an incredible deal on a flight and took the plunge. I expected some waves of anxiety or a feeling of “What the frell did I just do?!” but to my pleasant surprise, all I felt for the first week after booking the ticket was elated.

The response I got from people when I told them I was coming to visit was so warm and enthusiastic, it was impossible not to get swept up in the moment. I felt totally at peace with the decision, and genuinely happy to plan for the visit.

I fly out a month from today and will be there six weeks. It's a short trip for having been gone such a long time, but I'm going to make the most of it. I'm looking forward to seeing everyone, to visiting some of my favorite places in the States and to spending some time in cities I've never visited before.

I planned the trip for October in part because that is my favorite month and I have missed autumn in America something fierce. I'll get to enjoy all the fall colors and the pumpkin and apple treat goodness for the first time in three years. To say I'm looking forward to that would be an understatement.

Oh and the food...I'm already fantasizing about the food.

It will be an emotional trip, I have no doubt. I also think it will be an opportunity for me to reflect on where I want to live next, what I want out of my lifestyle and what I'll do in the coming year. There are some trips that I just know are going to be great opportunities for growth, which adds to the excitement and eager anticipation. This is certainly one of them.

2013 has been interesting so far, with many highs and some lows. But fall has always been my favorite season, and I'm going into this one looking forward to some wonderful things.

As far as Spinning Free goes, I'll be posting more frequently, and am working on moving the blog to a new platform that I think will give it a more elegant, enjoyable look. I hope to have that ready to roll out in a week and look forward to sharing it.

A year worth celebrating

This is the fifth and final post in my Unexpected Year in Thailand series. To read the other posts in the series, click here It is now exactly one year since I arrived sweaty, tired and elated in Thailand, not knowing that I would spend the next year of my life in Chiang Mai.

Even having looked back and seen my struggles with depression and anxiety during the past year, I find that what I feel more than anything else is gratitude for all I've experienced in these 12 months. Playing in the world's biggest water fight, releasing lanterns at the Yi Peng ceremony, sleeping in a bamboo hut in a hill tribe village in the mountains, volunteering with elephants, hanging out with friends at a (vegetarian) piranha fishing resort, interviewing a world-class chef in Bangkok. The list goes on and I know years from now, I will still treasure those experiences and what they taught me.

But most of all, I will treasure the people with whom I've shared those experiences. I've written a lot about the negatives and how badly I felt before I came to Chiang Mai. But to close out this month of reflection and this month of blog posts about this year in Thailand, I want to talk about the people I've met here and who are so important to me.

Back in September, when I found out my friends Will and Skeeter were planning to come back to Chiang Mai as well, I was stoked. Skeet was heading back to the States in October so I knew he'd only be here a short time (he has since returned to Chiang Mai with his partner - I'm telling you, this place has a way of getting under your skin) but Will was also planning to go back to Beijing. We figured we'd hang out in Chiang Mai for a little while and then head to China, just in time for a bitter cold winter.

But then people started giving us all of these reasons to stay: "You can't miss the Yi Peng festival or Loy Krathong; people come from all over the world for those!" and "The winter months are the best time to be in Thailand; not humid, not rainy, just perfect weather!" (This was quite a selling point for someone like me, who hates the cold.)

The real reasons to stay, it turned out, would be our friends. When I arrived in Thailand last summer on a quest to get my head on straight, I didn't expect that the journey would be aided by other people. I already had good friends in China and the States; I didn't expect or think I needed to make close friends in Thailand. I thought I'd find maybe a few interesting travel companions at best.

I don't believe in God or fate or destiny, but I believe deeply in the power of the unconscious and its intuition for what we need in order to heal ourselves and grow. I needed Thailand. I needed Chiang Mai. I needed a space to break down, really break down, to be afraid, to face my fears, to be sick, to be sad, to grieve. I needed that so much more than I realized, which is something I was unwilling to accept or see clearly until recently.

I needed to allow myself to be happy and appreciate the beauty in the world, too,  and to really, fully enjoy being healthy and alive and engaged. And I also really needed friends and love and compassion; I needed to receive those things and to give them. And I had that, in an abundance that humbles me and makes me grateful in ways I'm not sure I’ll ever be able to fully express.

There are so many people I've met in Chiang Mai who have inspired me, impressed me, given me much to think about and been a pleasure to know. But there are a few in particular who I now count among the dearest in my life, and who I hope to know for many years to come.

Will has been my closest friend for several years now, and this whole Chiang Mai experience - the good, the bad, and the outrageous - would certainly have been less exciting and less enriching without him. He's a better friend than even he probably realizes, is one of the most genuine, smart, thoughtful and inspiring people I know, and a fantastic human being.

Ruby, Mika and Hilary - affectionately known as my biscuit sisters - will forever be woven into the fabric of who I am. Ruby, who taught me the meaning of Minnesota nice and who delivers even the harshest truths with love and support; Mika, who inspires me with her willingness to defy conventions and her passion for the oppressed; and Hilary, who I knew was a kindred spirit from our first meeting, when we talked religion, corporate America, writing and a million other things over beers.

There have been so many smart, interesting, passionate, kind women I've met here - Kailyn, who reminded me constantly to be generous and nice simply by so embodying those qualities herself; Sarah, whose effervescent personality and willingness to be unique and embrace the world (not to mention amazing dance skills) made me want to let loose and enjoy life more, too; Alyse, who is friendly, giving and game for a laugh no matter what else is going on; Jules, Laura, Agnes, and so many others who touched my heart and who I'm so glad to know.

Before I came to Chiang Mai, it had been a long time since I had had a close group of girlfriends and here, I was fortunate enough to become friends with a group of women who are all passionate, hilarious and warm. They reminded me of how vital it is to have a community of women you can relate to, cry to, and with whom you can drink copious amounts of wine and just really be yourself - scars, mistakes, dreams and all.

