Angelina's Speech makes 20

I completed my 20^th speech at Toastmasters tonight.  This was tonight’s speech – it won me another trophy. 

This was originally Angelina Jolie's opening speech to the 2009 World Refugee Day  -  talking about tales of survival of those people she met and who touched her life.

We're here today to talk about millions of desperate families – families so cut-off from civilization that they don't even know that a day like this exists on their behalf.  I am here today to say that refugees are not numbers. They’re not even just refugees. They are mothers and daughters and fathers and sons – they are farmers, teachers, doctors, engineers, they are individuals all. And most of all they are survivors – each one with a remarkable story that tells of resilience in the face of great loss. They are the most impressive people I have ever met and they are also some of the world's most vulnerable. Stripped of home and country, refugees are buffeted from every ill wind that blows across this planet.

I remember meeting a pregnant Afghani woman in a completely abandoned camp in Pakistan. She couldn't travel when everyone else was relocated because she was too late in her pregnancy. She was alone with her two children and another woman. There was nothing for miles around the camp – not a single tree, no other people in sight. So when they asked me to come in for tea I said I didn't feel it necessary. But being Afghans, they take pride in how they treat their guests so they insisted and they guided me into a small dirt house with no roof to keep out the scorching heat, and they dusted off the two old mats that they ate, slept and prayed on. We sat and we talked and they were just the loveliest women. And then with a few twigs and a single tin cup of water, they made the last of their tea and insisted on me to enjoy it.

Since before the parable of the Widow’s Mite, it has been known that those who have the least, will give the most. Most refugee families will offer you the only food they have and pretend they're not hungry. And the generosity of the poor applies not only to refugees. We should never forget that more than 80% of refugees are hosted, and have been for years and years, in the poorest developing countries.

Pakistan, a country now facing a crisis with over two million of its own people displaced, is still hosting 1.7 million Afghans and has hosted millions of Afghan families for nearly thirty years. I remember before we said good-bye to the pregnant lady she pointed to a young boy. He had a dusty face, the brightest green eyes I have ever seen but such a sad look.  She explained that he's always asking for more food. And it hurts her to say that they have nothing. And she asked if we would consider taking him, would we take her son so he could eat. And she said it with tears in her eyes and with such desperation. A desperation unimaginable to every parent in this room. A few weeks later, a war in Afghanistan began and heavy fighting started right where they were. I've been back to that region three times and I looked for them every time.

The threat of climate change, the competition for resources, and ever growing global inequality has created deepening intractable conflicts. Whether it be Darfur, Myanmar, or Swat Valley or some as yet unknown crisis. Mass migrations will be a feature of our future, and we must adjust to this living reality. And again I would urge you to look beyond the simple number and look instead at the individual.

I remember in Tanzania, I met a child in a tent. He sat on the dusty floor; he'd been shot in the back and left paralyzed. And he crawled forward to shake my hand.  He was no more than fifteen. He had big pretty eyes, a big wide sparkling smile, and after all he'd been through, he was full of laughter and love. Later that night I asked whether he'd been taken to a hospital or at least given a wheelchair and I was told that the boy's entire family had been killed so there was no one to look after him. And he'd not been accepted for asylum. And the aid worker said they’d spent the money they could but they didn't have any more. And I thought about him all night and I wondered what I should do. I walked through the camp and I saw more victims of war. I saw small children full of hunger and fear, crying mothers, wounded fathers. I saw a sea of humanity - all desperate, all deserving.

There are hundreds of thousands in that camp and there are millions around the world. And at that time I felt hopeless and overwhelmed by the realization of the magnitude of the problem. Later on that trip, I met an eight year old girl who had seen her family killed in front of her and she grabbed her baby brother and she ran into the jungle and survived, terrified and alone for two weeks. She managed to find bananas and feed herself and her brother. And when I met her she didn’t talk, she just walked back and forth and I kept trying to tell her how brave we thought she was. She just stared at the window. And a year later I came back to that same camp and I saw her again. She was still very shy but she was beginning to speak and she was sweet and polite but she still didn't care about me or visitors she just wanted to know how her brother was. He was with the doctors and she was just checking to make sure he would be okay. She was his mother now. That little girl had a depth and a strength that I will never know. And on that trip, and many that followed, I came to know refugees not only as the most vulnerable people on earth, but as the most resilient.

