About this story:
Asked to write a speech on a controversial subject, I composed this piece, entitled “The Price of Morality.” The story reflected my own guilt at having seen human suffering but done nothing to mitigate it. At the same time, the story addressed the concept of a universal morality, and how our own morality and values systems are unique to us, and should not be imposed on foreign cultures. The speech at once addressed, without mentioning, US involvement in Iraq, North Korea, and Iran, and the US failure to act in Darfur, Cambodia, or any number of thousands of other places where we possess the power to save the lives of millions of people. The story addresses my own demons. Although I am well versed in many of the cultures of Asia, I often find it difficult not to pass judgement on the absurdities of primitive life. I come from an extremely aggressive, Italian, New York background, which I find it hard to disassociate myself from.
We often shoot the messenger. As a writer and speaker, I am, always the messenger, and since I write from a first person perspective, I am also the message. Consequently, I absorb all of the negative reader comments which my stories evoke.
Finally, the story is a plea, that I not be judged, because at the end of the story, most people will find that they would have done no better than me.
The price of Morality
Morality is a concept, an illusion, which is only shared by the upper class.
How many of you, by show of hands, would ever commit a murder?
None?
Could we define murder? If you actively kill someone, is this murder?
So, none of you would actively kill someone, such as a baby. But could we also define murder as, you have the power to save a life, but you take no action? Using this new definition, if a baby were choking to death, right in front of you, would you pick it up and clear its airway? If you didn’t, would that be considered murder?
By show of hands, how many of you would ever sell your daughter?
Wow! This is a moral group.
So, would it be fair if we judged harshly a family who sold their daughter? If so, I have a story for you.
During my first six months in Cambodia, I was living in a Khmer guesthouse, where I had been adopted as one of the family. The father collected my rent and provided me with physical security. The mother cleaned my room. The grandmother did my laundry. The son was my translator. One cousin was my Khmer language teacher. A slew of uncles and male cousins took turns acting as my driver. I kept the whole family employed, and they were incredibly kind to me. Their young, unmarried daughter, Srey Mat always served my breakfast with a smile, as we exchanged pleasantries. She was studying at the university and I often asked about her studies.
The family invited me to all of their private celebrations, children’s birthdays, weddings, and graduations. With a tremendous, extended family all living in close proximity, there was a reason to celebrate, almost every day. The parties were fun, and I counted myself lucky to have been invited into this inner-circle that very few foreigners will ever penetrate.
On the flip side, however, the parties became an annoyance and a drag. The peace treaty, ending the civil war, was less than ten years old, and the country could barely be called developing. As a result most Khmers, even young people, still listened to traditional music and did traditional Apsara dancing, which I found boring. I worked hard in Cambodia, and on my nights off, I wanted to blow off steam by going to the disco and shaking and grinding with my friends. Apsara was the last thing I wanted, pivoting slowly around a fixed point in the room, with the whole family, twisting my wrists in intricate circles.
After a few weeks, I began making any excuse to avoid family functions. By the time Srey Mat invited me to her graduation party, two things were driving me toward moving out completely. The first was the parties. The family felt very hurt any time I turned down the invitation. The other, was that I was beginning to feel pressure to marry Srey Mat. The parties often felt like a way of introducing the happy couple, who barely knew each other, to the whole family and the community.
I explained to Srey Mat, regretfully, that I was off on a journalism assignment, in Thailand, the next morning.
Srey Mat got very annoyed. She rolled her eyes, and said in an annoyed voice, “I will go talk to my uncle.”
I was in my room, making last minute travel arrangements, when Srey Mat knocked at my door. “OK, we will have the party tonight, instead of tomorrow.” She announce, as if some great problem had been settled.
Seeing no other way out of the party, I made arrangements to sleep at a friend’s house, my last night in Cambodia. I was hoping to be packed and out of the guesthouse by the time the party started. But unfortunately, my last minute meetings and preparations lasted long past dinner time. I wasn’t two seconds into my packing when Srey Mat came to my room.
“Toni, dancing.” She ordered.
“Yes, thank you. I will be there as soon as I can.”
She got really annoyed, and stormed out. A few minutes later she came back.
“Toni, dancing. You must come now.”
“No, I must pack now.” I corrected. “And you must stop giving me orders now. I will come when I finish.”
She came to my room about ten more times, and I finally yelled. “I KNOW, TONI! DANCING! I will come when I finish.”
I had considered popping in for a few minutes. But by this point, I new I was lying. Srey Mat was a nice girl, but in Cambodia the first date is the wedding. And I had no desire to get married.
I stopped into the office to have Srey Mat store my extra gear for me?
