by Tara Winkler
Jedtha recoiled at the thought of leaving his mother and siblings, who were so reliant on him, but his grandmother assured him they would survive and reminded him that he could support the family much better once he got himself an education and a job. So he went.
Jedtha’s mother and siblings did struggle while he was away. They rarely had enough to eat, and at times his mother would take off, leaving the little ones at home alone. They were subject to violence from their neighbours, who looked down on them for being in such a destitute state. On some nights, hearing that his mother had wandered again, Jedtha would leave the pagoda to stay with his younger siblings.
At the pagoda, Jedtha studied every chance he had. He learned the Pali language, Sanskrit, English and other subjects. He also studied at a private school. The head teacher there let him pay only what he could afford.
Jedtha worked hard and learned enough English to start teaching his own students. That was his ‘big break’. He was finally able to earn some money to help support his family. He also did what he could to help the Khmeng Wat ‘temple boys’ (poor kids from the villages) who lived at the pagoda, working for the monks. He spent his own money making sure they had enough food.
After fifteen years he became one of the most highly respected monks in the Battambang community—renowned for his kindness, intelligence and incorruptibility. He worked with well over one hundred temple boys, who still visit him to this day in gratitude for the support he provided them. He even trained three keen foreigners to become Buddhist monks.
In 2003, Jedtha’s mother, Sarom, fell seriously ill. Jedtha took her to the public hospital in Phnom Penh, where she was diagnosed with advanced lung cancer. She died one month later.
This left Jedtha with even more responsibility for his younger brothers and sister, who had never really learned how to take care of themselves. His sister had, in desperation, taken a job as a ‘beer girl’—a young woman who promotes beer in local pubs, which can be a step away from becoming a sex worker. She was now walking a dangerous path for a Cambodian girl. Jedtha decided to disrobe, leave the monastery and get a full-time job to support her and his two brothers.
It wasn’t an easy transition for Jedtha. Cambodia had only recently opened its doors to tourism, the new economy was in its infancy, and there just weren’t a lot of jobs around. Jedtha moved into a weather-beaten shack in the slum that fringes Battambang’s railway station and continued to teach English while he looked for work.
A friend of Jedtha’s who was working for an NGO in Battambang told him about a small orphanage called SKO. The orphanage was looking for someone to help with their administration, but they had no funding—meaning there was no salary on offer. Jedtha politely told his friend he wasn’t interested. His main goal was to earn money to support his family.
When the director of SKO, a fellow ex-monk named Rath, heard that the position had been put to one of Battambang’s most respected monks, he approached Jedtha himself. He explained that the orphanage urgently needed his help—they needed someone who could speak English to write proposals to get funding. And when funding came in, there would be a salary for him. Jedtha allowed himself to be persuaded. He cared about Cambodia’s youth and reasoned that gaining experience in an NGO made sense. He could fulfil his passion for helping others while keeping a roof over his siblings’ heads.
Jedtha worked at SKO as an administrator for many months without receiving a dollar. Finally, Rath stepped down as director, giving himself the role of administrator as well as accountant, and invited Jedtha to take over the role of director. Shortly after, Jedtha managed to secure some funding from the International Organisation for Migration and the German organisation, GIZ. Finally, there was some more funding for SKO’s operational costs.
Jedtha rented a small house in town and invited his sister to live with him. He continued saving money from his work at SKO as well as English teaching, until he had enough to buy a cheap block of land with a rough wooden shack on it.
But something was bothering Jedtha. The more time he spent at SKO, the more he began to worry about Rath’s agenda. Rath was very secretive about a lot of things, including the unrestricted funds that were coming into SKO from individual private donors. Jedtha heard more stories from other staff and neighbours and his suspicions and concerns for the kids grew.
Jedtha wasn’t good at confrontation—he’d grown up in a world where you earn respect by being a good, kind person, not by being a strong, forceful leader. And he was a pacifist at heart. He was at a loss as to how to deal with Rath. He could only hope that his suspicions were wrong, that everything would somehow turn out okay.