If you see the individual, you see the education and knowledge the refugees pass on to their children, because often, it is all they have to pass on. It is why it's so important that we give them education. If you see the individual, you see the contribution that can be made by refugees to their host countries and how important they will be to their own land when eventually they return.

In the last nine years I have made many visits to the field with UNFCR. I do it to raise awareness for the plight of refugees but I also do it for me. The refugees I have met and spent time with have profoundly changed my life. The eight-year-old girl who saved her brother taught me what it is to be brave. The pregnant woman in Pakistan taught me what it is to be a mother. And the paralyzed boy who had been shot in the back with his big smile showed me the strength of an unbreakable spirit. So today, on world refugee day, I thank them for letting me into their lives. And I thank you for coming.

(Watch Angelina's version on you tube.)

Silver Tongued

The sound of a knock at my door

was enough to send me into a mild panic.

Even when I knew someone

was due at my house, I'd worry. 

The hour leading up to their arrival

would see me start to pace and fret.

Answering the phone

to an unknown caller was also scary...

and calling someone...

... I needed a few deep breaths

before I'd even think about doing that!

I knew that's how it was...

I thought it would always be like that.

And then, I started Toastmasters.

Last weekend, I pulled open my phone and called Optus

without even thinking about it.

Now, I'm worried about people coming to my house

only because it's not very clean!

I didn't know it was happening

but I've gotten brave!

It didn't just happen -

but, it did happen easily.

I started Toastmasters.

Every fortnight, I would stand up

and say a few words at the start of meetings.

Before I knew it, I was giving speeches.

Now, I know I will be called on for an impromptu speech.

I know people expect me

to take on roles and give speeches.

Even more, I expect it of myself.

I've been in Toastmasters for two years.

It's difficult to remember how awkward I felt...

I really do feel confident and capable...

all because of Toastmasters.

This week marks the

25th anniversary

of my Toastmasters Club.

First, they Killed My Father

First, they killed my Father.

I was walking through a Canadian museum where haunting black and white photographs filled every wall.

The photos were of people...

…lines and lines and lines of people.

The faces were staring down at me with hauntingly beautiful eyes. Some of the eyes held sorrow, others worry. But each of those faces told the brutal story of Cambodia’s history – Pol Pot’s savage killing of the nation’s people.

“First They Killed My Father” is Loung Ung’s story.

She was one of seven children, living happily in Phnom Penh. Her father was a high-ranking government official.

Life was a wonderful adventure –

until the alarms started...

until the trucks started rolling in...

until Pol Pot’s Khmer Army stormed the city

and forced everyone out.

It was 1975. She was five.

Suddenly, Loung Ung’s life of privilege was her biggest threat. She was taught to lie. She rubbed charcoal into her face, to cover her pale skin.

She learned that neighbours couldn’t be trusted...

That everyone was a possible spy.

She learned that people could be taken away – suddenly and without warning.

She learned that, sometimes... these people didn’t come back.

Slowly, day by day, food became scarce and hunger set in.

Slowly, one by one, members of her family were killed.

Eventually, the only way to survive was for the children to separate.

Loung Ung’s siblings were sent to labour camps. She was sent to train to be a child soldier.

Finally, Pol Pot was defeated.

Finally, the country was able to step towards the future.

Finally, Loung Ung was heading towards her family reunion.

Now, Loung Ung is living in America. Loung Ung’s sister, Chou still lives in Cambodia.