The men I know here are wonderful as well. In contrast to the stereotypes put forward about men's inability to emote and empathize (which I disagree with, by the way), Neil and Rob are both sensitive, compassionate, intelligent, well-read and also hilarious. Neil's earnestness and integrity, and Rob's candor and unique sense of humor make them both so much fun to be around. The romantic relationships between Neil and Mika and Rob and Hilary have taught me a great deal about relationships, and inspired me in their closeness, intimacy, and honesty.

Skeet and his partner, Ally, came back to Chiang Mai later than everyone else, but it has been great having them here, too. I have long been impressed by Skeeter's talent, creativity and passion for music, and his commitment to being a good person and standing up for what he believes is right. Ally continually reminds me to question my own biases, to consider the other side of the story or argument, and to be just in my considerations, an area that remains a challenge for me - but a worthwhile one.

Then there are May and Num, the wonderful people who run the guest house where so many of my friends and I have lived. They have really made Chiang Mai a home and made the place where we live somewhere special.

And there are so many others I haven't mentioned who have made this experience as great as it has been. Together, these people have taught me so much about relationships, honesty, bravery and about the world, and I only hope to be able to return the favor. And they have made me laugh, endlessly, which is such a gift in and of itself. It is a privilege to know each one of them.

A special bond developed among our group and while many have left Thailand to travel to new places and start new chapters, we'll always have Chiang Mai, and the hopeful plans to reunite and be part of each other's lives in another part of the world.

When I stop to think about all of the special occasions, the hangouts, the jokes, the stories, the experiences I have shared with the friends I've met in Chiang Mai, I feel overwhelmed by a sense of love and gratitude.

To commemorate this year in Chiang Mai, I decided to make a short video with some highlights of the time I've spent here. The music is "Safe & Sound" by Capital Cities. I chose this song because while listening to it one day, I thought, This is exactly how I feel about our Chiang Mai crew.


I'm not sure where I'll head after Chiang Mai or when exactly I'll go just yet, but I do know that I will always look back on this time as being among the most special in my life, and will be so grateful to have lived in this special place with such wonderful people.

How Thailand taught me to be generous again

This is the fourth post in my Unexpected Year in Thailand series. To read the earlier posts, click here About two months ago, I was talking to a friend about feeling like I was in a transition period in terms of my professional life. I was trying to decide what types of stories I want to be writing, the type of work I want to be doing, and mapping out my goals for the rest of this year and beyond. A few days later, this friend sent me a link to "The Desire Map", a book by Danielle LaPorte.

Admittedly, some might read that title and roll their eyes, writing it off as New Age-y fluff about living your best life. And sure, there are some things in there that don't resonate with me, like aligning your chakras. But there is also a lot I have found quite helpful, not the least of which are suggestions for shifting your perspective from bitterness and negativity to one that brings your outlook into alignment with your desire to be happy and fulfilled.

LaPorte invites readers to identify their Core Desired Feelings, or CDFs. These are what you want to feel regularly in your life and can include everything from happy to sexy to wealthy to inspired - pretty much anything you can think of.

So I considered my own CDFs, and came up with a list that included happy, abundant, safe, debt-free, creative, loved and loving, and a range of other words. But the one that really stood out to me was generosity.

I've always considered myself a reasonably generous person. I enjoy buying gifts for people I love, I like doing things to brighten their day, and am usually happy to help a friend in need, whether that's with money or time or some other type of assistance. One thing I don't ever want to be considered is miserly.

But this past spring and early summer, I started to feel...well, like a miser. Not only when it came to money, but when it came to my time, patience, empathy, compassion. I found myself getting impatient with people, and with myself. And I stressed out more when lending people money, or covering a dinner here and there.

To put this in context, my year got off to a pretty rough financial start. I was robbed on New Year's Day, and had to spend money I had saved to cover my living expenses replacing some of what I had lost.

So that sucked. But it wasn't the end of the world. I knew I'd get back on my feet and that the whole episode would just be a good story.

But getting back on my feet was harder than I thought it would be, and I started to feel badly about myself. I kind of got stuck in a rut when it came to work and my finances, and those negative feelings made me crabby about other things more often than I would have liked. I was aggravated that I felt I always had to monitor my bank account, annoyed with myself for not making more money faster, and then even more annoyed with myself for not doing something to stem the tide of frustration I was feeling in general. This was all exacerbated by the fact that I was trying to decide where in the world to move next and what I wanted to do creatively - which are really exciting decisions to make, by the way. But I was blinded by my crabbiness and negativity and saw all these opportunities for growth as added stressors.

I really wanted that outlook to change. The negative thought spiral was hampering my creativity and drive, and I'm smart enough to know that you have to step out of that cycle and get some perspective in order to move forward.

So one afternoon, I took myself to lunch and went shopping for art supplies, deciding I'd try a new creative outlet. I read some of "The Desire Map" during lunch, and found that one passage in particular really resonated with me.

LaPorte wrote, "In the toughest of moments, what makes me feel better is thinking about my core desired feelings." Instead of staying stuck in a negative thought pattern, she reflects on the way she would prefer to feel in that moment. This helps her make choices that will bring on those feelings, rather than just bitching about how bad things are.

I loved this idea. I like to think I'm generally a happy person, but I have been known to latch onto a bad mood or a grudge, sit down in it and refuse to move for long past the sulking expiration date.

I decided to try LaPorte's tactic that afternoon. Rather than stress out about the cost of my lunch, I thought, "I desire feelings of generosity and gratitude, and a sense of abundance." I didn't want to be miserly with myself, or with other people. I wanted to do good things for myself, and feel positively about that, not go stare at the numbers in my bank account and raise my blood pressure by berating myself for spending $5 on lunch.

