Playing Guitar at the Missionaries of Charity in Cambodia
Ever since I participated in a summer camp right after my conversion to Christianity, I dreamt of fulfilling its theme, “Filled with Power . . . until the Ends of the Earth.” In my mind I pictured myself talking to people who had never heard the name of Jesus and serving in the most impoverished areas of the world—but to be honest, I wasn’t completely sure it would ever come true. That changed shortly after I became a student at Azusa Pacific University and I received a list of the following summer’s short-term mission trips sponsored by APU’s Office of World Missions. My first summer I traveled to Jordan, and the next I signed up to participate in a short-term mission trip to India to serve at Mother Teresa’s Home for the Dying, Missionaries of Charity. I felt that experience would stretch me even further, and I wanted to continue to be molded to serve the greatest needs in the world, even in the darkest of places. We fundraised, learned about the culture, and bonded as a team, but two days before departure, Pakistan began firing a series of test missiles. India fired a test missile of its own in apparent response. Given the rising tensions between the two nuclear-armed states, the United States immediately warned against travel to the area and our trip was put on hold.
A team already serving in Kolkata was immediately put on alert. Brian from the Office of World Missions, who was visiting our team in Cambodia, arranged for our India teams to transfer their ministries there. Phnom Penh, the capital, hosted a branch of the Missionaries of Charity. In addition, the current Cambodia team had made some connections with local missionaries with ideas of other places where we could serve.
In one day we watched The Killing Fields, read a few Internet pages about Cambodia’s history, wept internally over the loss of the dream we had been preparing for all semester, and got ready for a new mission we pushed ourselves to call “God’s indirect plan.” We couldn’t allow ourselves to believe God was somehow caught off guard or surprised by any of this.
I struggled deeply with what we witnessed in Cambodia: the heartbreaking poverty, the children playing in the mud with flies over their heads, wives who knew their husbands frequented prostitutes, the out-of-control AIDS epidemic, agonizing malnutrition, and the knowledge that about one in four people had lost someone to the great and murderous dictatorship of Pol Pot decades earlier (1975–1979). Up to 2.5 million people, out of a population of 8 million, were tortured and executed for suspected ties with the former government and were dumped into mass graves around the country—many of those still unearthed. Doctors, teachers, and educated people were murdered in order to prevent a presumed coup d’état. Even children who raised their hands when asked who wanted to be a teacher were taken outside by regime soldiers never to be seen again. Mothers had their babies pulled from their arms and slammed against trees, or thrown up in the air to be used as target practice, in order to intimidate the already weak.
Walking into that place felt like walking into a black and white movie of historic tragedy. I felt I could smell the blood of innocence soaked into the muggy air, see the trembling ghosts of the suffering weeping on their hollowed death spots, and hear the shrieking shouts for mercy ignored by the vile.
How does a nation lift itself up when its legs have been cut from under them? Where does God fit in this picture of slaughter and dehumanization? Where?
I had many questions and prayed, as I had done many times before, that answers would soon come.
Journal Entry: Tuesday, June 4
How to describe the smell of Cambodia? I thought of this question as we walked back from Central Market today. People begging for money. Bargain after bargain. Kids hanging off Schoon’s forearms saying, “a dollar to let go” as they followed us four blocks. The kids pinching Schoon and Greg for they are not used to seeing fat people. Not finding shirts with long enough sleeves for they have no tall people. Erin almost ran over by a moto. Craziness of traffic going in every direction. Shirtless men along the side of the road, looking and throwing kisses at our girls. The scent of food, dirt, humidity, sweat, mud, smog, and I don’t know what else. Hundreds of motos taking over and switching lanes. Cars turning left, merging onto the left lane against opposing traffic, and then moving to the correct lane on the right. The feeling of insecurity that begins to create frustration in us.
I finally smelled Cambodia and stopped feeling as if we were living @ the American embassy.
But even though I’ve smelled the scent of Cambodia, I know there is so much more to feel, to sense. I will do that with the passing of days. This is the beginning. I give a step, God gives the path.
Watay
Surrounded by flooded bamboo fields, we entered a walled compound of white rooms with decaying lives. It had a school for impoverished children, a pharmacy, and a building with a room for men and one for women who were infected with tuberculosis. It also had the most heartbreaking two-story building, which housed a room for men and a room for women on the bottom floor and two rooms on the top floor for children—all of whom had HIV and full-blown AIDS. Welcome to the Missionaries of Charity.
My experience with Mexico Outreach had given me a reputation of being a sort of Christian Peter Pan, if you will—someone with a child’s soul trapped in a man’s body. Several of my friends had called me a “baby whisperer” due to the “hypnotizing” effect I had with children and babies. I love children and they love me.
When we walked up the stairs in the AIDS ward, the children ran toward us with cheer, despite the visible open blisters on their young skin. Most of them were under six years of age, wore light, worn-out clothing, and had a smile that could light up Asia. I expected my reaction to be the same as back in the West, filled with joy and welcoming enthusiasm, but I did what I expected least after such a long-awaited dream—I froze.