Leaving for America was Loung Ung’s happiest and most awful day. She was chosen to leave Cambodia - instead of her sister. She lived with guilt for years. The sound of a balloon popping or a car backfiring was enough to send the memories of bullets flying into her thoughts.

By writing “First They Killed My Father”, she relived all of the memories, helping herself to move forward. By writing this book, she has explained a tragic history in simple terms, filled with sorrow and fear.

The book is beautiful - in all of its brutality.

After a life of war, living a life of fear and sorrow is like giving in to the soldiers.

Loung Ung refuses to give in.

Her favourite quote is one of Albert Einstein’s – “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”

Everything is a miracle.

What a wonderful way to approach life.

http://www.harpercollins.com.au/author/authorExtra.aspx?isbn13=9780732265915&displayType=readingGuide

http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/4373.First_They_Killed_My_Father

http://www.harpercollins.com.au/author/authorExtra.aspx?authorID=50016322&displayType=interview

Somaly Shows the Way

She was abandoned as a small child.

Living around the homes of her village,

she ate what she could find

and slept where she dropped.

She was called all sorts of names –

not all of them were kind.

One day, a man she thought of as an uncle called her Somaly (The necklace of flowers lost in the virgin forest). This is the name she uses today.

At a young age, Somaly met a man

who claimed to be her grandfather.

He took her away from the village she was born in.

He forced her to work for him.

He beat her.

Aged 14, he arranged a marriage

for her to a violent man.

He was a soldier in his twenties.

Aged 15, her husband sold her to a brothel.

Somaly’s fighting spirit caused her to spend a lot of time in the punishment room. The room was a dark and underground. It was home to snakes and scorpions. The stench of sewerage was overwhelming.

After one attempt at escape, live maggots were dropped on her head.

This terrified her. The terror was such that she has nightmares about it still.

Somaly watched as girls were murdered –

shot and bundled away in rice sacks

to be dumped.

For two years, Somaly lived in conditions I cannot imagine.

For two years, Somaly was forced to sell herself to men.

It took her two years to get away.

She credits this to two men.

One, a Swiss client. The second, a Frenchman.

Somaly and the Frenchman (who she married), opened a bistro bar. She was 20 years old and delighted to be earning honest wages as a waiter.

Somaly had found freedom – but wasn’t free.

She had seen too much.

She couldn’t forget.

She was free – but she knew many girls were not.

Somaly started buying soap, toiletries and condoms. Delivering them to the hostel madams, she hoped to encourage the madams to keep the girls healthy.

She began arranging hospital visits for sick and hurt girls. This was when she realised that she had suffered less brutality than many other girls.

Nails had been driven into girl’s heads.

Young bodies were cut open with knives

because they were too small to be entered.

Girls were being stolen and sold at younger and younger ages.

(This was the best way to ensure that the girls were virgins.)

Somaly knew that she had to do more to help.

Turning to established Western aid agencies in Cambodia,

her pleas for help were repeatedly ignored.

They turned her down.

They denied that child prostitution existed in Cambodia.

Luckily, she found Save the Children – a British charity. Save the Children gave Somaly a home and a pocket of land.

They gave her support and hope.

A year later, twenty young women were living in that home. They were taught to sew and weave. They were taught to live again.

Today, Somaly has five hostels in Cambodia.

Around 200 rescued prostitutes live in these hostels at any one time.

Today, Somaly is spat at...

...abused

...threatened.

Prostitution in Cambodia is a billion dollar a year

business and Somaly threatens that.

Six years ago, Somaly’s daughter was abducted.

She was 13.

She was drugged, kidnapped and raped.

It is believed to have been a retaliation attack on Somaly.

Through her contacts, Somaly was able to track her daughter down, rescuing her before she could be sold across the border, into Thailand.

Somlay’s marriage ended.

She admits that she has trouble loving her own children. She never knew love. She never learned to love. Loving the child victims of prostitution is easier for her, as she knows their pain.

It would be simpler for Somaly to move somewhere quiet... to avoid the threats and abuse.

