The Soldier
"I thought, for a change of pace, I would share this space with a friend and in turn share his writing with you. Be careful lest you enjoy it. I did; so I have attached the appropriate strings at the end." — Brandon Astor Jones
By Carl Stancil
My shirt, dripping with sweat, sticks to my back as I walk the crowded streets of Phnom Penh, Cambodia. Cars, motorbikes, bicycle rickshaws, bicycles and people flow in liquid chaos through the cluttered streets of the capital.
Broken sidewalks are filled with vendors sitting with their wooden wheeled carts. Grubby windows display watches, sunglasses, mangoes, papayas, pineapples and fruit which westerners seldom see. Hawkers sell cooked bananas wrapped in palm leaves. Food stands steam with noodles or rice, and a broiled duck hangs on display. A squatting vendor's toothy smile invites me to have my favourite noodle dish cooked to order. The smell of a freshly cooked stir-fry is mixed with sooty diesel smoke and dust from the street. Young men on rusty motorbikes compete with rickshaw drivers to offer a ride to anywhere in the city for a price.
As I mingle with Cambodians along the Mekong, I find that many young men are missing arms and legs, a reminder of the ever present danger of land mines and a heritage of war.
Some still wear their tattered army uniforms as they hobble on their crutches to confront the rich western tourist. Most just stand in front of me and silently hold out their hats with their hands. Others have only stubs to hold their hats against their young and broken bodies. I fumble to give a few riel to each.
As I walk, more and more young men gather around me, some pulling at my clothes, others asking for dollars. I am surrounded. There is no place to go! I am trapped. I feel a panic rising inside and attempt to get away.
The tension eases and I follow sounds to musicians playing traditional music at a Buddhist religious celebration nearby. People remove their shoes and with joss sticks smouldering bow to the smiling Buddha. Vendors sell caged birds which are to be bought and released for spiritual merit.
A young soldier with an artificial leg struggles to me and asks for money. I fumble with a wad of notes and peel off 100 riel. He frowns and puts the bill in his mouth and mockingly chews it, as if to say, "This is supposed to fill my stomach?" I feel my face redden as I stare angrily into his eyes. Sitting down on the sidewalk, he struggles to remove his artificial leg and waves it angrily at me. My anger melts into sadness and embarrassment as he writhes on the pavement like a proud but injured lion.
It was only later that I learned that I had offered him the equivalent of four cents.
*****
Carl has been sending me his personal writing for years. He is not "rich"; he just felt the need to visit the people and the places he once knew under the worst of circumstances: war. He, and others, need your help. He is involved in the Viet Nam Friendship Village Project. The project's goals — which now look reachable — are to build: houses for the elderly; houses for orphans; a medical clinic; a cultural centre; an administrative centre; dining facilities; a hostel for vocational students; a vocational training centre; production workshops; housing for staff; park and fountains; a playground and fish ponds.
As I said, there are strings, and your donations can help tie them. The VFVP is totally dependent on volunteer support. After reading "The Soldier", I hope each of you is moved to send a donation to: Viet Nam Friendship Village "Van Canh", 34 Ly Nam De Str., Hanoi, SRVN. Bank Account No. 362.390.3811.53.