by Tara Winkler
Oh boy. Having my eating disorder addressed so directly like that really threw me.
At that point in my life, it was something that I still kept very private. My family and some of my friends knew it was something I struggled with, but it certainly was not up for discussion, let alone something to be aired on national television.
What once had seemed incredibly challenging—opening up about myself publicly—now started to feel completely fucking impossible.
I was also concerned by the idea that I’d be sending out the message that a young person with depression or an eating disorder or any other mental illness should run off to a place like Cambodia to be ‘saved’ by trying to ‘save’ others. I’m sure most mental health professionals would agree that if you’re struggling with a mental illness, the last thing you should do is isolate yourself in a foreign country and cut yourself off from established support networks—especially in a country like Cambodia, where there are very limited services in place to respond to mental health crises.
Even back in 2009, before I truly understood the harm that unskilled volunteering can cause in developing countries, I was concerned that I’d be encouraging lost young souls to race off to seek out redemption in Cambodia.
And the elephant in the room, of course, was that I couldn’t very well go on TV and talk about being ‘saved’ from my eating disorder when I was still, to some degree, in the grip of it. The pressure of being in the spotlight, of having my story exposed in the media, and the total lack of control I had over the whole process . . . meant my eating disorder was soon back in the driver’s seat again.
An endless torrent of controlling thoughts flooded my internal world. I skipped meals and fuelled myself on black coffee. I didn’t even bother trying to fight it. I knew how powerful those thoughts could be and I had so much to deal with, it felt like the only thing I could do was just go along with it, just to keep the constant white noise at bay.
But I couldn’t back out of doing Australian Story. We really, really, really needed the money and this, we hoped, was our Big Chance—at the time, it was the only way we knew of that would connect us with new supporters. The thought of blowing this chance, of letting everyone down because I was ‘scared of the spotlight’ was unthinkable. I had to do it.
So on I went, coping as best I could.
Sally, naturally, wanted to create some buzz around the Australian Story episode. She started emailing through requests for me to do more media appearances. I flipped into panic mode and lost my temper with her.
I felt terrible about it, but my life felt like it was slowly spiralling further and further out of my control. This sense of losing control exacerbated my eating disorder, which in turn made me feel even more out of control. And on the vicious cycle raged.
Thankfully, Ben emailed through a request for us to embargo all other media until my story went to air. That brought me some relief, for a while, anyway.
‘What’s going on with you?’ Peter asked on Skype one day. ‘You’re being a bit crazy about this whole Australian Story thing.’
‘I really don’t want to do it anymore, Pete,’ I confessed. ‘I’m really freaking out that I won’t know how to answer all their scary personal questions!’
‘Now calm down,’ Peter said. ‘I’m sure it won’t be all about you—they’ll mostly focus on CCT and your work. And you talk about all of that very well.’
‘No, it’s an Australian Story, about an Australian. That’s me! They’ve told me it will be focused on me. They’ve told me they want me to open up about my deeper motivations and the fact I had an eating disorder!’
(The fact that I had an eating disorder. I couldn’t even refer to my eating disorder in the present tense to my own dad.)
‘Oh, I see,’ he said, sympathetic now. After a long pause he said: ‘I agree it would be better if they didn’t focus on the eating disorder stuff. It’s a shame they already know about that.’
‘I know. I’m such an idiot! I can’t believe I opened my big mouth. But it’s done now.’
‘It’s okay. We can fix this. We just need to think more about the reasons that you were so drawn to Cambodia so they don’t try to connect the dots on their own. Do you have any theories?’
‘I don’t know, Peter,’ I groaned. ‘I just was. One thing led to another and, voilà!—here I am.’
‘The problem is, that answer won’t make for an interesting story,’ Peter said. ‘I understand it’s not a simple question to answer, but have a think about it. Susie and I will think on it, too. And don’t worry about how you’ll come across on camera. You’ll be great! Everyone will love you, my sweetie-poppins. How could they not?’
I rolled my eyes at this, but I was feeling much calmer, and very grateful to have such a wonderful, supportive dad.
Even all these years later, my theory about the ‘why’ of how I ended up in Cambodia is still pretty hazy. It’s a combination of so many factors, so many variables, so many sliding door moments. It’s kind of impossible to hang it on any one event or personal trait. But musings on the complexity of life and any one given human personality don’t come across particularly well in a half-hour TV story.
Later that night, Peter rang back and said: ‘Tara, do you think it’s any coincidence that the country you’ve ended up dedicating your life to is recovering from a holocaust? You and the kids at CCT are both the grandchildren of holocaust survivors. Do you think that might be significant?’
I thought: Well, yeah, of course.
Whenever I hear a Cambodian talk about the war, my thoughts always turn to Nagy. The first time I went to the Tuol Sleng torture prison and the Killing Fields, the horror of it all felt uncomfortably close to home. For this reason, I still find it difficult to hear or read stories about the Khmer Rouge genocide.
It was not the whole answer, but it was definitely part of it. I emailed Ben and he said they’d certainly be interested in exploring that during the interviews.
