Category: Civic Semester Thailand

by Daniela

A recent fond memory stands out vividly in my mind, one that took place on our first official placement day with the organization. My partner and I had set out to explore the town, aiming to evaluate our plan of action for the upcoming days. We were eager, but admittedly a bit uncertain about how everything would unfold. As we wandered through the streets, we suddenly found ourselves at the heart of the village’s community center. It was bustling with energy as mothers from the village gathered, chatting and going about their daily routines.

The moment they spotted us, everything shifted. With warm smiles, they gestured for us to sit with them. We happily obliged, unsure of what to expect but feeling welcomed nonetheless. As soon as we sat down, the conversations began—completely in Thai. At first, I thought we might struggle to connect, given the language barrier, but what happened next truly surprised me. While we occasionally had to rely on Google Translate for certain words, we found ourselves understanding a good portion of what was being said, and more importantly, they understood us too.

It was in this moment that I realized how much we had grown since our arrival. Not only had we picked up enough Thai to communicate, but we were also starting to grasp the nuances of the local culture. The openness of the villagers, their warmth, and their genuine curiosity to connect with us made the experience unforgettable.

They laid out a simple but delicious offering of sticky rice, and we spent the next while just chatting. There was no rush, no agenda—just the beauty of human connection in its purest form. I felt completely immersed, not just in the language, but in the life of the village. It was a moment where the boundaries between us—foreigners in an unfamiliar place—seemed to blur, and we were just people, sharing stories, smiles, and food.

Originally posted here.

by Vorleak, Alonso & Liam

“Home away from home.” It’s a phrase that gets thrown around a lot when talking about homestays, right? But honestly, nothing could have prepared us for the whirlwind of emotions that came with actually living it.

“Home away from home.” The words that echoed in our heads as we rode off to the Huai Lan Community from our Doodle house in our usual silver vans, our hearts pounding like the Khon dance drum. We have still yet to know who our host mothers “Maes” were but there they were; beaming with their smiles all wide and welcoming, but their words, a melodious cascade of Thai, washed over us like a foreign tide. We managed to speak out “Sawadee kha and Sawadee krap” a basic phrase taught by our Kru Nim and Kru Angpao, but one that has helped us out in countless awkward situations.

Home. The world felt alien in this old wooden house supported on stilts, the air both outside and inside filled with the scent of lemongrass, basil and other unfamiliar spices. My room, a simple space with egg colored walls, a giant woven rose mat and mosquito net, was a far cry from my Rilakkuma pattern bed sheets and walls covered with bookshelves back home in Cambodia.

Continue reading “Homestay in Huai Lan: Home Away From Home (Part 2)”

by Karlita

As the halfway point of my Thailand Civic Semester was approaching, I felt hesitant and afraid about being placed in a host family. However, when I first met my host mom, Mea Rod, she welcomed me with open arms and a giant smile spread across both our faces. In that very moment, I realized I had nothing to fear. To our daily walks at five in the morning or our conversations over eating delicious authentic Thai food at the dining table, there is never a dull moment with Mea Rod. Although a language barrier can be challenging, when Mea Rod and I make the effort, our conversations overflow with laughter that never seems to end. It feels as if I’ve found a second home, a place where I’m cherished and cared for just as warmly as I would be with my own family. As time continues, I hope to deepen my bond with Mea Rod and create unforgettable memories.

Originally posted here.

by Michela

P’Tor asks if America is more beautiful than Thailand. We both laugh: me at the absurdity of the question and him at my expression. I wonder about the America he is picturing: tall east coast skyscrapers, mid-west corn, cars on the highway, evergreens, orange leaves, diners.

If you asked what it looked like, here, I would start with the bathroom, the one on the balcony with its pretty tiles and slits near the ceiling. Washing away the day’s heat, I see the sky turn pink. And then, the dining table—soup with mushrooms from the sunrise morning, rice, always hot, eggs in every fashion you can imagine, greens from the vines climbing up the fence that the dogs can clear in a jump, pork, chicken, noodles, guava with chili-salt-and-sugar, pumpkin, coconut sweets. What I’m trying to say is this: I am surrounded by things that can make you full. The rice paddies. Every kind of cloud. Longan trees, tamarind trees, basil, bananas, and papayas. All the oldies I have memorized on P’Tor’s guitar. Language, a new word every day—sesame, rambutan, sun, moon, wake up, full, enough, wash, win, lose, miss, happy, worry, wear, airplane, forget, remember.