Armed with this consciousness of my desires, I set off to finish up some last-minute errands. It was hot and I was tired after eating, and annoyed that I couldn't easily locate the local post office. But I was determined to not get cranky. For every negative thought: "It's hot out", "I have work to do and this is taking forever", "Who insists on mailing hard copies of documents anyway?", I recognized those complaints but then countered with some gratitude. "I'm grateful I'm healthy enough to walk around and run these errands without assistance", "There's plenty of time to get things done today; I'm not on deadline"; "I'm excited to be working with this new client, so it's a positive that I need to go to the post office at all."

Surprisingly, this actually helped. And the more I was able to shift my mood, the more goodness I began to notice. I was grateful for the generosity of the cashier at 7-11, who not only gave me directions to the post office but walked me there herself and translated my request to the clerk who mailed the documents. I found myself feeling increasingly grateful to be in Chiang Mai at all, and reflecting on the many times people in the city had shown me kindness and generosity, even though they didn't know me.

When I arrived home to the guest house where I'm living later that afternoon, I found several friends and fellow residents gathered around a table on the porch, sharing food. They invited me to join them and before I knew it, I had a full plate of food, a glass of whiskey and a shot of some other type of alcohol that had been fermenting for a year and had just been opened by one of the guest house owners. He and one of the other men encouraged everyone to eat and drink, making sure we all had enough or did not go wanting.

Here, I thought, are abundance, generosity and so many things to be grateful for.

For the first time in awhile, I made myself sit down and relax and socialize in the middle of the afternoon, rather than rush to my room to get back to work. I enjoyed the food and the company and the warm, breezy weather. And I allowed myself to really reflect on all I had to be grateful for, and be thankful that I was in Thailand, among friends, surrounded by people who were willing to give and share what they had.

And I considered all of the people I have had the opportunity to meet this past year, all of the strangers who have shown me kindnesses, and the friends who have been generous with their time and patience, and with sharing their own stories with me. I'm not saying money isn't important or isn't helpful, but I think it's easy during lean months to get caught in a web of scarcity and forget that abundance and generosity aren't only the products of financial wealth.

I've been trying to be more conscious of when my thoughts and feelings turn toward annoyance, frustration, impatience and this overall sense of being in scarcity mode. And I try to shift out of that now by doing something for someone else, or treating myself to a massage or just thinking about what I could be grateful for in the situation. It usually does help and has made me appreciate all the positives in my life, rather than living in the negatives.

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One last chance, this world is gonna pull through

The Buddhist New Year festival, Songkran, was celebrated in Thailand this past weekend. It's the biggest festival of the year and the celebrations go on for at least three days. These celebrations are not your average holiday festivities, however. Songkran is a massive, multi-day, city-wide water fight. Everyone buys water guns and buckets and plays outside for three days, the only goal being to soak everyone who passes you as much as humanly possible. It's quite possibly the greatest holiday in the world.

Thapae Gate

Friends who had been in Chiang Mai for the holiday before had been telling stories for months, getting the Songkran newbs pumped for what promised to be the most epic waterfight we had ever seen.

I marveled at the stories; I watched the videos; I saw the pictures. I was not prepared for all that is Songkran.

Thapae party

The day before the holiday officially began, people were already lining the streets with Super Soaker knock-offs, PVC pipe syringes, buckets and hoses, ready to take down anyone who crossed their paths. Street vendors lined Chiang Mai's famous moat selling sausages, sweet corn, spring rolls, water and beer.

My friends and I donned t-shirts we had made for our crew, the Songlorious Basterds, and spent a wonderful pre-Songkran afternoon eating home cooked Thai food and drinking Sangsom, a sweet Thai whiskey, in between bouts of unleashing hell on every passerby who dared walk past our guest house.

Songlorious Basterds

Already, the holiday was off to a glorious start. But even that didn't prepare me for the real deal.

In some ways, words fail me when I try to describe Songkran. On the first full day of the festival, we took to the streets and found the best party you could ever imagine: an entire city playing, eating, drinking and dancing in the sunshine. It's absolute mayhem and you can't walk two feet without getting soaked to the bone. There's no place for vanity or reservation. You simply jump into the fray and enjoy.

Swimming in the moat

Celebrating Songkran in Chiang Mai was, without exggeration, one of the most wonderful experiences I have had since moving overseas. There were many times when I couldn't stop smiling from the sheer joy I felt at being there, and being surrounded by friends and a city full of people in celebration.

There were countless instances and interactions that made me smile or laugh out loud: getting covered with foam and dancing in front of Thapae Gate, having children smear talc on my face to stave off the heat, being beckoned by a laughing old woman eager to throw her bucket of freezing water on me. But I will never forget the way I felt on the first day of Songkran.

Songkran child

The water symbolizes a time of cleanse and renewal at the start of the new year, which is why it factors so prominently into the celebrations. On Saturday afternoon, the first day of the festival, rain clouds rolled over the steaming hot and already drenched city. People had been in the streets all day, blasting each other with water guns, dumping buckets of ice water on each other's heads, clinking cans of warm Chang beer in a toast to the new year. But then the sky opened up, punctuating what had already been a perfect day.

If I was Buddhist, or religious in any way, I would have taken the rain as a sign from God that the coming year was a blessed one. Instead, I stood there in the middle of the street, arms wrapped around my friends as we laughed and hugged one another and I was grateful that I, and they, are alive.

Foam party

That's the kind of celebration Songkran is. The generosity of spirit, the abundance of people and food and drink and water and music - it makes you happy to be alive. And when you're dancing to Bruce Springsteen in the middle of a reggae bar, sopping wet and surrounded by people who are just so damn happy they could burst, you can't help but love them.

And when you start teaming up with Thai kids to attack trucks full of people with squirt guns and buckets, and see groups of strangers helping a drunk old man who's done a little too much celebrating for the afternoon, you can't help but really like human beings as a species. And when you watch a little girl celebrate her first Songkran with shrieks of delight and demands to be doused in water, you want to cry a little out of happiness because it's moments like those that make you think that maybe humanity does deserve to exist.

