Note:  This is a story from late December written at the very beginning of our trip on a memorable stop-over visit with the Pham family. I awaited permission from the family before including it in the Indonesian Adventure Blog.  ~Cedar

He was a helicopter gunship pilot
in the South Vietnamese airforce
He can proudly trace his blood line
through many generations of royalty
One day, deep into the war,
his uncle sent a bus
“Get on the bus…now!”
Wife, 4 little children, other family members
got on the bus
They were taking nothing
but themselves
The bus drove them into a US Military Base

A helicopter flew them to an aircraft carrier
Surprised, they were greeted with clothes and food
They did not understand what was happening
The next day, the war was over
They were the last ones out
A freighter took them to Camp Chaffee
in Arkansas
Khai contacted Subud relatives who had made it to France
At Camp Chaffee, they and many others waited
for someone magical called a sponsor
One day there was a phone call for him
Someone named Lucien
“I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“It’s for you.”
Lucien was a Subud member from Chicago
He would sponsor the Phams.
Khai agreed.

The next day they had plane tickets to Chicago
They lived with Lucien for some months
He had a house painting business
and hired and taught Khai housepainting
My husband, Ren, spoke French, Khai’s other language
So this was a good connection
Ren took him around
Khai remembered Ren’s words after an interview:
“You will never get hired if you respond like that.
You must assert yourself.
You must convince them you are the best person for the job.”

Khai was learning a new culture.
Others offered support and guidance
The family moved to California,
he went to school, he held two jobs,
night watchman, cutting lawns, delivery man
Mimi his wife worked too.
“What was most important to you?” I asked
“School for the children
and getting training in something
that would be flexible.
I got advice to learn computers.
I didn’t like computers.
I was looking for something
that seemed more dependable.
I took one course in Systems Analysis.
That was it. I liked that.
I could figure everything out by understanding systems.”
He got an entry-level job in aerospace
and worked his way up.
They lived where the schools were best.
For 15 years, they didn’t have a vacation or a day off.
After 15 years, he was making enough
that he could take a vacation.
The children went to college:
a psychologist, a lawyer, an accountant, and a hotel manager
He’s proud of them.

We met two of the children
Khoi came to Boulder to interview Ren,
He’s making a film about the people
who helped his and other Vietnamese refugee families
MyKhan is a Senior Lawyer
married to Scott, an advertising executive
They live in LA with their two children
As we sat and talked, Khai said,
“Some people say I was wrong
not to teach my children Vietnamese.
Some people say I was right.
I wanted them to be Americans
with no accent. Now I teach Vietnamese
to my granddaughters.”
Scott, a Caucasian, said, “I want my daughters to be
proud to be Vietnamese. I’m not Vietnamese,
but I don’t think of myself as being in a cross-cultural marriage.”

Interested in cultural identity, I asked one of the daughters,
“Who are you?” To my surprise, everyone wanted to answer this question.
The 5-year-old: “I am a pianist.” The 9-year-old: “I am a girl.”
The mother: “I am a mother of two daughters who will contribute to society.
I earn money to support our lifestyle by working, but my self-expression
happens in other ways.”
The husband: “I am the husband of this beautiful woman,
and father of these wonderful children.”
The grandfather: “I am proud of my good family.”

Khai and his wife Mimi drive a new Mercedes Benz.
Even though they are now retired,
they work full time “giving back”
through a foundation they founded
(www.Reaching-Out-Foundation.org).
It raises money to support two Catholic nuns
and two Buddhist nuns who provide health care and other services
to disabled and poor families in Vietnam.
The Phams were busy getting ready for their next big fundraising event.

We loved our time with this remarkable, warm, and wonderful family.

This is another installment of Cedar’s Digest, a series of poetic stories about the experiences my husband, Ren Ruslan Feldman, and I are having living for six months in Central Borneo. We are volunteer teachers in a small, innovative Indonesian school. The school is child-centered with a focus on hands-on learning and character development. Classes are taught in English and Indonesian.

