Here had once been twenty-seven homes to forty-three families , plus three market stalls , here had once been Phsar Chnang village on the outskirts of Kampong Chnang town . Two days prior it was still here , a thriving market community dealing mostly in fish and produce from the lake . In just thirty minutes it had all been devastatingly snatched away .
Looking around , I struggled to comprehend what these people must ’ ve gone through as the fire raged , the product of fish smoking gone wrong . How could they continue ? Their homes viciously taken from them , what little possessions they owned were now blackened ash some five metres below .
Blinking a tear away I looked down , large brown eyes looked up as the tear slipped down my cheek . The grimy , snot covered face , seemed angered , not by the stranger but perhaps the world itself . I knelt to ensure our eyes were of equal height , the child looked deep into me , I could feel the emotion .
A man sat nearby watching my moves , I pointed to my camera , then the child , the man smiled and nodded . Taking those photos broke my heart , no child should ever have to go through such a traumatic experience as a house fire , let alone a community fire so destructive that steel polls melted and twisted sending houses tumbling onto the river bank far below . The child pressed his little hands together as I handed over 500 riel , no smile , just a nod of thanks .
Approaching the man , he nodded his appreciation , of paying the child or just being a stranger caring enough to appreciate what they were going through , I never knew . My butchered Khmer and his attempts at English did little to stifle the conversation . Hand gestures and
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