Seeing People, Not Stereotypes

When I first met Veasna, he was just another faceless moto taxi driver in a frenzied mob outside a hostel in downtown Phnom Penh. When we said goodbye several weeks later, he’d become a good friend.

Over the span of a month and a half Veasna and I would have long conversations as he expertly maneuvered us in and out of rush hour traffic between my apartment and the office where I worked across town. What I remember most about those conversations was the way that stereotypes – both his and mine – were constantly being challenged.

We talked about his view of the world, rooted in Buddhism, and mine, centered on the person of Christ. Because Cambodia is almost entirely Buddhist, I was surprised to learn that Veasna sometimes attended a Christian church on the weekends. I’d somehow concluded that church hopping was a uniquely American pastime. He seemed surprised to learn that “American� and “Christian� aren’t necessarily the same thing, and listened intently as I attempted to explain my belief that the way of Jesus is not only quite different, but in fact far better and more life-giving than the hedonism, the materialism and the addiction to whatever is big, powerful, shiny or new, all of which my culture as a whole does not question.

We talked about our families. He told me about his sister, a widow, who was dying of AIDS. He told me he worried about her kids and that he wanted, more than anything, to be able to provide for them. He told me that in order to get a good job, he needed to improve his English. I remember both his pride and his gratitude the day he enrolled in an English certificate program, made possible by the steady work my commute provided him.

One afternoon, Veasna sent me a text message saying he wouldn’t be able to pick me up. Something had happened, he said, and he’d have to explain it to me the next morning. When he pulled up to my apartment the next day and slowly got off his bike, he was visibly shaken. His huge smile had vanished and he wasn’t making eye contact. His fists were clenched as he told me about the police officer who had found him waiting outside the very hostel where we had met not long before. Without warning, the officer had kicked him in the shins and hit him over the head for allegedly disturbing some tourists. These tourists, horrified by what they had just witnessed, insisted he had done nothing wrong, and the officer, without apology, turned and walked away.

Returning to the hostel was no longer an option, Veasna told me, even though it would cripple his ability to find customers who needed rides. I silently wondered which was worse for him, whether it was the fear or the shame. Either way, the damage had been done, and I’ll never forget what happened next.

Standing there with his fists clenched, Veasna looked up at me for the first time. He told me with a look of determination that if he had a gun in that moment he would have pulled the trigger. Once again he returned his gaze to the ground and took a deep breath, perhaps considering the overwhelming and terrifying weight of his words. He then added that he was glad he didn’t have a gun, because his sister and her family needed him in their lives.

I was at a loss for words. Veasna had told me his painful story, something he didn’t even want his family to know. I told him that what the police officer had done was wrong. I affirmed his courage and restraint and his thinking of others even in the middle of it all. And I reminded him that he was in good company; Jesus too had turned the other cheek. Jesus too had suffered. Jesus had been there with him.

When I got on a plane to fly home, the story hadn’t come to a neat conclusion. Veasna and his family were still poor. His sister was still dying of AIDS. As far as I could tell, Veasna was still Buddhist. And the police officer? He almost certainly got away with his crime. But Veasna and I have stayed in touch, albeit sporadically, and he often closes his emails by thanking me for my friendship and the kindness I showed him. I do likewise.

Before, I had held simplistic stereotypes of Cambodians and Buddhists and moto taxi drivers. In Veasna I saw through the stereotypes and recognized a person, an irreplaceable image bearer of God, which no stereotype can contain.

This post originally appeared over at Not Like Me, a blog based on a book by the same title by a dude named Eric Bryant.