I relaxed slightly. I hoped it would be enough of a ‘deeper motivation’ to keep them from prying into the more personal parts of my story.
My anxiety levels were still sky high in August 2009, when the Australian Story guys—producer Ben Cheshire and cameraman Quentin Davis—arrived in Battambang. I had discovered that they’d been doing some very thorough background research, talking to people like Geraldine Cox, officials from DoSVY and MoSVY and other expats in Cambodia to ask their opinion of me and CCT. I started feeling intensely paranoid. What sort of story were they planning? I had no control at all over how the final story would look. The first time I would see it would be with the rest of the world, when it went to air.
As well as being plagued by insecurities around my eating disorder, I also had serious performance anxiety—which is what you get when you’re a diehard perfectionist. I only had a few short sound bites to get across everything I wanted to say about CCT. What if I forgot a crucial piece of information? What if I accidentally said the wrong things? Given I was so nervous about it all, I knew I wouldn’t be as articulate as I wanted to be.
Fortunately, Ben and Quentin were laidback people, incredibly easy to get along with. But it was a busy time—they worked to a strict schedule with mandatory set breaks included. While they had their ‘occupational health and safety breaks’, I’d be running from pillar to post, trying to organise everything they needed for the next shot.
Filming the re-enactment scenes was a very weird experience. Predictably, I felt intensely self-conscious every time the camera was pointed my way. Acting isn’t one of my natural talents, so when they asked me to gaze sadly through the orphanage gates, or when I had to stand on one of Battambang’s bridges and ‘look pensive’, I just felt like a total loser.
‘Look left . . . look right . . . look left again,’ they called out, while I stood awkwardly on the bridge. The camera they were using was an absolute monster—at least a metre long with a lens that was bigger than my head. Onlookers gawked, wondering aloud if
there was some Hollywood event going on.
The kids, by contrast, took to it all like ducks to water.
I was worried that the re-enactment scenes might be traumatic for them, so the staff and I spent a lot of time in the lead-up explaining what the film crew wanted us to do and why. We did our best to make sure they understood that participation was completely optional, so I was relieved to see that a few kids felt comfortable enough to say no, they were too shy to go on TV.
When we picked up the kids who’d volunteered to shoot the rescue re-enactment scene, we were surprised to find they had dressed themselves for the part! They had put on their old SKO clothes, teased their hair and literally rolled around in the dirt to try to emulate what life was like at SKO. They were beside themselves with excitement.
We had found a shed that looked a bit like the main building at SKO. The plan was for the kids to wait inside while Jedtha and I drove around the block in a bus. That way the cameras would be rolling to capture the start of the scene—pulling up at the orphanage with the officials from DoSVY.
The whole way around the block I felt even more nervous than usual. The kids all seemed happy and relaxed, but how would they feel when the cameras were rolling and the pressure was on?
‘Okay, action!’ called Ben, giving the kids their cue.
The kids ran out of the building towards me, and I could see tears—real tears—streaming down their faces. I almost yelled: ‘Stop the cameras! This was a terrible idea! The kids are upset!’ But in an instant, they had bowled past me and onto the bus. I hurried after them, only to find them all sitting on the bus seats, laughing—literally rolling around in absolute hysterics!
‘Why were you crying?’ I asked, feeling very confused. ‘Was that too hard?’
‘No, it wasn’t hard!’ Nimol boasted proudly. ‘While you were driving around the block we were telling stories about what life was like at SKO so that we could cry for the camera.’
‘Who told you to do that?’ I demanded.
‘No one,’ Sinet said. ‘We just wanted to do good acting!’
I laughed in amazement.
The bus circled the block and pulled up again where Ben and Quentin were waiting.
‘Can you do it again?’ Ben asked. ‘We need to get a different angle.’ ‘Argh! We’ve got no more tears left!’ the kids cried, bursting into laughter again.
‘I’d prefer no tears anyway,’ I said. ‘Those tears nearly gave me a heart attack!’
Just before the film crew arrived in town, the local NGO that provided psychological health services to adults got in touch. They wanted us to take three kids to live at CCT. The kids had been orphaned and left in the care of their older sister, Mohm. They told us that Mohm had been really struggling, and for various reasons was no longer able to care for her younger siblings.
Jedtha, Savenh and I went out to meet the little family and discovered that their situation was undeniably grim—Mohm was barely out of her teens and was having trouble coping. She had an aunt living next door who was also poor and doing it tough.
We agreed it would be best if the three children came to CCT. But we weren’t about to separate the family and leave Mohm behind. We couldn’t send her to school, but we could offer the chance to learn to read and write in CCT’s supplementary education classes and, when she was ready, we could put her into the vocational training course of her choice.
Mohm and her siblings seemed delighted by the idea, so we suggested they take a few days to prepare before we came out to their village again to pick them up.
On the very day we’d be picking them up, the film crew was scheduled to be following us around, filming our work. We weren’t quite sure how to handle this situation, other than trying to make sure Mohm was fully aware there would be a camera with us, and letting her decide whether or not she wanted to be involved. She didn’t bat an eyelid at the suggestion. ‘No problem, no problem,’ she said, and signed the consent form.