“Could you just hold this stuff for me?” I asked.
“Why?”
“Because I am going to Thailand, and I don’t need to take everything with me.”
“And you will never come back?” she asked, like a hurt child.
“No, I meant hold this for me till I get back.”
“But when are you coming back?”
“Maybe next Thursday.”
“NEXT THURSDAY!” she shouted. Unable to read her inflexion, I wasn’t sure if she was surprised or angry, or if she just didn’t believe me. “Maybe, or the week after. I don’t know.”
Srey Mat was about to make some kind of protest, but I ran back to my room.
In case anyone is wondering, NO! I didn’t sleep with her. In fact, as I said, we had never even been on a date. The extent of our relationship was that she worked in the guesthouse.
I had my bags over my shoulders, and was heading to the door, when she came again.
“You come party now?”
“Of course, let me just put these in the car.” I lied.
I loaded my bags on a motto, and took off.
The assignment ran long, and I wound up staying two weeks in Thailand. I couldn’t bring myself to leave the air-conditioned comfort of shopping malls, cafes without grenade screens, hot water in the shower, no one robbing you when you walk down the street, and no landmine victims begging money. Cambodia doesn’t have shopping malls or cinemas. All of the restaurants in Cambodia are outdoors. And you sit on plastic lawn furniture. I was tired of the whole Cambodia scene. I also was glad to be away from corrupt public officials. While I was in Thailand, I had decided to quit my job at the Cambodian Ministry of the Interior, before someone killed me.
While I was gone I had asked a Khmer friend, to find an apartment for me, and I moved in the night of my return. The next day I went to the guesthouse, when Srey Mat was not working, and collected my belongings. I tried to get back into the swing of boxing and teaching and trying to write about Cambodia, but two weeks in Thailand had spoiled me. I hated everything about Cambodia, and it was all I could do to get out of bed in the morning.
By moving out of the guesthouse, I had lost all of my paid friends, particularly Nat, my driver, Sameth, my translator, and Sawath, my journalism assistant. A few days later, I was thrilled to see Nat come walking in the door of my gym. Unfortunately, he was all business. He had only come to deliver a note from Srey Mat.
“Many people really miss you.” He said, his eyes watering.
“I miss you guys too.” I said. And it was true. But on the other hand, was it me they missed or was it the money I gave them? It wasn’t like any of them ever stopped by for coffee.
“You know,” he began casually. “If you want to marry Srey Mat, I think her family would let her go cheap.”
“I’m not going to marry Srey Mat.” I said. It was like he thought my only objection to marrying her was the price.
“Her family really likes you.” He insisted. “They would probably let you marry her for about two thousand dollars.”
What a bargain! They would sell me their daughter for the rest of her natural life for only two Grand. My respect for the culture was waning.
“How much if I just want her for a couple of hours?” I asked, under my breath.
Luckily Nat didn’t hear me. After he made me promise ten times to come visit the guesthouse he was gone.
The note began: Toni, why did you break my heart like that? You said that you would come back to the guest house. And you didn’t. Why don’t you ever come see me?
Srey Mat had called me several times, since I had been back in Phnom Penh. Twice I had made some lame excuse not to go see her. The third time she called, I agreed to go to a party at the guest house. But then I blew it off.
Her note went on to say, you told everyone else that you love. Why haven’t you told me?
I never told anyone I loved her. I did tell Samedth, Sawathh and Nat that I LIKED her. And the local Khmer gossip columns had written that I had a Khmer girl who I wanted to marry. But they never gave her a name.
I went to the guesthouse that night and Srey Mat looked angry.
“What do you want here?”
“You sent me a letter saying I should come.” I began.
“Of course I did. What did you think? That I would do nothing?”
“Truthfully I haven’t thought about you at all since I left here.” I admitted.
“You said you were coming back? Was that another one of your lies?”
“I did come back.” I protested. “You can ask your sister. I came here and took my things.”
She gave me an “I’ll see about that.” Look.
“What do you mean another one of my lies? When have I ever lied to you?”
In the time I knew Srey Mat it was rare that I said more than three personal sentences to her on a given day. I didn’t think I had ever lied to her.
“You said that you would come here for the party and you didn’t come.”
“I’m sorry, I should have called.”
“Everyone was waiting for you.”
She was right. I was wrong to say I would come and then not go. But “everyone was waiting for me?” What right did everyone have to wait for me? Now, I was angry.
“What do you mean everyone was waiting for me?”
“Many people miss you at the guesthouse.”
“And I miss them. But I have a life. And that keeps me busy.”