I would tell you how the smallest details here are unspeakably pretty: the little bowls and flower vases folded from banana leaves, woven mats splayed out in the shade, sliced dragon fruit, the albino lizard that matches the wall by the sink, bamboo fish and birds hanging by the kitchen, aluminum silver cups, skirts that remind me what color is: here is pink, here is purple, here is green. The mountains on all sides, every shade of light blue, faa, which also means sky. The wat, its abundance of flowers, paintings on the ceiling, shoes lined up by the steps like we’re all coming home.

P’Tor asks if America is more beautiful than Thailand and I can’t find the words to say no in the way that I mean to; to explain that sometimes it is so pretty I cannot bring myself to take pictures.

Originally posted here.

by Nelson

Dear Ma and Ba,

“I miss home” is the least I can say about how I feel today. It’s strange how “home” has evolved so many times for me over the past few weeks. I thought I understood what it really meant when I left home in Quincy and arrived at the Tufts University campus to start my Civic Semester Orientation or even that morning when our cohort moved out of the Doodle House and transitioned into our homestays––which, I have to say, was quite emotional after having to say goodbye to the owner of the เจ๊นา อาหารตามสั่ง restaurant who cooked the most delicious pad see ew I’ve ever had. But after living in Chiang Mai for the past six weeks, sharing a space with 13 other (wonderful) people, and being part of the everyday life in the Huai Lan community these past few days, I’ve come to realize that home is much more than just a place––it’s the people, the small gestures of kindness, and moments of care that make home feel so much like home.

Living in the Huai Lan community these past few days feels complicated, especially having to adjust to a pace of life that is slower but fuller while, at the same time, quieter yet filled with the hums of familiar connections. But, in a way, it still feels so much like home. Ma and Ba, you might be wondering, “How are you doing with the language?” Well, to be completely honest with you, I’ve been stumbling my way through learning Thai (something I definitely have not been productive with), and though my vocabulary is still embarrassingly small, Meeh WanDi, my lovely host mom, has been extremely patient with me. I’ll probably never forget that night when my host family celebrated Pho Wanlip’s (my amazing host dad’s) 70th birthday, and I had to rely on a mixture of hand gestures and the few words I knew to navigate our small conversations around our dinner table.

Continue reading “A Letter to Home from Home, Thousands of Miles Away”

by Michela

At home, in the U.S. (which I’ve started calling America, when did that happen?) — I always liked being in cars. I liked the steady movement, the thrum of the blinker as we waited at stop lights and stop signs, and how you could have the kinds of conversations that only happened in cars, the kind you could leave behind as soon as you got out. Also, the blaring radio, the quiet not-talking, the looking out the window.

Something about cars in the U.S. makes you feel a little invincible, I think. Maybe it’s the way you can and must drive nearly everywhere, or how big the vehicles are, how big you feel in the front seat. At least in part, though, I think it’s how separate you are when you’re inside. You have a separate set of rules to follow, a pre-planned right of way, and sometimes, tinted windows that promise the freedom to sing your silly songs or wear PJs to the grocery store without stares.

I’ve been living in Thailand for a month now, and it struck me the other day that cars and pedestrians don’t feel separate here. I can’t place my finger on why. I imagine it’s a combination of things, like how cars never stop for you at crosswalks, so to get anywhere you have to be willing to walk into traffic and trust that they’ll stop for you when you’re in the middle of the road (which they always do without honking), or how the songthaews and tuk tuks are open to the outside, breathing the same air, with drivers who will call out to you asking if you need a ride. There is a certain closeness between people and roads here; physical closeness—reaching your hands out from the sidewalks, you can brush against passing cars—but something beyond this too.

A week ago, I took a songthaew to a grocery store and the driver asked if we wanted him to wait so we could get a ride home. Yes, I know this is business but can it also be courtesy? Can it also be looking after, or caretaking, the way the restaurant owners do when they see our big group and immediately slide tables together, the way the lady at the compost center did when I told her I’d been sick and she placed a hand on my shoulder and told me all the plants that would make my stomach stop turning?

I got into a normal car for the first time in weeks the other day, and I was expecting, at least a little, to feel the way I do back home—bubbled, separated. Instead, I felt like I was carrying all my human with me. Like I could still roll the windows down and the street vendor food would be close enough to touch, to taste.

I was talking to Mimee a couple of days ago, Mimee who loves noodles and runs a farm in Laos, and she described the village as an un-lonely place—someone always calling you over, here, eat this food I’m cooking, or here, I have a remedy for your aches. Where I’m from, America, feels so far from this village. I think Chiang Mai with its messy traffic and open-windowed cars feels closer.

Originally posted here.