But she doesn’t.

She fights back and tolerates everything they do to her.

She knows how much the girls need her.

In my opinion – Cambodia needs Somaly.

We all need Somaly.

(I haven't read this story - but I plan to.)

2 Minute Challenge

Go and get yourself a stopwatch...

or your 'phone...

or the microwave (OK, you may have to go to the microwave!).

Ready?

At Toastmasters tonight, we had a lot of Table Topics and no speeches. A table topic is an impromptu speech. You are given a topic and are asked to speak about the topic for two minutes. If you speak for one minute, that's inside the allowed time and you can feel joy in your success! If you speak for a second over two and a half minutes, you can be disqualified from competitions. The most important thing to remember with table topics - is... Lie. Weave a tall story... Exaggerate... but pretend that you are being serious! Your challenge is to attempt the table topics which I asked my fellow Toastmasters to attempt. Stopwatch ready??? (A genie has been granting wishes. I am a little confused however, at the wishes which you have been asking for. Could you please explain why you made your wish?? 1. You wished for wings. 2. You wished to be sent to Antarctica for the winter. 3. You wished to be a chicken. 4. You wished for a hook to be placed at the end of your hand. 5. You wished for a never-ending supply of pumpkins. 6. You wished for the ability to see in the dark.

The Scotsman

About two weeks ago, my Scottish Toastmaster friend was diagnosed with Mesothelioma. (That’s the asbestos cancer.)

When Dan discovered he had mesothelioma, he accepted the news with as much positivity as he could. He expressed gratitude for his long and generally healthy life. Dan thought he must have started developing this cancer over 40 years ago. As is generally the case with this cancer, he was given less than a year to live. By the end of that first week, Dan had his things in order and was using an oxygen machine all of the time.

Dan’s final hope was that he would not wake up again...

The first time I heard Dan speak, I had to listen through his Scottish accent, but then I fell into his gentle rhythms and learned about the wee black birds, which migrate across the world. It was through these birds that Dan marked the seasons.

They were his passion.

I had no understanding of mesothelioma, so I looked it up.

This is what I found:

Mesothelioma is a rare cancer, caused by asbestos. Currently there is no cure for mesothelioma. The cancer cells develop in the protective sac that covers most of the body’s internal organs. Mesothelioma generally starts in the outer membrane of the lungs. Mesothelioma usually develops in only one lung, but the tumour grows across the lung until the entire organ is encased. Mesothelioma is almost always caused by exposure to asbestos. Mesothelioma can take as long as 40 years to develop. The symptoms of mesothelioma include: breathlessness, dry cough and pain. The symptoms in the later stages of the disease include: sudden and unexplained weight loss, spitting up sputum, spitting up blood, swallowing problems and hoarseness.

On the 5^th of July, Dan closed his eyes... and didn’t wake up again.

http://www.cancer.gov/cancertopics/factsheet/Sites-Types/mesothelioma

Wee Black Birds

May the wee black birds

carry you on their wings...

Breathe easy, Dan.

Happy Surprises

After being named the Toastmaster of the Year in my Club, word started to trickle through the people I work with. A few club members work with me.

I was still very surprised when one of the ladies I work with handed me this card, with a wonderful smile and words of congratulations.

Sometimes, you forget the little things...

Days follow the usual routine -get up, go to work, come home...

It didn't take much to surprise me out of my simple routine and bring a smile to my face.

And then, there was this...

A bunch of kids ran up to me, screaming my name. Turning, I noticed my Public Speaking students (who did a wonderful job in the Public Speaking Competition. One student even achieved the Highly Commended award.) With big grins, the students handed me a huge Thank You card and a great box of chocolates. Little things making a big difference.

Well, look at that...

Last night, I went to another Toastmasters Dinner. I have been a Toastmaster for over a year now. It was the Changeover Dinner, where members take up their club positions for the new year. (I'm sure I'll blog more on the role I've been elected to.)

