The Name Game

A funny aspect about Khmai culture is that almost no one uses their names. Instead of calling people by their first name, they call each other by their title. There are no “Hey Paul’s” or “Hey Sue’s!” Its all “bong-sery” (big sister), and “loak-crew” (teacher - male). Usually I get “neak-crew” (teacher - female), “bong-Whitney” (Whitney-who-is-older-than-me), gohne-oi (child), or plain old “teacher.” This little quirk makes learning names next to impossible because you will hear them once on your first introduction … and probably never again.

Okay, I admit it – in some ways it simplifies things. Khmai names are difficult for me to pronounce and even more difficult for me to remember, so this system ensures I never offend anyone or make a blunder of their name. On the other hand, I’m still not entirely sure if my host father’s name is Lane or Leng. Seriously, how embarrassing is that? I love when friends come to my house or to my school in hopes of catching one of these introductions and FINALLY nailing down one of the many elusive names that escaped me during my first few weeks here.

The name game is especially fun in a classroom full of 50 + students. Most teachers don’t take the time to learn the names of their students because it simply isn’t the way things are done here. Attendance is taken by a “student deputy” who quietly checks off students’ names from the back of class. There are no verbal roll calls and the attendance list is written in Khmai, so even if I get my hands on it, it’ll be one heck of a translation project.

On the occasion (which I am proud to say is becoming more and more frequent) that many of my students are raising their hand to answer the same question, I am often faced with a slight problem. Is that Dara or Darraroth? Ratha or Rathanak? Or more likely … do I even have a clue? There’s always the old standby of calling out a common name that is sure to appear in every class. The eye-contact-and-nod-of-the-head method. The point. Or, my most recent addition and new favorite: toss-a-rubber-chicken-to-the-next-victim.

In the States, if someone close to me – like a teacher – didn’t know my name, I’d be hugely offended. But here, it isn’t the name that’s important … it’s your relationship. For example, I call the vendors on the street “mean,” or aunt. Even though these women aren’t related to my host family, by calling them their familial title, I am acknowledging their place in the community as a middle-aged, well-respected woman. They serve as an aunt to their family AND the community.

At first, I felt that not using peoples’ given names was impersonal and confusing, but the more time I spent here, the more I see that it unites people, brings them together as a community, and encourages a sense of commonality between strangers who only share a similar “place” in society. It also reflects one of the most fundamental characteristics about this culture.

Cambodians focus much less on the individual, and more on the whole (be that the family, the community, or their country). Instead of thinking about what’s best for their career or their dreams, Cambodians first think about how their decisions will affect the people connected to them … then themselves. As a whole, I think this tendency is what makes Cambodia such a warm, welcoming culture. When you’re here, you’re family. Literally. Of course, I’d also say it contributes to some of the violent outbursts that are so shocking in this otherwise gentle culture. Dreams can only be deferred so long before you begin to resent all the things keeping you from them.

But at the end of the day, I think Cambodians have it right. This constant emphasis on relationships makes you stop and think about the people you’re connected to. And it seems to me, all the accoutrements of your life – your stuff, your job – don’t amount to much if you don’t have people to share them with.