Songkran trucks

Songkran is the sort of holiday that helps you continue to believe that people are good, even when you wake up the morning after it to the news that people were murdered and maimed at the Boston marathon and that 55 others were killed in Iraq on the same day. Yesterday morning, when I read about this wave of horrors, I held on to the memory of Songkran. Seeing people in such a pure, happy state, in a communal moment of joy, sharing and celebration ... I have to keep that in mind in the face of senseless tragedy, and believe that decency will eventually triumph.

Thanks to Will Moyer, Joshua Du Chene and Agnes Wdowik for the photos.

The lasting legacy of the Vietnam War in Laos

A young man sat at the desk of the COPE Centre in Vientiane, Laos, working at his laptop. He went by the name of Peter Kim, which was embroidered on his t-shirt. He had a slight build, shiny black hair styled into a bowl cut, and brown eyes.

Peter went about his work, shuffling through his backpack, plugging a USB stick into his laptop, discussing business with a member of the COPE Centre staff. He looked for all the world like any other young Laotian guy.

Except that Peter had no hands. And he was blind.

Peter, whose given name is Phonsavath Souliyalat, was 16 when he suffered the tragic accident that left him blind and maimed.

"My friend and I went for a walk one day, and we were playing," Peter told me. "My friend picked up a bombie. He didn't know what it was and he threw it to me. It exploded and I lost my eyes and my hands."

The "bombie" Peter referred to was a cluster sub-munition that had been dropped on Laos during the Vietnam War. It and millions of others failed to explode on impact, rendering large swaths of the landscape extremely dangerous.

Peter's left arm ends just below his wrist; his right a few inches below the elbow. Scars from the explosion mark his face.

Peter recounted this gruesome tragedy to me in a matter-of-fact voice, then hurried on to tell me that he had taught himself English in the three years since his accident. He also described his advocacy work with the Ban Advocates, an activist group that pushes governments to ban the use of cluster munitions like the one that robbed Peter of his hands and sight. He seemed eager to move on from his injuries and focus on what he had achieved since the explosion. Peter was proud to tell me that he had met former United States Secretary of State Hilary Clinton during her visit to Laos.

Then Peter asked where I'm from.

"The United States," I responded, cringing.

His face lit up. "Oh, the United States! I like it there. I want to go there someday."

Having spent the last hour and a half learning about the ways in which the United States government had destroyed the lives of millions of people in Laos, I couldn't fathom why. I'm not the type of person who feels guilt for the misdeeds of my country's government, but I was baffled nonetheless that Peter spoke so cheerfully about America, without a trace of (rightful) hate in his heart.

The UXO legacy

Peter Kim is one of thousands of Laotians who have been maimed or killed by unexploded ordinances (UXO) left over from the United States' air campaign against communist forces in Laos during the Vietnam War. Between 1964-1973, the United States Air Force dropped 260 million sub-munitions from cluster bombs, known locally as bombies, on what is now the Laos People's Democratic Republic. Thirty percent of those did not explode on impact, littering the Laos countryside with literal time bombs that continued to detonate in the three decades since the war ended.

According to the National Regulatory Authority for UXO/Mine Action Center in Laos PDR (UXO-NRA), roughly 50,000 people were injured or killed in UXO incidents between 1964-2008. Three hundred are maimed or killed annually.

There are several types of UXO in Laos, the most prominent of which are cluster bombs. These devices are dropped from planes and detonate in mid-air, spraying dozens to thousands of bomblets across an area. They are highly effective at decimating a region, causing widespread casualties and lasting financial and psychological ruin, especially in a poor country such as Laos.


The COPE Centre in Vientiane, the capital of Laos, houses a small but powerful exhibit educating visitors about the UXO problem and the lasting traumas the bombing campaign wreaked on this impoverished country. The centre is run by COPE Laos, a not-for-profit organization that provides free prosthetics and therapy for those who need them. Their patients include children who were born missing limbs or with medical conditions such as club feet, and people who have lost extremities due to leprosy. Thirty percent of COPE's patients were maimed or disabled by UXO.

The COPE Centre exhibit highlights the UXO issue, a problem exacerbated by the country's poverty. One display involves a collection of prosthetic legs that were gathered from locals. These are makeshift pieces, cobbled together out of scrap metal and wood. COPE provides quality prosthetics and rehabilitative therapy to those who would otherwise spend their lives limping along with these unsanitary and unsafe false limbs.

Elsewhere in the exhibit is a replica of a typical Laotian hut, where the audio to a BBC documentary plays, providing the chilling backdrop to what is seen in the museum.

"This incident is part of the deadly legacy of the Indochina War, which continues to haunt the people of Laos..."

Visitors can watch an interview with two parents whose son died from sub-munition injuries in 2004. The boy, Hamm, was nine years old when he was killed. He and a friend followed a group of scrap metal collectors working outside their village, picking up pieces that were discarded by the adults. Unable to tell the difference between scraps that were safe for carrying and those that were explosive, Hamm picked up a live one that ripped his body apart.

Hamm's parents were summoned and found their son gravely wounded, but not dead. They hired a driver who took them from hospital to hospital, none of which had supplies of blood and oxygen. Eventually, the driver told them he did not want the boy to die in his car for fear of the death bringing evil spirits, and Hamm was taken home to die.

A deadly legacy

There are countless stories like Hamm's, and like Peter's. Scrap metal is a precious commodity and can bring in desperately needed money for rural families. Collecting it, however, means that men, women and children are going into areas that could very well contain explosives that will go off when disturbed.

Because so much of the land remains contaminated, once thriving farming communities are unable to work large portions of it, contributing to a vicious cycle of poverty.

Before that moment, I had never before consciously felt embarrassed to tell someone I'm American. I'm not one to take ownership of the behavior of the American government, or make apologies for "my country." But I felt embarrassed nonetheless. I had had no idea about the atrocities committed in Laos, and could not recall ever having learned much, if anything, about this country before arriving in Asia. The idea of being even remotely associated with any of the horrors that continue to be visited upon the innocent people of Laos made my stomach turn.