8
Jedtha picked me up from the bus station in Battambang on 8 August 2007 and took me straight to a meeting at his house with Davi (the nurse), Savenh (the social worker) and Reaksmey.
The four of them sat around the table and grimly told me their story. Jedtha and Reaksmey helped to translate. They were now jobless, and absolutely outraged.
Rath had denied Davi access to SKO, meaning the kids couldn’t get their medications.
‘Wait—’ I struggled to comprehend. ‘What? Why would he do that?’
Davi and Savenh started talking rapidly in Khmer. I only understood an odd word here and there.
Jedtha translated, but it was still hard to understand—not because of Jedtha’s English skills, but because Cambodians have this way of talking around issues that can be rather confusing for a foreigner.
‘He said she was not staff of SKO because he never agreed to hire her,’ Jedtha said. He was visibly upset. ‘So many things to tell you!’ He shook his head. ‘Rath, he not good. He put his family into SKO. Ten of the children at SKO are his niece and nephew. He always make the other kid wait to eat—his family always eat first! So there is not much food left for the other kids. Rath is always hitting the kids. I see Rath whipping them—with my own eye! The kids they very scared so much. Sacha, Sinet’s younger brother, he run away already after Rath whip him too hard! Oh, it is so bad at SKO!’
I was shocked. I had been expecting a problem, but nothing like this. I didn’t have a chance to say much more than ‘Oh no . . .’ before Jedtha launched into the next bit.
‘Rath, he fire me, Savenh and Reaksmey from SKO and cannot come back again. Now he hire his relative to work at SKO. This is not correct way for NGO to work in Cambodia. And Rath, he say very bad thing to Sinet. He say she can’t go to anywhere or talk to anyone, only stay at SKO and go to school. She is like prisoner! He take the phone you give to her and tell her and all the children they cannot talk with you, me, Reaksmey, Davi or Savenh.’
Reaksmey added: ‘All the girls crying a lot. They’re very scared.’
They all warned me that I shouldn’t go back to SKO and see the kids.
‘Rath, he really angry that you give your money to me, not to SKO bank account,’ Jedtha said.
‘Oh . . .’ I felt terrible as I realised I may have inadvertently caused some of this problem. ‘Did I make a mistake, Jedtha? I know Rath is the SKO accountant, but Sally and I felt we just couldn’t trust him.’
‘No, it is not your mistake,’ Jedtha responded. ‘Normal way is for donors to give money to NGO bank account and NGO have good management and finance staff who spend the money carefully. But I not trust Rath also, so I think you make clever decision, so he not take your money.’ He placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
I staggered home to the guesthouse I was staying in that night, reeling from everything I’d been told.
I had some big questions about some of the very serious accusations Jedtha, Reaksmey, Savenh and Davi were making. It all sounded very convincing, but I couldn’t quite fit all the pieces of the various stories together into one clear picture.
I also couldn’t help feeling a bit suspicious. I was aware I was only hearing one side of the story. How much of what Jedtha and the others had told me was true and how much was exaggerated? I’d really only known these people for
a couple of months. How sure was I that I could trust them at all? And what was I to do about all this anyway?
That led me back to thoughts of the kids. It killed me to think they were scared, and hungry, with no idea that I was just up the road.
To clear my head, I decided to have dinner at a local expat hang, the Balcony Bar. It’s a lovely, open-air, traditional wooden Cambodian house nestled in the treetops overlooking the river.
I got chatting to an older Australian guy I’d met on my last trip who was working for an agricultural NGO in Battambang, Needing someone to vent to, and hoping he could give me some advice, I told him about some of the things I’d heard about Rath and SKO.
‘Just pay this guy Rath more money,’ he scoffed, chugging down his Angkor beer. ‘That’s how it works over here. Just pay them more money and there’ll be no trouble.’