“I heard you quit your job at the government. You have plenty of time.”
I cursed this small town where everyone knew everything. “It’s none of your business where or when I work. And yes, I am still busy writing books and magazine articles.”
“All you are doing now is teaching?” She asked, as if she hadn’t heard what I had said.
“I am still writing books and magazine articles.” I repeated.
I had told her probably a hundred times that writing was my real profession and that I was just teaching to make ends meet. But none of the Khmers understood that. Toni is a teacher, a movie star, and boxer, was all they had room for.
“You told people that you liked me.” She said.
“Who did I tell?” Notice I wasn’t disagreeing. I just wanted to see what she would say.
“You told Samedth, Sawathh, and Nat.”
Dough!!! Busted. The girl had done her homework.
“Sorry. I do like you. But I don’t want to marry you.” I answered.
“Why not?”
“Because in my culture it is normal for us to go on some dates before getting married. I can’t even ask you out to dinner in this culture.”
“You want to eat dinner?” She asked, signalling the waitress, as if once I had eaten I would marry her.
“NO! I mean you and I can’t even go out together. So how could we marry?”
“We are allowed to go out together.” She said.
On the one hand this new information raised my hopes. But I was so fed up with the situation, that I didn’t even want to look at her anymore.
“Your family would let us go out?” I asked, out of morbid curiosity.
“Yes, once we announced our engagement we can go out together.”
“UUUGH! I don’t want to get married!”
“You want to get engaged but not married? That is strange. We could never do that.”
“No, I don’t want to get engaged or married”
“Then how would we go out?”
“That is my point.” I felt like I was playing a stuck record.
“But this is our culture.” She protested. “Why can’t you just do what our culture says?”
“Because you have a screwed up culture!” I shouted. There, I had said it. No one ever says that when they are writing about a foreign country. But this whole situation was just wrong. “Your culture tells you to marry someone you don’t know, simply because you think he is rich, and can take you to the USA. I have tried to tell you guys a million times I am not rich. I live hand to mouth.”
“You want to take me to USA with you? You cannot, not unless we get engaged.”
“I am not getting engaged with you. I am not marrying you. And I am not taking you back to America.”
“You created a lot of problems by telling people you loved me.”
“LIKED you.” I corrected.
“If they know you love me, but you don’t marry me, I will loose face, and no one else will want to marry me.”
As much was I done with this situation, I did feel a slight tinge of guilt. If what she said was true, and I was becoming a stumbling block to her marrying some fat old guy, who was a good marriage candidate because he had a lot of sheep, then I really needed to set things right. “Well, what can I do?” I asked.
“You could marry me.”
“Is there a second option?”
“You could come with me to the province, and apologize to my mother.” “No, I can’t go with you to the province. Then they would expect us to marry.”
“No, they wouldn’t. But you have to meet my whole family and apologize.”
It was a trap. And we both knew it. How in the world could you marry someone who you had trapped?
“How about this. Since Sawathh, Samedth, and Nat are the only people who know, I will tell them, and I will apologize.”
She kept pushing for the province. I looked at my watch.
“I have to go.” I said.
There didn’t seem to be any acceptable way out of this. We were sitting out on the wooden porch, alone, overlooking the moonlit lake. It was the longest we had ever talked, and the first time we had ever been left alone. The irony was that I felt that we were getting to know each other for the first time, and that maybe something could have happened between us. For a thousandth of a second, the evil Antonio, from episode 23 jumped into my head and whispered. “I bet you can’t get her into bed.”
“I bet I can!” I yelled.
“Can what?” asked Srey Mat.
“Can, can, can go now.”
I kissed her deeply and caressed the sumptuous curves of her body, before I left.
No, actually I very awkwardly turned my back on her, and made my way through the living room, where her entire family was waiting, expectantly. The look of disappointment and anger on their faces said it all.
The fattest, laziest, drunkest of her cousins turned to the aged woman sitting next to him, and said, in rural Khmer, “Damn! Maw, now we’ll have to keep working at our jobs, what with no American-son-in-law to sponge off of, and all.”
Down a dark corridor I was very much afraid that her cousins would be waiting for me with a baseball bat. I honestly think they had been planning something, but I got out before Srey Mat could alert them.
The craziest thing about the Srey Mat break up was that it was the second break up I had had that week, with someone who I wasn’t dating.
I wished I could be a foreign correspondent back in Brooklyn.