It’s so hard to negotiate these situations. Even though she was well over eighteen and understood that the TV show would help raise support for the onga that would be supporting her, this is yet another example of what I would now consider to be ethically questionable consent.
Mohm had no way of really knowing what it meant to be filmed on an ABC primetime show and how that might affect her life or her younger siblings’ lives. We tried our best to make it clear that there was no pressure to agree, but the truth is Mohm was never going to say no. How could she be certain that refusing wouldn’t affect CCT’s willingness to support her? It meant her consent was really quite meaningless. Unfortunately, I didn’t have this insight back in 2009.
I had imagined that they’d just leave the cameras rolling and capture the action as it unfolded . . . but that’s not what happened.
When we pulled up in Mohm’s village, I got out of the van and walked around to greet Mohm and her aunt, and the commune leaders, village chief and neighbours who were waiting around to see Mohm and the kids off.
Then Ben came up and quietly tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Do you mind if we get that again? I want to film the arrival from outside the car, too.’
‘You want me to drive away, turn around and come back to say hello to everyone again?’ I asked.
‘Exactly!’ Ben said.
I laughed. ‘They’re going to think I’m crazy!’
I tried my best to explain to the small crowd that we had to film again, so I would be driving away, coming back again and introducing myself again. They all stared at me blankly, completely bewildered by what I’d just said. ‘So when I get back, please can you greet me again like you just did?’
Some of the older ladies chuckled, murmuring under their breath. No doubt they were thinking: These foreigners are nuts!
I hopped back in the van and drove away, did a U-turn, then drove up again and introduced myself (again).
Finally we could move on to the real reason we were there.
Mohm and the three kids were packed and seemed happy to go. The cameras rolled as Savenh and the DoSVY officers started doing the paperwork with the commune leaders and village chiefs. That’s when I noticed two little kids huddled together under the tree nearby. They were both crying and were obviously extremely upset.
Jedtha and I went to investigate and discovered that the two kids were Mohm’s young cousins. Their parents had also died, so she’d been raising them along with her three siblings, but nobody had ever mentioned to us that they even existed.
Jedtha and I exchanged a worried look. We both knew that we couldn’t leave the cousins behind, but this was going to put us way over budget. Squeezing in four extra kids was one thing—but six? Meanwhile, the cameras were rolling and the pressure was on. We had to make a decision then and there.
‘Okay, they can come,’ I said, with as much confidence as I could muster. We’d just have to worry about funding later.
Then it was time for all six of them to say their goodbyes to their old neighbours and leave with us.
We had to film this several times over, too.
Today, I feel terrible about that. It was one thing to slightly embarrass myself by filming multiple introductions, but it was another thing entirely to make traumatised children relive such a stressful event for the sake of the story. In hindsight, I should have set clearer boundaries for the Australian Story guys. After all, they’re not professionals in child welfare and child protection. Jedtha and I, on the other hand, should have been. It was our responsibility to let Ben and Quentin know what was and was not appropriate.
The other issue here, of course (which I’m sure you’ve picked up on by now), is that while those cameras were rolling we scooped up six kids and took them away from their village and their community.
It’s exactly what CCT does not do today. We would have first investigated whether Mohm’s surviving aunt, who lived in the village, had the capacity to look after the kids. We would then have helped her provide the necessary care and su
pport to the kids so they could remain in the village, which was like a big extended family to them. We still would have been able to support Mohm to become literate and receive vocational training. And we still would have been able to ensure her younger siblings and cousins had access to quality healthcare and education.
Fortunately, the outcome of Mohm’s story is a positive one. CCT supported her in undertaking hospitality training, including a placement in David Thompson’s restaurant, nahm, in Bangkok. She transitioned into independence, got married, had a baby and is working as a chef in Siem Reap. Her younger siblings have reintegrated out of CCT’s foster care and now live with Mohm and her new family. Her two young cousins have also been reintegrated back to their aunt. All the kids are on track to finish school and are doing very well.
Ben and Quentin filmed the interviews with Sinet and Jedtha while they were in Battambang, but ran out of time for my ‘Big Interview’, as they called it. I would have to fly to Sydney to film it, along with a few other re-enactment scenes set in Australia.
Nothing that had happened in Battambang had helped to relieve my nervousness about this interview. To this day, being in the spotlight is my biggest fear in life. When I mention this to people they will often joke: ‘Oh, but you love it, really, don’t you?’
The answer is: no, I really don’t. Even after doing media for more than eight years, I find it as difficult as ever. Unfortunately, generating new funds for CCT is a big job, and appearing in the media is definitely the easiest way to get our messages out there. These days I have tools to help me cope—in part thanks to Brené Brown’s iconic 2010 TED talk on ‘The Power of Vulnerability’, which helped me to realise that part of the reason I struggle so much with being in the spotlight is that, as a perfectionist, I find being vulnerable extremely uncomfortable.
In the lead-up to the filming of my Big Interview in 2009, though, I was on my own. I flew back to Sydney, feeling like a death row prisoner about to face a firing squad . . . only to find Carolyn Shine waiting for me at my parents’ house.