This spun me for a six. That’s ridiculous! I thought. Then: But, actually, it makes sense. But no, hang on, Rath’s abusing the kids . . .
A little later, Stephan Bognar, the CEO of the Maddox JoliePitt Foundation (MJP), arrived. MJP is a well-respected NGO working to preserve the habitat and wildlife in the Samlout District of Battambang Province while also providing support to the surrounding community.
Stephan sat down next to me at the bar and ordered dinner. If anyone could give me good advice, it would be him.
He listened patiently to my story and then said kindly: ‘It’s an awful situation. I really feel for those kids, but I’d just stay away from orphanages if I were you.’
I didn’t want to admit that I had no idea why he was saying that. It was the first time I’d heard anyone say anything negative about orphanages.
I went home feeling even more confused. Cambodia just seemed so hard to navigate.
But those words certainly did stay with me . . .
The next morning I woke early, determined to get some solid answers. I called Jedtha and explained, as respectfully as I could, that I’d like to check with other sources to confirm their stories of Rath and SKO.
He agreed without hesitation and came straight over to pick me up. First, he took me to meet some of SKO’s neighbours.
The first woman we spoke to lived in a small shack just around the corner from SKO. She seemed to know Jedtha well. She leaped out of her chair to greet us and rushed around to find another couple of chairs for us.
Jedtha didn’t take long to get straight to the point. He asked her something about Rath but she shut down immediately. ‘Oh oh, I don’t know,’ she said in Khmer, shaking her head. When pressed, she said: ‘I don’t like to gossip.’
Feeling a little like a Jehovah’s Witness, I followed Jedtha to the shack next door, where another woman was placing burning incense in the gleaming Hindu shrine that seemed to adorn the front of every household in Battambang.
She welcomed us warmly, insisting we sit down on the plastic chairs in front of her small home.
‘Sister, can we ask you some question about Rath?’ Jedtha asked in Khmer.
‘Oh, yes—okay . . .’ she said, furrowing her brow and pursing her lips.
As they talked, I listened intently and picked up some words here and there, but not enough to follow a complex conversation. There was anger and frustration in her voice. Often when Rath’s name was mentioned she’d close her eyes, shake her head and hiss. Jedtha did his best to translate. It was clear from her body language that she disliked Rath, but I needed to hear it for myself, in English.
Jedtha then took me to talk to the head monk at the Buddhist pagoda near SKO. He was a very serious, dignified older man with a very shiny bald head, dressed in a saffron robe. We sat down together in an open and airy room, covered in murals.
‘Oh, Tara! You cannot sit with crossed legs in front of a monk,’ Jedtha told me quietly. ‘We must sit like this,’ he said, tucking both legs to one side. Pointing the soles of your feet at another person is the height of rudeness in Cambodia. I quickly tucked my feet away, hoping I hadn’t offended.
The monk spoke English very well. He looked at me dead in the eye and told me what he knew of Mr Rath.
He said that Rath came from Prey Veng Province, where he had gone by a different name. When he came to Battambang he became a monk and caused many problems in different pagodas in Battambang. He used money raised by his pagoda to buy some land that was meant to be used as a cremation site, but instead he put the land title in his own name and used it to start the SKO orphanage.
Jedtha interrupted to point out to me that because Rath owned SKO, it would be almost impossible to fire him because there was no funds to set up SKO somewhere else, so the children would have nowhere to live.
‘He cheat us many times,’ the monk said, shaking his head. ‘Corruption is very big problem in Cambodia!’ I sensed a low, simmering anger in his voice.
I thanked him for the information.
‘You be careful of Mr Rath,’ he warned.
I walked back to Jedtha’s moto feeling shaken. What had I got myself into?
Jedtha suggested that next we should visit the kids’ school, just a stone’s throw away from SKO. The school was run by a French NGO to provide education and other assistance to disadvantaged kids in Battambang. It was a performing arts school, and seemed like a happy, positive place, with an art gallery, sports field, playground, theatre and circus tent.
