Category: Tufts Civic Semester

by Nicolly

In the Thai language, kít means to think/thinking, and thŭng means reach/reaching, but kít thŭng, together, means missing someone or something. Or, in Thai, thinking about reaching someone. This expands the definition of missing someone to me. It goes beyond celebrating memories or looking at the past, even wanting to see someone immediately. When you want to reach someone, you want to be part of their ‘now’. You want to be by their side and see them achieving their dreams and goals.

Kít thŭng makes you want to once again wake up every morning hearing your little host sister asking Pii, ti nai? (where is my old sister?) and knocking on your door. You want to sit at the table with the family that welcomed you as a daughter and ask them about their day. You want to answer aròi mâak mâak (very delicious) when they ask you if the food is aròi mái? (Is it delicious?). Kít thŭng makes you wish to bike around the village and have all the neighbors asking you bpai nai? (Where are you heading to?). This expression takes you back to lên bon (playing soccer) with all the village kids from the afternoon until dusk.

It makes you want to head to Mae (mom) Wandee’s house for lunch and eat sôm dtam (papaya salad) with kâo nǐaw (sticky rice). Kít thŭng is like an urge to wake up at 6 every morning and go mushroom picking with Mae Wanna. It makes you think about Mae Tim’s kindness and how she always invites you to everything with her family. This expression makes you want to play pool with friends in your neighbor’s shop and drink Chang beer. Kít thŭng makes ‘we win’ always, no matter what. Kít thŭng is when you want to hear his voice singing a Jack Johnson song. Or any song. Kít thŭng is seeing tears in Maes’ eyes when saying goodbyes, but so happy that we all met and had this special time together.

Kít thŭng is the feeling that overflows your heart from now on and makes you think about all the love and kindness they gave you in those 45 days of homestay. Kít thŭng is why you want to go back to Huai Lan in Chiang Mai, Thailand.

Kít thŭng is saudade (word for this feeling in Brazilian Portuguese).

Originally posted here.

by Nelson

Notes from 11/22/2024:

We’re stuck in a traffic detour once again. But this time, it’s different. I’m not complaining. Rather, I’m welcoming it. These last few days in Thailand feel like it has been going by so quickly, and if sitting here just a bit little longer means I get to soak in just a bit more of this beautiful place I’ve just begun to call home a few weeks ago, then I’ll gladly savor the moment to make it last.

There’s just something so interesting about this slow, winding pause that feels so unusual, but at the same time, it feels oddly satisfying and fitting. It’s almost like Thailand itself is urging me to take it all in one last time––to notice the bustling markets along the streets of Chiang Mai, to appreciate the beauty of the sight when the sunlight beams off the harvested golden rice paddy fields, and to embrace the Chiang Mai community where I have not fully grasped the understanding of the Thai language but somehow feel such a familiar connection with it.

Reflecting back now, if there’s anything that has changed about me over these past 3 months, it’s how much I’ve grown to be unsatisfied with myself––but in a way that feels strangely liberating. It’s not the kind of dissatisfaction that drags you down or leaves you feeling stuck. It’s the kind that pulls at you.

I’ve realized how much more there is to learn, to feel, to understand––not just about this place, but about myself. Thailand has a way of showing you your own edges and then gently nudging you to step beyond them. Every time I find myself hesitating at trying something unfamiliar, I feel that little pang of “not enough.” And instead of resenting it, I’ve started to embrace it. Because every mistake, every stumble, comes with the promise of personal growth.

This feeling isn’t about disliking who I am now––it’s about knowing there’s more of me I’ve yet to discover. I think about the moments when I felt most alive here: biking across the streets of Huai Lan village, learning how to cook with Mae Wan Deeh, or simply just interacting with the villagers, learning about their culture, history, and traditions. Each of these moments lunges at me with the same truth: there’s more. More ways to connect, more ways to learn, more ways to live fully.

And so, this dissatisfaction has become my compass. It points me towards change, towards curiosity, towards a version of myself that isn’t afraid to reach for more, even if it means letting go of comfort.

The detour ends sooner than I want it to, and we’re moving again, but that sense of stillness and dissatisfaction still stays with me. I know the memories I’ve made in Thailand over the past three months will find a way to linger long after I’ve left. But for now, though, I’ll let the world pass by at its own pace, trusting that this time, I’ve truly learned how to accept my dissatisfaction with myself––and understand just how rewarding that can be.

Originally posted here.

by Vorleak

Dear Past Vorleak,

Do you remember the day you received your acceptance letter for the Civic Semester? The excitement that coursed through you when you read the words “homestay in a village in Chiang Mai, Thailand”? You probably had a million thoughts running through your head—what will the village look like? Who will your host family be? Will it be the kind of experience you’ve dreamed of?

I want you to picture this as you read: The sun rises over the mountains right across my house, painting the sky in soft pinks and oranges. By 7 a.m., I’m already awake (a once in a blue moon occurrence) greeted by barks of stray dogs and motorcycles passing by. My host mom is always in the kitchen by then, preparing breakfast, and I join her. Together, we chop vegetables and crack eggs, making the infamous Pad Thai. We chat about the day ahead with some help from Google Translate as the morning light streams through the kitchen window, and even though her English is limited and my Thai is far from perfect, our shared laughter fills any gaps.

By the time I return home from Harmony after a full day of classes and activities with the cohort, the sky has begun to fade into evening. My host dad is sitting on the porch, waving me in with a smile as he is crafting a bamboo bed for us to take naps on at Harmony. Dinner is always a feast, not just of food, but of warmth. My host mom prepares the most delicious meals; Mushroom larb, Tom Yum Kung, and homegrown cabbages; and each bite is made with love. As we sit down to eat, the conversation flows easily. We talk about everything, from her favorite dishes to the history of her family. I’ve learned that her favorite color is yellow, and that she has a deep love for traditional Thai dances as she herself used to be a talented dancer in the village. She tells me stories about growing up in the village, stories that I could listen to for hours. There’s something so intimate about these conversations; something that makes me feel like I’m not just a guest in their home, but a part of their story.

So, here’s to you, Past me. Your anticipation, your hopes; they were well placed. It’s all been exactly as you imagined when you first read that letter of acceptance, but what you couldn’t have known is how deeply this place would resonate with you, how much you would feel a part of it. I’m proud of you for taking that leap, for trusting in the journey, and for opening your heart to all the beauty that awaited you here.

With love,

Vorleak

Originally posted here.

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)”