Efforts to clear Laos' landscape of UXO continue to this day, and the work is slow-going and dangerous. All 17 provinces were hit, and a third of the land is thought to be contaminated.

Though Peter's optimism and the COPE Centre's commitment to providing health aid to those who need it were inspiring, I left the effort feeling helpless and enraged. I thought not only of the thousands killed during the actual U.S. campaign in Laos while it was in progress, but also of the thousands who have died needlessly since. How could someone like Peter reconcile himself to the fact that he lost his eyesight and his hands because of a bomb that was dropped on his country before he was even born?

Whenever I visit places like this, I try to take something positive from it - inspiration from people who have overcome adversity, are able to rebuild their lives from tragedy, do something in the service of humanity. But this time, I couldn't muster it. I did admire Peter and COPE's work but all I felt was disgust and despair because the same kind of tragedies and war crimes are being visited upon other people in other countries all the time, to this day, always with someone's justification.

A reflection before the new year

If I had been asked last Dec. 31 where I expected to find myself in exactly one year, on the last morning of 2012, I probably would not have said sleeping in the back room of a friend’s bar on an island in Thailand. But that is where I found myself this morning, and somehow, it seems a completely appropriate ending to the year that’s been. I’m in Koh Phangan, Thailand, and because it’s New Year’s Eve, and there is a Full Moon Party tonight, there are no available rooms and this bar is the only thing between me and sleeping on the beach.

I don’t remember exactly what I expected 2012 to be like, but it’s safe to say that it turned out far differently than I had envisioned in nearly every way possible. For a long time, I tended to think of the year as a bit of a wash, marred by stress, emotional upheaval, and professional frustrations.

But when I lifted that gloomy pall a bit, I saw that the past 12 months have been more nuanced than that.

Yes, there were some dark and low points. Yes, I worked to the point of burn out not once, but twice, this year. Yes, I went through bouts of depression and anxiety that felt at times like they would never end. Yes, some relationships that meant a great deal to me ended, in sad and less than ideal ways. And yes, there were times when I felt that unresolved issues from the past were too great to surmount.

However. There has been more to celebrate this year than there has to lament.

In the past 12 months, I’ve visited three new countries. I’ve lived with elephants for a week, experienced an intensely beautiful lantern festival I’ll remember all my life, and been to a rave on an aircraft carrier in China. My friends and I started a t-shirt company, and I had the opportunity to write for the Wall Street Journal and Vogue India, two publications that, when I was just finishing grad school a few years ago, would have seemed like a far-off dream. Some relationships ended, but new ones were formed, ones for which I am deeply grateful. And others have become stronger, more honest and rich throughout the shared experiences of the past year. I came through the other end of depression with more emotional clarity and a stronger sense of self than I have ever had before.

If there was one thing that I was searching for throughout the past 12 months, I think it was a sense of peace - an acceptance of the past, a putting to bed of old insecurities and grievances, a freeing of my mind, energy and attention to embrace all the possibilities of the present and the future.

It has been a struggle at times, but as I reflect on the past year, and all the curves in the road, the unexpected and often delightful experiences I’ve had along the way, I think I am closer to finding that peace than I realized. Perhaps I’m not quite there yet, but I’m finally ready for it. I’m ready to allow myself to let go of the regrets and struggles, the self-criticisms and the bad days. That’s not to say I’ll forget them, because all have provided valuable lessons I’ll take with me going forward. I’m just ready to put them to rest, forgive myself and move on. I’m excited for 2013 and about working toward the new goals I’ve set for myself.

I don’t want to sugarcoat 2012, but I don’t want to dwell on it either. As I enjoy the last day of the year, I will focus on one simple theme: gratitude. I’m grateful that among the bad, the stressful, the frightening, I have had so many beautiful opportunities to explore and learn about the world, to meet people and to gain a greater understanding of myself. And most of all, I am grateful to be alive to experience all of it, and to have the opportunity to move forward and create new memories, new bonds, learning from but not being imprisoned by the past.

Photo essay: Children of Koob Kub village

A few weeks ago, I had the opportunity to visit Koob Kub, a Lahu hill tribe village, in the mountains of northern Thailand. I visited the village with members of The Christopher Robert Project, an organization created to help better the lives of children living in Thailand’s hill tribe communities. This was my first visit to such a community, and the experience was humbling and in many ways profound. The village is not without its issues - hierarchical corruption and rampant opium addiction among the men being but a sample of them, and I hope to write a more extensive piece on hill tribe history, culture and the issues they face at some point. In fact, that’s what brought me to Koob Kub in the first place, research on a people and tradition that fascinate me but about which I know very little.

Koob Kub left a lasting impression for a number of reasons but whenever I sat down to record those for the purpose of a blog post, all I could think of were the children I met there.

To say the community is poor would be a gross understatement, a fact underscored by the state of the children’s clothing and filthy hands and faces. There was certainly reason for concern for their health and well-being, and again, perhaps I will write more on that another time. But these children, through their energy, intelligence, and their warmth toward me and especially toward one another, moved me in a way I have not felt in a long time. I find myself thinking of these kids often, wondering how they are doing and finding myself drawing inspiration from their example.

Rather than attempt to wax poetic about what each of these children did to leave such an impression, I decided instead to go with a photo essay that I hope will give some insight into what their lives are like.

Nasay, Koob Kub Village

Koob Kub boys

School pictures

The next several photos are shots of the kids in the classroom and at play. I've included photos of the old school, which was mostly destroyed in a fire several months ago but is still used occasionally, and the new one, where students of all ages attend "class" together.

Old schoolhouse, Koob Kub

Schoolhouse, Koob Kub

Koob Kub village

Koob Kub village

Koob Kub village

Koob Kub village

Koob Kub village

Sibling Love

The following photos are of siblings from one village family.

