You Can’t Unsee, Unhear, Unknow or Unsmell
How do you even begin to describe the kind of hopelessness that settles in your chest and doesn’t let go?
I never imagined I would be walking ankle deep in human sewage. That such a place could exist. That people would live in it, breathe it, raise their children in it. Walk through it as if it were normal. And yet, for them and for far too many others across the world, this is simply life. Normal.
This was in a village just outside of Siem Reap, Cambodia, nestled at the base of a mountain. A place where domestic violence, child abuse, child abandonment, addiction, disease, and untreated injuries weren’t exceptions. They were the rule. I saw a woman with a crushed, deformed hand broken long ago, never treated. Another with a black eye. Children under 12 abandoned by their parents. Kids who never made it school. Unplanned pregnancies. A grandmother looking after 15 grandkids, the parents long gone and until we arrived that day, she had nothing to feed them. Nothing.
We handed out 120 bags of 25kg rice. Each recipient had a story. But 120 bags wasn’t enough. Not even close.
There was no sanitation. No sewerage system. No toilets, not even a hole in the ground. The stench was overpowering. Human waste lay evident everywhere. And amidst the unbearable humidity and heat, I found myself doubled over, fighting the urge to vomit, trying not to react in a way that might offend the people who live this everyday reality that I was only just glimpsing.
It’s been over 2 weeks since I stood in that village, and the image and memory are vivid. Frozen in place, unable to look away.
Even hours later, on an air-conditioned bus, I couldn’t escape it. The smell lingered on my skin, my clothes, my shoes. I kept dry retching. Two hours I spent there. But they live it. Every. Single. Day.
My developed world upbringing did nothing to prepare me. No resilience. No emotional buffer. Just shock and guilt and heartbreak.
I’m not even sure the people living there fully grasp just how dire their situation is. I spoke to my NGO mentor; she is an Aussie who has been commuting from South Australia to Cambodia up to four times a year for the last 15 years and who started the Agricultural learning centre with Cows for Cambodia. She couldn’t see any signs of other NGO’s having stepped foot in that village.
Why? Because its deemed hopeless. Too complicated, too layered, too broken to fix. We sat for hours unpacking that. And whilst I understood - sort of, it doesn’t sit right. It never will.
How can a community be written off as “too hard”? We live in a country with clean water, flushing toilets, medical care, houses, material wealth, and opportunity. How can the world look the other way and decide not to care?
My brain leapt into problem-solving mode: What if we build toilets? They cost around $300usd each. But nothing is ever that simple. If it were, it would have been done by now.
Everywhere I turned, I saw injustice. Every idea I voiced was met with a gentle reminder; “Stay in your lane.” Stick to what we came here to do. Stay within the remit of the school and our NGO.
But how do you “stay in your lane” when every cell in your body is screaming that this is not okay?
This experience is etched into my heart and my soul. You can’t unsee what I saw. You can’t unhear the stories. You can’t unknow. And you can’t unsmell.
I’m writing this from Koh Samui, beer in hand, surrounded by comfort and sunshine. My phone’s lighting up with kind messages from people saying how inspired they are by what I’ve “achieved”.
But inside, I feel cracked open.
I’ve been gifted an experience that’s changed me. One that’s shifted how I see the world. And more importantly, how I see privilege.
I keep thinking of the people in that village. Still walking through sewage. Still without food. Still living without basic human dignity.
And so, to all the Plumber's out there (including my Husband) and every single person involved in building and maintaining sanitation and sewerage systems - thank you. Truly. Your work matters more than most of us ever realise. My gratitude for something as “simple” as a toilet has multiplied a thousandfold. Before this trip, it hadn’t even crossed my mind to be thankful for it.
I left that village with heavy shoes and a heavier heart but also with clarity.
We can’t fix everything. But we also can’t look away. And maybe, just maybe, it starts with seeing what most people never have to… and choosing not to forget it.
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