I was a little surprised to hear that I am second in charge and will be running the club if the President is away... Being that she was reluctant take on the position, I am a little worried.

Last night, I ran the dinner meeting. For the most of it, I did well. There were only a few slight hiccups - which the others probably didn't even notice. I was surprised at one point, however, when they elected me as the Toastmaster of the Year. I didn't even know that there was such an award. I felt honoured that they would recognise my efforts and achievements in such a public way. Here's my trophy...

... well... a section of it anyway. I have to be honest and say that I have made a lot of progress in the area of Public Speaking and owe all of my new skills and cofidence to the club and its members.

At work, I am currently preparing some students for a public speaking competition. This is my first time to organise the students for this competition and felt relatively confident in their readiness for next week's competition. Another, more experienced teacher has expressed real confidence in some of the students and has marvelled at the way I have prepared them.... It's all down to Toastmasters. (I'll let you know how the students do.)

A Thorny Topic

I'm a teacher.

I have been teaching for almost 13 years.

In all of that time, there is one subject which I

have managed to avoid...

Music...

...and this is why -

I don't understand this! It is like another language - a language which I never learned. It is full of secret symbols and encrypted messages. I recognise some of the symbols.... I even know some musical terms. I know that there is a line of notes in the top picture - but those notes with the tails... and those ones where they join up at the top... I'm lost.

If I don't understand it, I can't teach it.

So, I was surprised when I was asked to replace our music teacher while she was away on holidays. This teacher is lovely. She's energetic and enthusiastic and our students are lucky to have her as their teacher. She is very efficient and highly organised, and for this, I am very grateful. It was her efficiency which made her type up a few sheets of paper for me. These sheets of paper were my lifeline and I clung to them desperately during the first week. On these pages, she told me where I needed to be and when I needed to be there. She told me which resources I needed to take with me, which storeroom I would find the resources in and the best times to collect, set up, clean and return the sources. I followed her detailed notes absolutely and relied on them totally. They were constantly with me and never far from my reach. By the second week, I was beginning to feel more confident. This allowed my child-like curiosity and energy to set in. I began looking through the storerooms to find interesting instruments. This is one instrument I found...

...a rainstick.

I love these! I started to carry the rainstick around to all of my classes. I would sit in front of the students and play the instrument. Their little faces would light up and they would watch with excitement. Then, I would tell them that the rainstick had nothing to do with the lesson. I told them that I loved the rainstick and was playing just because it was so cool. Then I would go on with my lesson.

Another teacher saw me carrying the rainstick around. He can read music. He understands those symbols and encrypted messages. He can even write sheet music! He said this to me: Did you know that this instrument originated in Peru. Did you know,that this instrument was used by the ancient tribesmen to serenade the Gods.... They played the rainstick to the Gods in the hope that the Gods would let the rain fall over their fields and crops. Did you know, he asked, that this instrument was made from a cactus.

A cactus? Of course, he was right.

The ancient tribesmen would cut off the dead ranches of the cactus tree. The men would then hollow out the branch and be left with something looking like this...

Then they would get a hammer or stone and hammer the thorns back through the cactus. They would push the thorns into the cactus, so that the centre of the branch was a mass of thorns - layers on layers of thorns.

The tribesmen would seal off one end of the branch. Then, they poured dried berries, pebbles or grain into the branch and sealed off the top end. Each time they turned the branch, gravity would push the pebbles or grain to the lowest point of the branch. As the pebbles fell towards the lowest point, they would hit each of the thorns.

The impact of the pebbles on the thorns creates the beautiful sound of the rainmaker.

I am finishing my last days as the music teacher...

This is what I have learned - I don't need to know how to read sheet music to teach young children music. I don't need to understand all of those secret symbols. If I can teach a child to love the rainmaker, there is a real chance that they will be interested in music. This interest will encourage them to learn to read the secret symbols when they are given the chance.

I won't avoid teaching music anymore.