Koob Kub village

Koob Kub village

Koob Kub village

Mae Tao Clinic: the best and worst of human nature

Note: All information in this post is based on my experience, conversations with a Mae Tao clinic staff member and the clinic's 2011 report. Be aware that there are some disturbing images and descriptions in this post. All photos were taken by Will Moyer I dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands and ground my teeth together. No matter what, I vowed, I would not cry. Not now. There’d be time for tears later.

The man lying in front of me was the victim of a horrific act of violence. The left side of his face was covered in a patchwork of black and red, of skin wounded beyond recognition. His eyes blinked rapidly but he barely moved. His exposed torso was partially bandaged but the cloth strips didn’t conceal the extent of his burns, which crept down his chest and toward his abdomen. Mae Tao Clinic

I shouldn’t be here, I thought. This is invasive, inappropriate. It was not the first time the thought had crossed my mind since my friend Will and I arrived at Mae Tao Clinic earlier that morning.

The man stretched across the wooden table was a day laborer from Burma. He had been brought to Mae Tao Clinic with severe injuries from an acid attack that had been meant for his boss. The boss’ wounds were minimal, our clinic guide told us. The man lying before us while his wife and young child looked on had borne the brunt of the attack.

“His wife tells me he has trouble sleeping,” our guide, Jue, whispered when we turned away from the man. “The acid got into his ear so he has terrible pain in his head. Cannot sleep.”

As we walked out of the surgical unit, I looked back one last time and smiled at the man, even though I cringed at the sight of him. It wasn’t his mutilated body that caused me to shrink back. But to look at his face was to imagine his pain and be horrified that one human being could do this to another.

A crisis of conscience

When Will and I decided to go to Mae Sot, Thailand, for a few days for a visa run, Mae Tao Clinic (MTC) had been at the top of my list of places to see. I had read that the clinic provided assistance to Burmese refugees and migrant workers and was eager to see the work being done there.

Until visiting the MTC, I had never before come face-to-face with the cruel realities of poverty and brutality. I had read countless articles about the atrocities being committed against ethnic minorities in Burma, about the crowded refugee camps in which thousands of people are forced to live, the high costs of health care, the plights of migrant workers. None of those articles prepared me for what I saw at MTC: a man whose face had been mutilated by acid; premature babies born in extremely bare-bones, basic conditions; and a prosthetics ward where land mine victims await new limbs.

Land mine victims

When I first arrived at the clinic and saw people gathering outside the pharmacy and surgery areas, I felt a sudden pang of regret. This was a bad idea; I’m exploiting these people. My intention was to visit the clinic in the hopes of writing a piece about it, but suddenly I felt ashamed that I had been so eager to witness the suffering of other people.

And yet I also felt I had to. Having now spent nearly four months in Thailand since the beginning of 2012, I have gotten the distinct impression that there is a great deal of good being done here, but a great deal of suffering as well. I felt compelled to witness that, in order to better understand this part of the world, to grasp the horrors and the goodness happening in places like Mae Sot and, on a more personal level, understand what it was that had always drawn me to learn more about refugees and conflict zones.

By the end of the tour, my regrets were gone. It was one of the more important places I’ve visited in Asia and the experience left a profound impact on me.

The clinic

The MTC provides free health care to refugees, migrant workers, and poor Burmese people who cannot afford care at government hospitals. Treatments here range from eye exams to surgeries to reproductive health counseling, all of which might otherwise be out of reach for the patients who visit the clinic by the hundreds each day. The work here is funded by donations and they are facing a critical shortage this year - a $320,000 shortage, to be exact. Without additional funding, they will have to cut services and staff, of which they are already in limited supply.

Old woman getting eye exam

The maternity ward was one of our first stops on the tour. Nearly 3,000 babies were born at MTC last year. There is one delivery room, as well as a dedicated area for special needs babies. Expectant mothers sleep on wooden tables in a communal room. Some parents are too poor to buy clothes for their newborns. I am of the firm opinion that people who cannot afford clothes and health care for their children should not be having them, but as these women are already pregnant, that point is moot here.

Maternity ward

To think that this is how so many infants come into this world is heartbreaking. I felt deep despair considering all the challenges these babies are up against before even leaving the womb. Many of them will likely grow up in poverty and in dangerous border zones, and on their first night in this world, they sleep in a hot, crowded room without the comforts of a private crib or bassinette, or the safety of a proper hospital bed.

To be clear, I think the work being done at MTC is remarkable and vital for the tens of thousands of people who visit it each year. I applaud their efforts at providing safe care to the many, many patients who rely on them and to giving newborns as much of a chance as possible at being healthy, under the circumstances.

Children's ward

The in-patient rooms for children and adults consist of a handful of hospital beds and tables. Sometimes there are more patients than there are beds, Jue explained, so some have to sleep on the floor. The ailments they see at the clinic vary widely, she said. Sometimes it’s liver and kidney problems, heart disease, hypertension. During the rainy season, there is an increase in cases of malaria and dengue fever.

In patient room

The conditions at the clinic were quite basic. I thought of the few hospital visits I have had to make in my life, almost all of which were in the United States. The clean, sterile atmosphere, the curtains dividing the beds, the pillows, blankets, adequate amounts of food. Though I have visited a Chinese hospital in Beijing and found it lacking in a number of aspects, I had never visited anywhere like MTC before and it was difficult at first to reconcile the experiences.

One of the biggest impressions I was left with was how beautiful the people there were, and how quick they were to wave and smile. As we passed the children's recreation room, a group of young kids were holding hands and singing a song. Jue, who is from Burma's Karen state, smiled. "They're singing Karen songs," she said wistfully. The children singing amidst these conditions was bittersweet and I found myself once again fighting back tears.

Finding the silver lining

By the time we left the clinic, I was saddened by the amount of poverty and suffering I saw there but also inspired. Because of the work being done at Mae Tao Clinic, people who would otherwise go without have access to potentially life-saving health care and resources on keeping themselves and their families healthy.

