Tisch Global Jumbos

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)”

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”