Stories We Tell

I am a professional storyteller. I answer questions, talk about my experiences, and share about the history of Cambodia. It requires a lot of stories, many examples, and some creative thinking. I help put out newsletters—those require stories as well. Some of these are told unconsciously, some require more planning, but all are in pursuit of educating, moving, or even persuading people. Still, sometimes I pause as I’m writing or thinking about what to tell and consider: what stories should I tell?

Cambodia is an interesting place; a country at a crossroads, really. There are stories here of devastation, of trauma, heartache, and disaster at the hands of brutal governments. There are stories of recent wounds, of an HIV/AIDS pandemic, of poverty, of mothers and children dying from preventable causes. And there are stories of hope, of a church that is growing, of lives that are changing, of transformation happening. Which are the stories I should tell?

At a glance, the answer is easy: all of them. Yet, I find myself more and more questioning my motivations in storytelling and what I hope to gain by sharing other people’s stories the way I do.

On one hand, I know that it is important to educate people about the history of Cambodia, about the problems that the country faces, and about why Cambodia is the way that it is. People need to know; there are so many who simply have not heard about the Khmer Rouge, about years of civil war, about this small nation sandwiched between two more well-known countries.

On the other hand, I firmly believe that communicating the needs of Cambodia means being sensitive to the way such communication shapes ideas and feelings about the objects of that communication. Amidst a culture of fatalism, telling stories of need, stories of hurt, stories of desolation perpetuate the idea that Cambodia is a country that is forlorn, desperate and helpless, full of weak people who cannot save themselves. Perhaps I am exaggerating, but all too often I see pictures of big, sad-eyed children, or hear people say, “Well, it’s just so sad, isn’t it?” that I wonder if what I do is really helping or not.

Sometimes I think it boils down to three questions.

Do we tell stories of the past to inform, stories that might help people understand but might evoke sadness, pity, or even guilt?

Do we tell stories of the resilience of the Cambodian people, stories that remind the audience of a tortured past and demonstrate how far Cambodia has come?

Do we tell stories of the future of Cambodia, stories that offer hope for the future and a glimpse of the potential that exists here?

I suspect it is a mixture of all three.

I wonder, also, what it is that people want to hear. Do we want to feel sad, to have our heartstrings tugged, or are we so accustomed to these feelings that they wash over us without truly impacting us? Do we want to hear about the past and the present, about transition and change, to be simply updated on what is going on? Do we want to hear stories of hope, stories that might push us to take risks or invest in something as unknown as the future of a still-unstable nation?

My own Kingdom vision is to be more than a reporter, more than a storyteller, to be someone who invites others into the process. I don’t merely want to update, to inform, but to ask people to support, to visit, to love Cambodia—the difficult parts and the delightful parts. Perhaps it is because of my own struggle to love a nation that has so much potential and so much failure at the same time. I want to tell stories that impact; I want to be a person of impact.

Yet, at the end of the day, I can look around me and see the subjects, the objects of my stories. I can look into their eyes and ask if I have respected them, honored them, and loved them by telling their stories. I think God is calling us to be people who tell stories; telling our personal story, telling stories of His faithfulness to others, telling the story of salvation. Still, we have to choose wisely. Which stories do we tell? Moreover, how do we tell them well?