The experience left me with the thought: in the face of so much suffering and sadness in the world, what can I do? Mae Tao Clinic is just one organization out of many around the world attempting to provide services and care for those who need it most. The volunteers and staff at MTC are proof of the goodness, generosity and empathy in the world and that’s what I want to be part of. The question is how…and I haven’t quite figured that out yet.

Young girls

Update: The man mentioned at the beginning of this piece was transferred from Mae Tao Clinic to a facility in Chiang Mai, where he underwent surgery, skin grafts and physical therapy. He spent six months in the hospital, and was recently released and is now continuing his recovery at home with his family.

Click here to learn more about donating to the Mae Tao Clinic. 

A week with the elephants

If there was one thing I was going to do when I arrived in Chiang Mai for the first time, back in March of this year, it was ride an elephant. Vain visions of myself communing with nature while riding atop a massive elephant as we ambled through the Thai jungle had been playing in my mind for weeks. And there are plenty of companies here that would have been willing to help me make that dream a reality. You can’t walk two feet in Chiang Mai’s Old City without seeing company posters promising a life-changing experience trekking through the jungle on an elephant’s back. As it turned out, I would have a life-changing experience with elephants in Chiang Mai, but it would not be quite the one I had expected. When a fellow traveler at a Couchsurfing meet-up mentioned he had heard that many of the elephants at trekking camps are treated badly, I began to rethink my plans. I had never been what anyone would call an animal rights activist, but I also wouldn’t go out of my way to hurt one or support cruelty. This same person told me about the Elephant Nature Park, a sanctuary about an hour and a half outside of Chiang Mai. There was no riding there, he said, but volunteers and visitors did get to feed and bathe the animals.

Mae Kham Geow

Good enough for me. A week or so later, two friends and I boarded a minivan to the Mae Taeng Valley to explore this Elephant Nature Park. By lunchtime, I was so impressed by the work being done there, I promised myself that should I ever find myself in Northern Thailand again, I would come back to this place to volunteer.

Three months later, back in Beijing, I made a 4 a.m. decision to take a China break and return to Chiang Mai for a few months. My volunteer application to the ENP was submitted before I had even booked my flight.

A home for the elephants

The ENP sits on a large plot of land in the Mae Taeng Valley. Lush green mountains surround the park on all sides and a cool brown river divides it from a nearby village. Elephants roam the grounds, playing in the water, chewing stalks of bamboo and occasionally chasing down a baby elephant who's wandered too far from the herd. Without exaggeration, this is one of the most beautiful places I’ve had the pleasure of visiting.

Nearly all of the 33 elephants here have been rescued from logging or tourist camps. Only four - Hope, Tong Suk, Chong Yim and Faa Mai, who have been raised at the park - have not been subjected to a brutal, barbaric practice known as the pajaan. This ancient custom is used to break young elephant’s spirits until they are submissive to their owners’ demands. Liz at the blog Gentle Living gives a good description of this disgusting practice and its purposes. Many of the older elephants at the park have been beaten, overworked, and in some cases made to participate in forced breeding programs. One female, Medo, had her hip broken when a bull mounted her during a forced breeding session. Between that and a broken leg suffered while working in a camp, it’s a wonder she can still walk at all. Sadly, most of the elephants here have similar stories.


The ENP was founded by a petite and courageous woman named Lek Chailert, who has devoted her life to saving elephants in Thailand and throughout Asia. She has faced down the Thai government, disgruntled peers, and even her own family in order to protect her herd and raise awareness about the plight of the endangered Asian elephant. For someone who has been profiled by TIME magazine and was recently named Thailand’s Woman of the Year, she is impressively unassuming, friendly and down-to-earth.

Meeting Lek and watching her comfort beautiful Faa Mai, a baby girl elephant who was crankily adjusting to no longer being able to feed from her mother’s milk, was one of the most amazing moments I have witnessed between a human and an animal. Lek can walk among these massive beasts without fear because they love her and respond to her in a way they don’t to anyone else. I have never seen anyone exhibit the kindness and patience she shows not only to the herd, but to the nearly 300 rescued dogs who also live at the park. Many of those are street dogs rescued by Lek and her crew from likely death during the Bangkok floods of 2011.

Faa Mai and Lek

I arrived at the ENP as a weeklong volunteer the last Monday in August. One of about 20 volunteers who arrived that day, I was riding a high of excitement at being back at this beautiful place, though I had little idea of what to expect in the days to come.

The life of a volunteer

When I first signed on to volunteer at the park, I expected it to be hard work but wasn’t quite sure how hard. As I imagine many would-be volunteers do, I had visions of bonding with elephants, spending hours lovingly attending to their needs.

I realized early on that volunteering would not mean hanging with the eles from morning until night. The elephants each have a mahout, or trainer, who is with them the entire day. They see to the elephants’ needs and in most cases develop a deep bond with them. Even when visitors are feeding and bathing the elephants, the mahouts are never more than a few feet away.

Sunset at ENP

The work we did as volunteers was harder than I anticipated. As someone who spends the vast majority of my work days sitting in a coffee shop working on my laptop, I don’t have a ton of experience with manual labor, and don’t have a particularly strong inclination to do it again. Planting jackfruit trees on a mountainside sounds like much more of a lark than it actually is, especially when you’re doing it in near 100-degree heat.

Of course there were moments when unloading pick-up trucks of fruit for the elephants, painting walls and shoveling remarkably large piles of elephant dung lost its charm and I started to lose my patience. The work was hot and tiring but after allowing myself a brief internal bitch session, I decided it was time to change my attitude.

I reminded myself that I came here to help the elephants in whatever capacity I was needed. I came because I was inspired by their stories, humbled by their resilience, and wanted to do something for them. The way I could do that was by planting trees, washing pumpkins and shoveling poop. I didn’t want to waste any of the time I had there being crabby; rather, I wanted to appreciate every moment I had at the park.