Everyone else immediately began to pick the kids up, hug them, and greet them. But I was paralyzed by fear and ignorance, unprepared for what I should do in a situation like this. I had heard that if I had a small scratch on my body, and if they had an open wound, that it’d be the end of my story if I touched them—done, I’d be dead. I stepped back as my shame and guilt grew within me. How could this be happening to me? This is not the Fernando from Mexico. This is not the Fernando from Jordan. This is not me.
They all walked away and pulled the rest of the kids into one of the rooms and continued checking the facilities. Still in a daze, I stayed behind and pondered what was wrong with me. Defeated, I walked out onto a bridge that projected from the porch on the second floor to a tower. Maybe some fresh air would help. I sat down and rested against the rail. It was hot and humid, a typical Cambodian afternoon, but a soft breeze was blowing from the east. I got mad at the wind for treating me nicely when I least deserved it. If anything, I deserved lightning. I questioned my entire vocation as a missionary, regretting the sacrifices I had made in fundraising and apologizing to God for being a coward.
I then looked to my right, and there she was, a little girl leaning on a doorframe, as if frozen in time. Less than three-feet tall, with tattered clothes, a tiny index finger on her lips, and a terrible haircut, she witnessed my baffled little self with her ever so soft gaze. She analyzed me as if trying to figure out what I was made of. Her eyes would not let go of me.
Okay, this is it. How much spiritual humiliation could I withstand if even this little Cambodian girl had pity on my sorry brown ass?
She put her finger down, separated herself from the doorframe, and headed toward me. With very gentle confidence, she lifted my left arm, softly crawled onto my lap, rested her head on my right arm, pulled my left arm down, and covered her fragile body with it. She then turned and looked at me straight in the eye—and I was done. Stick a fork in me. This little girl grabbed my soul, took it out for a spin, and gave it back to me on a platter. Fear, shock, doubt—all gone. I was in, I was accepted, and I couldn’t care less about what could happen. I was only capable of one thing, finding out how I could love in the most useful and real way. This is the reason for my existence, I knew, to hold and to serve little treasures like her.
Watay, my new little friend, had recently been brought to live at the hospice. Both her parents had been patients there at one point. After not making an appearance for a long period of time, the sisters decided to go check on them. Upon arrival at Watay’s home, they noticed a terrible rotting smell coming from inside. After knocking down the bamboo and straw door, they found Watay playing with the decomposing bodies of her parents, who lay flat on the ground. Having been uncared for for quite some time, she suffered from various infections. On her head hair had grown into wounded skin. They thus had to remove skin from her scalp to remove the ingrown hairs and prevent further infection, causing her “terrible haircut.”
This little girl had just shown me that I was indeed not in Kansas anymore.
Journal Entry: Monday, June 10
I’ve never been so physically drained and challenged. Today I was ready to say, in fact I probably did, “Jesus, I’m ready. I’m coming Home.” Heat is EXTREME, humidity is like I’ve never experienced before. I felt like boiling water was underneath my skin running through my veins. Between noon and three pm is the worst time. Everything turned yellow and started spinning before I hit the ground. Some people thought I was also a patient. I was, and still am, sweating like a pig. Water comes out as fast as it goes in. I really don’t know if I’ll make it till Thursday.
We got up at 5 am, took the Boat of Hope, and here we are. This village is like taken out of a National Geographic video, next to the river, with its own temple and all. The shacks are a story above ground for flood precaution. The floor is bamboo tied together; I can see underneath us through the cracks. I can hear the geckos crying, the crickets singing, people chasing snakes, frogs; and something right now was crawling my way, probably a lizard.
The clinics are alright, even though I felt pretty useless. I brought my guitar and all ’cause I was told I was going with the kids and when we got there, I had to stay to be the “prayer male.” I couldn’t communicate, and when Ellen was praying for the ladies I saw many of them roll their eyes. Laura, our leader, was inspiring with a story about prayer and God’s revelation. I prayed for that, that they somehow see God, either through healing, or a vision, and be a living testimony of God’s power and mercy.
Today I told God, “Thanks for the joke.” I was very uncomfortable, and felt useless. My greatest fear for the trip came true. The heat made things worse. Later, with the kids’ ministry, I felt better emotionally, but not physically. I couldn’t breathe. Even tonight, I know I won’t sleep, I just feel it will be hell. I can’t move. I don’t want any part of my body to touch any other part of my body—it doubles the temperature and increases the sweat. I’ve been drinking so much water, yet I don’t pee that much. It’s all sweat!
We had prayer @ the boat. They love singing and it was great to see the stars, the water, the lighting at a distance. A good ending to a day like this. The breeze was good.
God, I ask for my health. Tomorrow we take a horse cart ride, and I will need you. There are no cushions but plenty of potholes and it feels like my bone will cut through my butt cheeks. I pray that we will be useful even with our cultural, and language limitations.
I love you. Night.