First Period, First Day
N.B. Freshly written, but from three weeks ago

First period, first day of the term
classroom is simple
white board, bulletin board
teacher’s desk, tables for the students
individual cubbies serving as lockers

the 12 6th graders have been divided into two groups
for English–I have the top half of the students
(should I say the other teacher gets them from the waist down?)
I’m very nervous
I haven’t been in the classroom for 37 years
there is no textbook
the other teachers say just to use the first day
to get to know the students
I have a game or two in mind
but otherwise…
the 6th graders sit politely at their tables
6 of them spread out across the room
each has a well-supplied pencil box
and a notebook with lined paper
“My name is Ibu Cedar.
Cedar in English is a kind of tree.
I’d be happy to tell you anything about me
that you’d like to know. I want to get to know
you too, of course.”
Silence. “What would you like to know?”
Silence. Looooong silence.
“Am I speaking so that you can understand me?”
“Yes, Ibu.”

“Well, let me tell you some things about myself….”
“Now, tell me about you.”
Silence. Long silence.
A few questions
one or two word answers
“Do you understand me?”
Nods
“Can you tell me why you won’t talk with me?”
silence
“Let me guess.
You’re shy?”
“No.”
“You’re afraid?”
“It won’t be good.”
“The words won’t be good enough?”
Nods.
“It’s really important to you to get it right.”
The class bell rings
We have begun.

This is another installment of Cedar’s Digest, a series of poetic stories about the experiences my husband, Ren Ruslan Feldman, and I are having living for six months in Central Borneo. We are volunteer teachers in a small, innovative Indonesian school. The school is child-centered with a focus on hands-on learning and character development. Classes are taught in English and Indonesian.

These writings are accompanied by photos that can be seen on the Right Use of Power Facebook page or on Ren’s Facebook page. To see additional photos of the children and the school, here is a copy of theBCU School newsletter.  

THE CHILDREN AND THE SCHOOL

at 7:45 the children walk by our cottage
they’ve come by bus
most from Palangkaraya, an hour’s drive away
about half Protestant Christian and
about half Muslim
Javanese, local Dayaks,
a few English speakers
blue pants or skirts
white shirts
carrying books,
a few guitars
we walk with them
“Hi Ibu Cedar, Pagi, Pak Ruslan”
(Ibu or Bu for women, Bapak or Pak for men)

at 8 am on Monday it’s already hot
the day begins
with an assembly
the teachers sit behind the children
arranged in rows on the floor
Ren and I are privileged with chairs
100 children in grades 1 – 12
happy smiling faces
and relaxed bodies
show how happy they are at this school
Pak Karim, the caucasion principal from New Zealand,
talks to the children
“I’m very happy to see you.
I like seeing you get off the bus
and walking with your teachers
across the field, smiling and talking.
I’m glad for how well we all get along.
Over the weekend, an extreme Muslim group
landed in Palangkaraya.
More than 800 Dayaks went to the airport
and wouldn’t let them get off the plane.
They told them that this is a peaceful place
where we all get along together and
mosques are right next to churches.”***
Pak Widarjo, the Indonesian co-principal
talks to the children about gratitude.
then the whole school sings together
the high school boys play guitar accompaniment
they love to sing and treat us to a cool variety of songs
with multiple parts
a favorite is “What a Wonderful World”

***This was a big event in Indonesian news! I just talked with Pak Widarjo. The extremists on the plane were coming to establish an official FPI office in Palangkaraya. Apparently the Dayaks (local people) surrounded the airport, and the pilot talked to the Muslim men on the plane and told them that the airport was surrounded and that they were not wanted here. So they left without getting off. The head of the Muslims here in Palangkaraya made a statement that anyone was free to believe or say anything, with one exception, that it not lead to violence. This event sent an important message to the government in Jakarta, Pak Widarjo says. He was happy about the result, because he worries about the growing power and influence of the small number of Muslim extremists who are lavishly funded by the Wahabi Sect who are setting up fundamentalist schools all over the world.