I walked away from the Srey Mat situation angry and confused. I blamed the Khmers and accused them of having no integrity to sell their daughters in that way. On the flip side, I knew the history. Many of my Khmer friends had suffered during the Khmer genocide, and they learned that even husbands and wives would fight over food if the situation became desperate enough. Babies and children under five stood the least probability of surviving, so their food was often diverted to older siblings, who might have a chance. In some instances, parents actually stole food from their children. An associate of mine once broke into tears, essentially admitting that he had sold out his parents, who were summarily executed.
A new definition I invented for morality, after living in Cambodia, was “Morality, true morality, is that set of values that you would maintain even at the point of death.”
If selling your daughter to a rich foreigner were the only way to guarantee that she would never know hunger, and that she would never have to chose which of her children should live or die, would you do it?
The next moral awaking struck me when I was in Siem Reap doing some adventure stories for a tourism company. While we were exploring a sacred Hindu cave, we heard that there was a monk in a nearby village who had been granted the divine power of healing. Thinking it would make a good story, I got back in my air-conditioned landcruiser, complete with my driver, my bodyguard and my guide. As the jungle gave way to a clearing, we found ourselves in a small town that didn’t seem to have been recorded on any map.
The streets were crammed full of merchants and what appeared to be families of pilgrims, had walked from long distances. It turned out that, this thriving village of several thousand people had only grown up in the last few weeks. As word spread that there was a monk who could cure people, families came from all over the country, with their ill and dying relatives in tow. Many of the patients had been transported on primitive oxcarts, with family members taking turns, pushing. Their IV bottles were supported on bamboo poles.
Those waiting to see the monk and experience his healing touch lay in a makeshift hospital in an open field. We were told they counted over one thousand of the sickest and most desperate of the poorest and least educated classes. Each sick person had been accompanied by his or her family. So, estimates were that nearly 6,000 people were living in and around the open field, with no toilets, no sanitary services, and no clean drinking water.
An ancient man, his head swollen to three times normal size, suffered only inches in front of me. Overwhelmed, I was unable to even take photos. The people I interviewed all told me the same story. They had no money for and no access to quality healthcare. Meanwhile, I didn’t see Prime Minister Thaksin’s family among those patiently dying, while they waited for a miracle. The problem wasn’t that quality healthcare was impossible to find in Cambodia, but it was limited to the big hospital in Phnom Penh, frequented by the rich pesa-novante. The poor were relegated to faith cures, witch doctors and counterfeit medicines which robbed them of their meager funds, and often killed them faster than if the disease had gone untreated.
Also conspicuously absent were the foreign powers, the NGOs, and most notably, America, who pumped billions of dollars of aid into the country, never asking for accountability. Generals and Politicians, with official salaries of $50 per month, drove SUVs and lived in expansive villas, while the poor suffered.
Thavrin, my guide, suddenly blanched. He had obviously seen something so horrible that he was stricken dumb, motioning that I should look behind me. When I turned around, I found a distraught young mother, tears streaming down her dust covered face. In her arms, she held a baby, horribly mishapen, twisted into a gruesome monster child, horribly small and underweight. The child was obviously in constant pain, and screamed, bone chilling, high-pitch cry, both day and night.
Once again, my camera remained in its case. I was angry at this woman for exposing em to this. My mind raced at the speed of light and a thousand alternate realities manifested themselves in my imagination. This was my child, and I was powerless to help. This was my niece or nephew. But I knew it wasn’t them, because they were happy, healthy children in an upper middle class neighborhood in America.
If that were your baby, and an operation, which costs $100,000 you would save its life, show of hands how many of you would beg, borrow or steal the money to save your child?
Overwhelmed, I turned away. The crowd was closing in on me. Prompted by my white face, they were reaching their pathetic claws toward me in desperation. Even after centuries of disappointment they continued to believe that the West would take away their problems.
Thavrin and I pushed our way to through the crowd. We escaped in the Landcruiser, driving silently for the next several hours, back to my apartment in the capitol. The image of that terrified woman and her dying baby was permanently burned on my brain.
Retelling this story, months later in Washington DC, I told my audience how the first time this story appeared in print, I received a concerned letter from a reader who asked, “And what did you do about the baby?
I asked my audience.
Would you pay $10,000 to save the life of your own baby?
Would you do it for your first cousin who you are close to?
Would you do it for your eighth cousin twice removed?
Would you do it for this random baby in Cambodia who I just told you about?
I have her address. We could send the money on Western Union.
If your answer is no, then, by your own definition, you are all murders.
Thinking back on Sre Mat’s family trying to sell her for $2,000, I could have judged them, but I ahd never experience the Cambodian level of hopelessness. And so, I don’t know how I would react.
Who was I to judge anyone? I had seen that baby, and I walked away, having done nothing. And so, by our definition, I was guilty of murder.