The most beautiful boys: Hope and Tong Suk

Were I to choose one highlight of the week, it would undoubtedly be a morning walk I took with Jodi, a long-time volunteer. Our walk ended up being mostly an extended conversation while observing Tong Suk, a young bull with a strong personality.

Tong Suk is magnificent. There is no better word to describe him. Others apply, certainly: young, ornery, strong, proud. But none suits him better than magnificent.

Because Tong Suk has never been through the pajaan, has never felt the end of a hook or nail gouge his thick but sensitive skin, he is fiercely independent and strong-willed. He is as close as it comes to a wild elephant in captivity at this park.

Hope and Tong Suk

Because he is wilder than the other elephants, and because of his gorgeous but deadly tusks, visitors do not spend much time around Tong Suk and he doesn’t join the other members of the herd for bath time at the river. The family group, which includes the babies Faa Mai and Chong Yim, are fond of Tong Suk, however, and regularly pay him visits.

Since my first visit to the park back in March, I have admired Tong Suk from afar. Though I’ve heard affectionate stories about how he’s “naughty,” acting up when he’s in musth (a period elephant bulls go through during which they are particularly sexually aggressive), I always felt a particular fondness for him and for Hope, another young bull who was rescued from the jungle by Lek when he was a baby. My delight knew no bounds when Hope meandered over for some downtime with his friend and I had the chance to observe them together.

The two young bulls, who went through a competitive phase during which they were kept away from one another, have become friends during their adolescence. Watching them share food and wrap their trunks around one another was truly wonderful. That the elephants are capable of such great affection for one another and yet also possess such tremendous strength was humbling and inspiring.


My feelings about leaving the park at the end of the week were mixed. On the one hand, I had had my fill of manual work and was ready to return to Chiang Mai. On the other, I knew I would miss the elephants. Though they seemed even wilder and more mysterious when I left than when I arrived, I felt a great deal of respect for them.


The work being done at the ENP is important. The Asian elephant population in Thailand is seriously endangered. The people at the ENP aren’t just rescuing elephants who have been abused, they are trying to educate local communities about alternative ways of training the animals, to prevent the abuse from even happening.

Again, I’ve never considered myself an animal rights activist, but it is impossible to leave this place without being moved. Once you’ve learned about the emotional intelligence of elephants, seen what they are capable of and also what many of them have been through, it’s difficult to not feel passionate about this cause. As long as there is a market for elephant riding, painting, dancing and performances, elephants will be captured and forced to work against their will. Getting to see an elephant up close and touch them is amazing, but the more I learned, the more I appreciated Lek’s dream of a place where elephants can roam freely and safely, without human interaction or fear.

A moment of inspiration on the way out of Laos

Since first traveling in Southeast Asia earlier this year, I’ve taken a greater interest in the region, particularly, for some reason, in Burma. I’m not entirely sure what sparked the interest. Perhaps the sudden global focus on the small country, the mixed stories of great business opportunities and unspeakable horrors still being committed by the government against the Burmese people. I began to read books and articles about the country whenever I had the chance. But I still haven’t been, and up until a few days ago, had never spoken with anyone from there.

While volunteering at the Elephant Nature Park outside Chiang Mai a few weeks ago, I worked alongside Burmese staffers but because of the language barrier, was unable to communicate with them outside of enthusiastic smiles and a few English words here and there.

While in Laos on a visa run last week, I had the opportunity to speak with a Burmese woman who was waiting in Vientiane to have a Thai work visa processed. The meeting was unexpected and inspiring, and has stayed with me since returning to Thailand.

This woman had been waiting for nearly a week to have her visa processed, as a series of bureacratic frustrations had cropped up and delayed her getting the document. She told me that because she is Burmese, she is only allowed to apply for a Thai visa at the embassy in Vientiane one time, a fact of which she had been unaware. Now she was there for the second time, banking on the kindness of someone in the embassy to give her a pass and put the application through anyway.

We spoke for a bit while I waited for my ride back to the border and out of Laos. She was hoping the additional documents she needed for her application would come through by the next day, and was looking at another four days in Laos, minimum. She laughed as she described her circumstances, in the way only a person who has accepted the frustrations of her situation and is trying to make the most of them does.

She told me a bit about her life in Burma, and how she had come to be applying for a Thai work visa in Laos in the first place.

She grew up in a rural area in Burma, and moved to Yangon to pursue her education. But, she told me, the cost of living was so high she needed to get a job, which meant extremely long days of work and study. She eventually crossed the border into Thailand and now works at a clinic in Mae Sot that serves Burmese refugees.

In addition to her day job and volunteer work, she is also studying online for a degree in sociology from an Australian university. But because she is still learning English, she is essentially studying a new language as well as working toward her degree.

Hearing her story prompted me to reflect on some of my own complaints about work in the past few months. That I was uninspired, unmotivated, felt directionless at times, unsure of what I want to come next. Suddenly I felt grateful to be in the position I am, to be more or less able to move wherever I want, and have the freedom and flexibility to do work I enjoy. Between visa issues, classes, work and personal demands, this woman said she “can’t see past tomorrow;” she has to go one day at a time.

Our conversation turned to life in her native country, and the changes, or lack thereof, seen in Burma since its opening up during the past year and a half.

“Maybe at the higher levels there has been change. But most people don’t see any difference. Life is still difficult,” she said. She added that it is extremely difficult for her to complete her studies or get any work done while in Burma, due to electricity shortages and slow, unreliable internet. Again, I thought about my own life and how if the wifi where I’m working goes down for five minutes, I’m aggravated and put out. And again, I realized I'm far more fortunate than I tend to appreciate.

“There is no trust,” she went on to say of the notoriously violent and repressive government. “For a long time in Burma, the people do not trust the government. Even when there is a cease-fire, the people don’t believe the soldiers won’t do anything.”

Our meeting was brief, but I was grateful to have had the opportunity to talk with this woman. Her determination to educate herself, help other people and her willingness to speak honestly about her hardships were humbling and inspiring.