(This was my tenth Toastmasters Speech! It won another trophy.)

The Fistula Girls

I recently re-read a book. The story is heartbreaking... but its also a story of hope.

This post is inspired by that story.

In Ethiopia, much of the population live in remote areas – often hundreds of kilometres from the nearest road. Water supplies are unreliable, hygiene is poor and money is difficult to come by.

Ethiopian culture sees girls married when they are about 12 years old. Due to malnutrition, their bodies are not yet able to bear children. By the age of 15, most of the girls will be pregnant with their first child. Being so far from a hospital, they will have no care during their pregnancy and will deliver their baby in their small hut. Sometimes, the birth goes well and the community welcomes a new child. More often, the labour does not go well.

It is not unusual for these girls to be in labour for 5 days – even longer. The unborn baby is unable to live with the constant pressure of a constricting uterus. After two days of pressure, most of the babies die inside their mother. The young mother remains in labour for a few more days. She has to wait for her unborn child to shrink in size before her small body can deliver it.

This difficult labour causes a tear, or a hole to form between her bladder and uterus. This tear is called an obstetric fistula. Through the fistula, urine dribbles constantly and uncontrollably down the girl’s legs. In the worst cases, urine and faeces will drip down her legs, 24 hours a day.

The young girl now has to deal with the death of her first child. She is exhausted and in pain. She is now living with a new condition, which repulses everyone around her, regardless of how hard she tries to keep herself clean. Very often, her husband will not be able to tolerate her smell and will divorce her. He will leave her to a life of abandonment and shame. She will be forced to live separately from the community.

Some women live with this condition their whole life. Others would have died from infections resulting from their fistula. The lucky ones find their way to a Fistula Hospital.

In 1959, two doctors travelled from Australia to work in an Ethiopian hospital. Their first fistula girl broke their hearts and they dedicated their lives to these girls.

Now, in 2010, Doctor Catherine Hamlin is still living in Ethiopia, still treating fistula patients. (She buried her husband in an Ethiopian graveyard.)

The book “Hospital By The River” was written by Dr C. Hamlin. In it, she shares the stories of many of her patients. Many of the girls walked kilometres to reach the hospital. Others were carried for days by a father or husband. Some of the older women had to wait for over a decade in order to save enough money to afford a bus ticket to the hospital.

Since the doctors arrived in Ethiopia, more than 30 000 women have been cured of their fistula. The operation is relatively simple. Women with extensive damage or scarring may need more than one operation. The hospital has maintained a 93% success rate for decades.

The fistula doctors have taught many other doctors to perform this operation. These doctors are now repairing fistulas in other countries. Ethiopia now has 3 fistula hospitals and another two hospitals are currently being built. Some doctors are living in remote areas, monitoring pregnancies, assisting with deliveries and repairing fistulas where needed.

Many of the hospital’s nursing staff were once fistula girls. They arrived at the hospital downcast and shame-faced. These girls now wear a smile on their beautiful faces. They welcome new patients to the hospitals. What’s the cost of this smile?

US$300. For three hundred American dollars, a girl will have her fistula repaired. She will receive her surgery, all medications, three weeks in hospital and a new dress to wear home. No patient has ever paid for her treatment.

The hospitals are registered charities. The administrators work voluntarily. They promise that every cent from every dollar goes to the hospitals and to the patients. Visit the website to see the smiling faces of girls who no longer have to live with an obstetric fistula. Read the books. The fistula girls are worth it.

htttp://www.hamlinfistula.org

trophy time

Standing before an attentive group, speaking and sharing pieces of yourself can be nerve-wracking. I can't believe that I still get shaky... still get a little edgy... but after nine speeches, I know that I am becoming a better speaker.

What's really important

I worry. I worry about the little things. I worry about my weight and how much I’ve put on over the Christmas holidays. I worry whether my clothes still fit. I worry whether the clothes I wear even match. What about the shoes? Do the shoes match my clothes? I worry about bigger things. I worry about my car and whether it will live until its next service. I worry about work and whether I will get enough of it. I worry about paying the bills. I worry about the mortgage. What if I have to sell my house?