Recently I read a powerful book: “Terrorists in Love” by Ken Ballen. It is the compelling story of the lives, motivations, and training of five young terrorist men who had for various reasons, turned away from terrorism. Written by an American journalist and separately corroborated for accuracy, it is an insightful, chilling behind the scenes look at the world of terrorism. The love in the title refers to the intense love and devotion to family and God that motivates these idealistic adolescent recruits. I recommend it!

Ibu Enda manages the office
copies, supplies
three teachers rooms with a desk for each teacher
teachers have time off from teaching
to do prep work
so this room is a good place
to connect
Olivia from England
clues me in to a good website for ideas
for grammar
Pak Alve and I talk about
how we can collaborate on
social studies and economics with the 7th and 8th graders

In 1956, the year of Disneyland Dream*
the neighborhood was our social center
we roamed the backyards in little groups
our Mothers called us home for dinner
we played Red Rover and Red Light,
did our homework,
played Clue and Monopoly
watched Mickey Mouse Club, and Leave it to Beaver
time felt spacious and organically unfolding

Now two weeks here in Rungan Sari
culture shock, like an earthquake,
has settled into small rumblings
and I’m reminded of 1956
though I’m an adult now

everything in my entire world has been challenged
cold dry to hot humid, snowy to rainy
weather controlled amount of energy
to natural hot humid amount of energy
maybe 30% less
language confidence to language incompetence
professional competence to professional beginner
incessant pressure of too many things to do
to sureness that there is plenty of time to do
the things that MUST be done
life of constant movement and travel
to life in the neighborhood
where everyone I know is a few minutes walk away
life of planned activities
to one where things kind of happen
mono culture of Boulder
to culture of people from 15 countries
from spiritually diverse
to spiritually embedded
political American angst
to casual global conversations
great food variety to
rice as the staple food

no wonder my body had a terrible fit
of confusion and rebellion
now…what a miracle…
feeling well enough adjusted
got a few “tricks”
1. afterschool nap
2. prickly heat powder
3. lots of water
4. glasses of “pocari sweat” (electrolyte replenishment)
5. wear a wet towel around my neck
(Roommate, Doug gave me one that holds a lot of water
and doesn’t drip!)
6. sit under the ceiling fan
7. occasional treats of a few hours of a.c. in the bedroom
8. go out as little as possible from 10-4
9. go swimming at 4
10. relax and don’t fight it…just sweat

I teach only from 1-3 hours per day!
feels like a full time job
preparing and then resting
I’m loving my children
and will tell you about them
soon

Here I am not a therapist or a Hakomi Trainer
or a founder and director of Right Use of Power Institute
I am a friendly person, a teacher, a wife, an American, a Subud member

the pace is slower, time is more spacious,
pleasures and plans are simpler,
ambitions and expectations are scaled down,
the social world is smaller, the global world bigger

As I write now, the whir of the fan
suddenly stops, silence settles
it is 4:15 and the compound rests
for a few minutes while they
switch over to the generator for the evening
now the fan starts up again
stronger on the generator

*Disneyland Dream is the now national award-wining home movie my father made in 1956 of our family’s trip to Disneyland.

I would be remiss
not to talk about extreme adjustment challenges

google it…it’s an actual medical term
“heat exhaustion”
most experienced by the elderly
and those who have come from a cold
to a warm climate….
that would be me
67 is elderly in a country where
69 is the life expectancy

there are a weird variety of symptoms
all quite unpleasant
skin feeling like it is sunburned, but it’s not,
periodic intense heat in parts of your body like back, neck, torso
but there’s no fever
sudden vomiting, nausea after being outside, headache,
diarrhea, exhaustion, weakness, slight vertigo and
frightening emotional fragility

I’m happy to report that Ren isn’t suffering from this
but I certainly am
The Indonesians say “Oh that’s just the adjustment disease.”
or they say, “Coming here brings out all kinds of nasty spiritis (jinn).”
or “Everyone gets this.”
“Takes about a week to feel better. Take it easy.”
they smile in a kind, friendly way that doesn’t really help

