What I Learned from Teaching Psychiatry to a Child in Cambodia

I was on my way to work when I came across a group of boys at the clinic.

The boys were in their early teens.

They were sitting around a table, chatting, eating and laughing.

They had just graduated from a psychiatric clinic, but they had just finished the first semester of school.

They sat down and I asked them what they wanted to do.

They told me they wanted a job in medicine.

The idea of medicine, they said, was something I had never heard of.

They explained to me that the only jobs available were in the military, where doctors had to have a certain number of medals, certificates, and so on.

As I had already taught them basic anatomy, chemistry, and anatomy, I asked the boys what they would need to know about medicine, and then I began to explain the process of getting an internship at the hospital.

They took notes, and when I finished, I thanked them for helping me to understand what it was like to be a doctor.

I had taught them the basics of medicine; they knew they needed to have their questions answered.

I then told them that they could earn their doctorate through a different course, which was the first thing they had ever taken, but the first course they would take.

I continued to talk about the basics, but as I was telling them, I was also saying that it would be difficult to find jobs in medicine that would give them enough money to live comfortably.

The boy next to me, a 20-year-old named Nguyễn, was one of them.

He had been in the army for three years, and had been on leave because of injuries that had kept him from his job.

But in his mind, the training was for a career in medicine, not to become a farmer or a taxi driver.

Nguy was excited by the idea of working as a physician.

He was also very excited by his brother’s offer.

Nguệm’s brother had worked at a hospital in Nguylang, but he had been transferred there because the doctors there were worried that they might lose their jobs, which they were trying to avoid.

They did not know how to treat the patients who came in.

So, they were making a lot of money and the hospital was losing money.

But the brother had not received any training at the medical school.

And so, he wanted to join the medical faculty, but was afraid that the doctors would reject him.

The next day, Nguym arrived at the training center with his brother.

He told me he had heard that some doctors in the hospital had been told not to work with people who had been shot or had been attacked.

But he did not believe it.

So he came to see me and we sat down.

Ngo, who had joined us that day, was the one who said, “I’m afraid of getting shot.”

He was afraid of being attacked by his colleagues, by the police, by their colleagues in the clinic who would be afraid of him.

“I think it’s a good idea to go to the medical academy.”

I said, But Nguy, why not?

We both agreed.

Ngok, who was studying a little bit at the same time, asked me, “What is it like to see people dying in front of you?”

I said I was not allowed to say that because of the war, but I was afraid.

I told him, “Well, I can see that your brother is not the only one in his family who is suffering.

I also know that the government is trying to kill me.”

Nguy responded, “No, I’m not afraid of them.”

I asked him, Why do you say that?

“Because they are killing my family.”

I explained that the military was trying to eliminate the people who could help them.

I said that if I were shot, I would be shot.

I would have to die.

“But you won’t die,” Nguy said.

I asked, “Why do you think that?”

He said, Because the people in the government are trying to destroy you.

“Why?”

I asked.

“Because of your brothers.”

“But that’s not what I want,” Ngu added.

I reminded him that they were just kids, and that he was not the first person who had faced the death of a family member.

I tried to explain that there were things that we had to do that we could not do that were not legal.

Ngorịn, who joined us a few days later, said, I thought that we should go to another hospital.

I don’t want to go back to the military.

I’m just afraid that if we go back, the police will kill us.

I went to the second hospital and sat down next to my brother, Ngo.

I was very worried.

He and his family had been very worried about the war and what the government was doing