I’ve always worried. When I was younger, I always thought I would end up with a stomach ulcer by the time I was in my 20’s.

Then I went to Thailand. I was working in Bangkok and lived close to the Mekong River. Many weekends, I would walk down to the river. I’d lean against a filthy railing and watch people rushing from the boats. The river had the worst stink I have ever smelled. The water was thick. It was a deep brown colour, until the motor of a boat unsettled the bottom and a thick, black sludge rose to the surface. The sight of mouldy vegetables drifting with the current was common. The surface was littered with countless plastic bags, straws and drinking bottles. Sometimes, I’d see a dead, bloated cat float past. The sight of dead fish, bobbing on the surface was never a surprise.

The river was so busy. An endless stream of ferries spewed people onto the wharf, before throwing out streams of black smoke and moving off down the river once more. Most of the boats were ancient ferries, paint peeling and overcrowded. Beside the larger boats were the long boats. These were the longer, narrow boats with a canvas roof offering shelter from the steamy Bangkok heat. The boats carried the locals through the canals- the klongs. They carried the locals to the shops, temples and their work. In the afternoon, the klong boats carried them home again.

Tourists used the long boats to explore the narrow klongs running off the Mekong. After negotiations of payment, the driver would start his engine, navigate his way across the busy Mekong and pull into one of the canals. The first time I sat on a long boat, I held onto the side of the boat and closed my mouth tightly in a desperate attempt to stop the Mekong from splashing into my mouth.

The first thing I noticed was the poverty. The extreme poverty. The houses were made from scraps of timber and scavenged pieces of tin. The poorest of the houses were built under the bridges. These houses didn’t require a roof. Klong houses were built on stilts that rose shakily from the muddy depths of the canal. Each time a boat moved passed the houses, they rocked gently as the wash hit the stilts. Open windows invited in the stench of the putrid river. Doors opened out to the water, lapping on the front step.

As I looked closer, I started to really see the houses. Each one had the King’s yellow flag and the Thai National flag. The flags were flapping gently in the river breeze. Every home had a big potted plant at the doorstep. Colourful flowers spilled out from the pot, welcoming home the family.

And then... I noticed the boys. The klong boys. These boys were diving, splashing, leaping and jumping into the river. The water glistened off their wet, brown skin. Their shaved heads sparkled as the water was shaken from their very short hair. They laughed and played. And they smiled. These boys had smiles that were so wide they bounced from the sides of the canals and into my long boat. Their smiles lit up my world.

On seeing a foreigner in their canal, they would yell out “Hello!” and dive back into the water, laughing and teasing each other. I always answered. I always raised my hand and yelled their greeting back at them. They would scream with joy and push each other under the water in excitement. Sometimes, there was a brave boy amongst them. He would cry out “I love you!” before leaping back into the safety of the canal. I would always answer. I would always say that I loved them, too. Those simple words would send the boys into somersaults of joy. Their smiles would widen.

These boys won’t have to worry about how chocolate and wine have added to their waistline, because these boys will probably never eat or drink these pleasures. These boys will never have to worry about whether their clothes match and are appropriate for different occasions... they probably only have a couple of sets of clothes. These boys won’t have to worry about whether their shoes match their clothes, because they probably only have two pairs of shoes.

They won’t have to worry about their car – I doubt they will ever be able to afford one. They will have to worry about work. They will have to worry about where they will live – but these boys will never live in anything like my home.

These boys have so much less than me... and yet, they have so much more.

When I start to worry, I try to think back to the klong boys... the boys who live in houses made from scavenged timber... the boys whose homes shake when a boat drifts past... the boys who sleep above the stench of the Mekong... the boys who were born into families of poverty... the boys with the biggest smiles I have ever seen.

The boys who showed me how to put things into perspective.