We met with a very smart, sympathetic middle-aged Khmer woman named Darlin who was a social worker at the school. She spoke just enough English to get her message across, with some assistance from Jedtha.
She told us the school had recently ceased all support of SKO, and would no longer be collaborating or communicating with Rath in the future. She said she could see how badly neglected the SKO kids were. They were coming to school without shoes, and lately they’d lost weight and were always asking for food. Apparently one of the kids told her that Rath would discipline him by whipping him with palm leaves. She’d seen the marks on his back, bleeding. Jedtha interrupted to emphasise that he’d witnessed it happening. Darlin shook her head and continued, saying that the children often told her they were scared to go home. Most days Sinet would hide in the school library for hours after school to avoid going back to SKO. She said she was very concerned, but felt powerless to help the children.
It confirmed almost everything the staff had told me.
After our meeting, as we walked back to the gate, we passed a class of older kids sitting in a circle outside with their teacher. A young girl jumped to her feet and called out to Jedtha: ‘Loak Khrew!’
It was Sinet! She nearly died when she recognised me.
‘Tara!’ She ran straight for me, fell into my arms and burst into tears.
‘Sok sobai! How are you? I’m so happy to see you!’ I said, giving her a big hug. I wasn’t sure whether her tears were happy tears or traumatised tears. ‘Sinet, are you okay?’ I asked her gently.
She clung to me, but didn’t stop crying, and wouldn’t—or couldn’t—answer.
‘Let’s go somewhere,’ Jedtha said quietly. Sinet nodded meekly and I understood—when Cambodian kids feel threatened, they tend to shut down. The school felt too open to the whole world for Sinet to feel safe speaking.
Jedtha got permission from the school’s social worker to leave with Sinet, and we all went back to Jedtha’s tiny house where we could talk properly. Jedtha laid out some rice cakes and fruit for Sinet to eat. She’d lost a lot of weight and ate everything hungrily.
Jedtha asked her a few questions in Khmer, and after a few minutes, she gathered her confidence and answered through her tears.
Rath was hitting and threatening the kids, she told us. The new staff were almost as cruel, and the kids were terrified of them. After sacking the nurse, none of the kids got any medicine. Rath was making them work on his farm before and after school, like slaves. He let his relatives eat first and the rest of the kids only got to eat whatever was left over, assuming anything was left at all. The starving kids were catching
tiny fish in the nearby rice fields and picking wild morning glory—a vegetable similar to spinach—from around the nearby waterways. Sometimes, they managed to catch mice or rats to eat.
Rath had taken Sinet’s phone and told her never to contact me again. He took away some of the clothes and bikes and things I’d bought for them and sold them at the market. Apparently he used to do that whenever donors bought things for the kids. A group from Japan had visited recently and bought new shoes for all the kids. As soon as they left, Rath took them from the kids and sold them back to the market.
Her story was so horrifying, I wanted to sweep her away immediately so that she never had to go back. But Jedtha pointed out that we didn’t have the right to take her from SKO. And if she wasn’t back soon, Rath would suspect something was up.
So we drove her back to school, from where she could walk home to SKO.
I hugged her fiercely at the gates. ‘Don’t worry. It will be okay,’ I promised.
She nodded, meek and subdued, dried her eyes and walked towards SKO. Seeing her like that was devastating.
The course of action seemed obvious—report the corruption, abuse and neglect at SKO to the government, so they could get the kids removed and placed somewhere safer. I kind of hoped the Cambodian equivalent of Australia’s child protection system would leap into action like a well-oiled machine.
But even I knew what a naïve hope that was.
Jedtha arranged for us to meet at a Khmer eatery in town with four very official-looking men from the Department of Social Affairs, Veterans and Youth, known more commonly by the acronym DoSVY (pronounced ‘doh-sa-vee’). They listened sympathetically and were rather amused at my attempts to communicate in Khmer.