After several dramatically miserable days
we decide to go to the doctor in Palangkyaraya
one hour ride to town in the BCU School van
one hour in which a stop for a physical emergency
from one end or the other
would result in a traffic disaster
physical tension then mixed with the fascination of the sights
houses on stilts, people on porches,
small roadside shops (warung)
traffic weave of families on motorbikes, big trucks, cars

ah, we’re here
just another warung along the road
Doktor sign
tiny pharmacy in front
behind, a row of chairs against the wall
maybe 20 almost all filled
babies, children, elders, adults
we have an appointment
and are seen immediately
is this a privilege reserved for the rich?
we don’t know
the Dokter greets us and invites us
into her office
a little square room just big enough
for desk, two chairs, and an examination table
Dokter Ina, the woman all the Rungan Sari folk go to
kind, patient
between Ren’s Indonesian and her English
she understands the problem
examines me
blood pressure low she announces solemnly
as we sit talking the lights go out
without skipping a word
she reaches up and flips on a battery light
gives prescriptions to take for nausea, fever,
replenishing electrolytes, and for the “stomach bug”
“Come back if you need to. Nice to meet you.
Get these up front. I explain in English.”
The exact number of pills are delivered
in litle plastic bags
the process slowed only by several bouts of lost electricity
no battery lamp in the pharmacy
The bill is $17.00 for Dokter and med combined

we race to the van through a torrent of rain
getting quite wet and shivery
back at home, we collapse
as if we had just crossed the ocean
in a rowboat

[Written a week later....
the next morning I began to feel
significantly better....and today
I write this last paragraph with Cornetto in hand]

five thirty am
air is heavy
skin on my back moist
light is renewing itself
in subtle tones
birds awaken us
five or six distinct sounds–
birds busy opening the new day
seven am
half sleep
the arrival of the motorbikes
like bumblebees coming
back to the nest
the maids
the teachers
the carpenters
the gardeners
each on their own motorbike
motor bike is like the family car
Ibu Endah, the school office manager
and general magic maker
rides by on her cycle with her youngest
in front of her and the two older boys
behind

our cottage is right on the central courtyard
with soccer, volley ball, and basketball courts
the compound is a series of linked
circular roads like the Olympics symbol

half sleep
shhttt, shhtt, shttt, shttt, shhtt
the sound of sweeping
Surya, our maid, has arrived
sweeping the back patio,
sweeping the leaves from the grass
sweeping is the morning ritual
in Indonesia
sweeping the night jinn away
beginning anew
comforting

rainy season
rain doesn’t sprinkle
it comes down as if the heavens
were a shower head
strong, pelting rain
dominates the sound field
pouring off roof drains
drumming the roof tiles
like a trio of drummers gone wild
with exuberance
then, suddenly gone
silence
puddles everywhere
on the precipice of flooding
but the sandy soil sucks the water down deep

other sounds
crickets at night
ubiquitous fans everywhere
dogs barking occasionally
such deep silence
that every sound is heard and felt

SMELLS….
one distinct one
smoke
several times a day
from little brush fires
set to burn the raked up leaves
and debris
also smoke
the sweet distinctive smell
of clove spiced “kretek” cigarettes
drinking? a beer every once in a while
smoking? very prevalent

FOOD
simple school lunches
a bowl of rice
with one piece of chicken or beef or tofu
and some slivered and cooked carrots and string beans
hot sambal sauce if you want
some rice chips
water

for dinner
fried rice
fish stew
delicious
tonight Indonesian salad
peanut sauce with cold potatoes
cucumber, sprouts, hardboiled egg
I’m going to ask Surya
if I can make a little recipe booklet
of her dishes
what I miss most is cheese

Now night
walking outside
in the distance
I can hear the Muslim call to prayer
softer, sweeter than Turkey
but still eeirie
crickets send their messages
in morse code of 6s, 4s, 9s
but mostly 6s
fan drones itself into white noise
and then, with a flip of a switch
is still
revealing an even more profound
quiet
as we go to bed
swaddled in the warm, damp air