Hanging out with kids on Pub Street.
While in Siem Reap, I met some street boys who were huffing bags of blue and yellow paint. There were about 6 of them, ages 10-14. Half the kids shirtless with torn shorts and dirty hair. Each one a different pattern of black on their teeth. The smallest one, skinny in frame and clearly the youngest, had a black eye that looked half healed. How sad? Clearly it was not accidental.
I walked past them as they pointed and giggled at me. Huffing and taking turns passing the bags around.
I didn’t mind the attention. I let them giggle, patted one on the head and continued on my way.
The bags were small and clear, about the size you get when you by one item at the grocery store. The paint was bright blue and bright yellow. The way the paint sagged in the bag suddenly gave me a memory from a toy I got in my stocking once, when I was a child.
You probably remember them too. It came with tiny tubes of gooey paint-like substance. You would squeeze a dime size onto one end of a hard plastic straw and through the other end you would blow. If you did it right, you could blow bubbles that were tangible and bright in color. They would smell like sharpe, which was the same smell I was getting from these boys.
This memory just flashed in my head and suddenly I compared the differences of what our childhoods looked like.
I blew bubbles -they huffed paint.
I was playing -they were getting high.
I was given a strong shot at a good life.
They were the birth of a generation that had endured the genocide.
It took about seven steps to consider these things. I decided to turn around.
Casually I walked back to them, shrugged, and said “Hey guys.”
Just like that. I mean, what else do you say to a bundle of street kids huffing paint who most likely don’t speak English?
A couple of the older boys stumbled like a drunk as they tried to engage back with me. The little one put his dirty fingers together and raised them to his mouth, and tapped three times. The universal sign for “feed me”.
A few seconds in I asked them if they wanted to move out of the street and sit. Like shooing a flock of birds I motioned them to the side walk. I sat down and soon had what reflected a small classroom.
So here’s Jordan, sitting on the streets of Cambodia, in a circle of street kids.
How cool.
I had no where to be. No one else needed my attention but these boys.
They knew enough English to tell me their names when I asked. I remember the names of two boys. Nathan, and Red.
I’d like to say this is a story of sharing the gospel and bringing hope to the less fortunate. I’d like to say I made a difference in their lives that day.
But that’s not what happened at all. In fact, as the minuets passed on the boys got higher and higher. One covered his face with a stained button up shirt. Sitting criss cross he ducked under his shirt, secretly breathing in the bag of paint. He thought it was hilarious.
Things got weird fairly quickly and I had to leave.
I think the excitement of a white women acknowledging them inclined them to huff more rapidly. The begging for money and food got more aggressive. The flirting was more apparent.
I stood up and gave myself distance. One boy walked next to me and put his hand on my butt.
I’m embarrassed to say that it happened, but it did. Ha.
I felt violated even though he’s just a young boy. A poor, high, Cambodian boy.
I spoke strongly to him and walked off. The clan of boys followed me for a minute until the same boy who touched me, grabbed my arm. I spun around and with perfect timing slapped his hand saying “hey!” Completely loosing all composure and compassion.
I wonder what I would have done him if he kept provoking me.
I’d like to say this is a story of sharing the gospel and bringing hope to the less fortunate. I’d like to say I made a difference in their lives that day.
But that’s not what happened at all.
finishing the walk home I ran into fellow racres as usual. It’s hard enough to be alone, even harder to find areas not infested with groups of racers.
I tried to find meaning in the whole street kid encounter. I knew I had attempted to bring up Jesus. I knew they had fun showing me how well they knew their ABC’s. I knew they needed my bottle of water more than I did.
I knew it wasn’t all wasted.
I got to love them, even if they didn’t respect me. I enjoyed sitting down with them.
Must that be how Jesus felt? Hated. Harassed. Not taken seriously.
Without anything in return he desires to love us. He meets us where we’re at in life. Whether we’re moving up in the corporate world or huffing paint on pub street.
It wasn’t a day for me to change someone’s life but rather a day for God to give perspective of what life was like for Him. I pray He continues to open my eyes and break my heart for what breaks His.
