The steady rumble of uninvited trucks tries to pry into the safety of my dream, a dream in which I am still a child prancing along the trail toward the rice fields where my family works in the Prey Veng province of Cambodia's countryside. It is a cheerful morning as I pull at my grandfather's bony fingers, tugging him along while he struggles to keep up. . . .
He bends close, squints his eyes at mine, and peeks into my thoughts as though he were the village fortune-teller. I find it unnerving and so I glance down at my bare and dirty toes. He won't allow it. With a touch from his calloused finger to my chin he raises my gaze. He speaks assuredly, but still with enough grandfatherly giggle trailing in his voice to make certain my little-girl ears pay attention to every smiling syllable.
"Life will not always be so hard or cruel. Our difficulties are but a moment."
I stare back, trying to make sense of his words, for my life is neither hard nor cruel. I am still too young to recognize that we are poor-that in spite of the grandeur of the province and the hours my family toils each day, we don't own the land on which we work. I haven't yet grasped that earning enough money to buy food on the very day we eat it isn't an adventure embraced by the world.
The rumble grows louder, and Grandfather rocks forward on his toes.
"Remember, Sang Ly. When you find your purpose-and you will find your purpose-never let go. Peace is a product of both patience and persistence."
How can a child pretend to make sense of such a puzzling phrase?
"Sang Ly," he repeats, as if he finds eminent joy in the sound of my name, "it starts today. Today is going to be a very lucky day."