Play
For the sake of strategy, Sister Superior split us up into groups that would rotate each day among all the rooms and wards. She noticed that I had developed a special bonding with the patients through my guitar. She asked if I wanted to make it my duty to play for the patients. I’d be the only one allowed to go from ward to ward as I pleased. That didn’t seem like a tangible contribution to some on my team who were packing pills in little plastic bags, or cleaning wounds on patients’ genitalia, but she said there were different kinds of gifts for caring and healing. She said that music was a powerful gift found in the Bible—reminding that David sang for King Saul and alleviated his pain. I was more than okay with the idea. In fact, I loved it! It gave me a way to ease into the whole bodily fluids thing, while at the same time allowing me to wander around and meet everyone and to connect with them on a personal level. Some team members got jealous and a bit upset that I’d have this “special privilege,” but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love this job. Air guitar became the “international symbol for Fernando,” or so my team said.
Patients would anxiously wait for my arrival. I developed blister upon blister on my fingertips, but I felt that if there ever was a reason for why I learned to play guitar, it was this. I would be called in times of sadness, such as when we found an empty bed in the morning (meaning someone had gone home, whether down the street or up to heaven), and to help brighten the mood of those suffering from pain or fever. In this regard, I believed my guitar was just as valuable as a stethoscope or gauze. And to be honest, considering some of the patients’ conditions, sometimes a smile was the best thing we could bring.
But not all experiences were gloomy. Thank goodness. We actually had many laughs and good times. But we always walked around with a feeling of expectation, waiting for that pin to pop the balloon. Most times, though, regardless of anticipation, death would catch us off guard.
I was having a great time one particular day. “Grandpa” was being his usual self, laughing and pretending he could play my guitar when in reality he was raking the strings with no rhythm. The ladies had walked into the guys’ area to join in the musical hysteria. The nuns heard the commotion and joined in as well. A lady brought her hand to her mouth during laughter to cover her decaying teeth, but nobody really cared. Grandpa sure loved being the center of attention and loved having me around. “Bad grandpa. Bad grandpa,” I’d say while slapping his wrist very softly. The crowd erupted in cheer and laughter. Shirtless and hairless, showing off his bony physique, he raised his feet up in the air with a big toothless smile. All of us in the TB ward, patients and nuns, began cracking up, having forgotten for a moment the sense of impending doom, rotten smells, and Third World realities.
Erin, the youngest member of our team, showed up behind me. Catching her breath, she said, “Fernie, grab your guitar and come with me!” “What happened?” I asked. “Hurry up!” she pressed. I took the guitar back from grandpa and rushed behind her. We entered the women’s AIDS ward and walked to a patient lying on the middle bed in the back row. She must’ve been in her early twenties, but her present state looked like a weathered-out version of some future, older self. She had salt and pepper, damaged hair that was moist due to sweat. Her pupils had abandoned her eyes, leaving behind an empty and desolate white. I witnessed skin and bones, tightened lips revealing gnashing teeth, and veins popping off her porous skin. Her body trembled vigorously while she tightly held on to a large crucifix resting on her bosom. Her face pointed away from us, and it was obvious that her soul would shortly head in the same direction.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked as I stood there frozen, inept. Only one word came out of her mouth. Erin didn’t need to say much else.
“Play.”
I softly raised my guitar, placed my fingers on the strings, and tried to think of a melody that might make a dent against the claws of darkness squeezing her soul. I couldn’t. But I did think of a song that, though she wouldn’t understand it, seemed fitting for someone forced to endure an unwilling farewell to air. I cleared my throat, wiped a tear off my face, and brought my fingertips to the second, third, and fourth strings on the second fret, and played the worship and praise song “Breathe.”
As if hearing an echo from a faraway land of a voice she used to know, she squinted before control began to slowly crawl back into her being. I hesitated to continue, slightly shocked, but kept playing and singing. Her face began to turn toward us. Her pupils momentarily began to focus on this world. Her trembling body gained some composure. Peace seemed to gradually flow back into her soul. The crucifix got a rest from her firm grip. Very slowly she turned her head toward us in search of the sound’s source, stopping when she saw me. She stared straight into my eyes, without a blink, her mouth still open. My hands froze and my song became a gasp. I couldn’t stay there much longer. My jaw began to tremble and my heart signaled I would soon become an emotional wreck. This is not what anybody needed to see right now.
I walked quickly toward the exit, veered past the doorframe, and rested against the wall, holding my guitar close to my chest. My heartbeat was out of control. I stared out into the distance with a million thoughts and emotions going through my mind and heart. Erin came looking for me a moment later and found me puzzled and restless. “What happened?” I asked. Two words left me lost in time and even more bewildered about the meaning of life.
“She’s gone.”
For weeks, months, years I kept processing my experiences in the mission field. I loved that we could bring a little piece of God’s love into areas of the earth devastated by evil and hopelessness. But I always had this question, “Why does God let people suffer like this as He waits for us to show up?”
This essay is excerpted from To the Cross and Back: An Immigrant's Journey from Faith to Reason, which is available for purchase at these paid links: Amazon and Pitchstone.
Fernando Alcántar was born and raised in Mexico and immigrated to the United States as a teenager. He has a bachelor’s degree in psychology and a master’s degree in organizational leadership from Azusa Pacific University and is currently director of student engagement at East Stroudsburg University.