A Calling to Cambodia: The Heart of Our Mission

“For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me…” - Matthew 25:35-36

Introduction: A Land of Ancient Wonder and Enduring Scars

To understand our mission in Cambodia, one must first understand Cambodia itself—a nation of breathtaking beauty, profound faith, and a history marked by some of the deepest scars of the 20th century. It is a land where the magnificent, stone-carved faces of Angkor Wat whisper tales of the once-mighty Khmer Empire, a civilization that commanded Southeast Asia with its spiritual devotion and architectural genius. The very air seems to hum with a legacy of glory.

In memory, this nation was plunged into the abyss. The period under Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge, from 1975 to 1979, was not merely a war; it was a systematic attempt to erase a nation’s soul. The regime’s monstrous vision of an agrarian utopia led to the murder of nearly two million people. This was not a random slaughter. It was a calculated extermination of the very people who form the bedrock of a thriving society. Teachers, artists, engineers, community leaders, and, with a devastating thoroughness, doctors, were targeted and eliminated.The simple act of wearing glasses could be a death sentence, a sign of an intellectual mind that the regime sought to extinguish.   

Imagine a nation waking up from a nightmare to find its healers gone. In 1979, only a handful of Cambodian doctors—fewer than 50—were left alive in the entire country. The infrastructure of care, from hospitals to village clinics, lay in ruins, a casualty of a war against knowledge itself.

In the decades since, Cambodia has embarked on a journey of resurrection. From the ashes of that dark time, a new nation is striving to be born. The capital, Phnom Penh, is a testament to this incredible resilience. Where once basic conveniences were a luxury, today it is a city buzzing with life and commerce, a symbol of a people’s unbreakable spirit.

But the healing of a nation is not measured by its capital alone. A nine-hour journey by road from the vibrant streets of Phnom Penh lies the province of Ratanakiri, a world away in the remote northeast. Here, in the dense forests and red-earth villages, the echoes of that devastating loss still reverberate. Poverty is deeply entrenched, and the lack of medical infrastructure is a critical, life-threatening reality. For the indigenous communities who call this beautiful, isolated land home, access to healthcare is not a given. It often requires an arduous journey over poor roads, a cost that many cannot bear, to find a clinic that may or may not have the resources to help. It is in this place of profound need, a place of great beauty and great struggle, that we felt God’s call to serve.

Answering the Call with Open Hearts and Willing Hands

A mission like this is not born from a casual decision; it is an answer to a calling. It is a stirring of the spirit that says, “Here I am, Lord. Send me.” Our team was a tapestry woven from different threads of skill and experience, brought together by a single, unifying purpose: to use our God-given talents to make a difference.

We were a complete surgical unit, a small but mighty reflection of God’s provision. We had general surgeons, ready to tackle the deep, internal afflictions that weaken the body. We had orthopaedic surgeons, prepared to mend the broken bones that rob a person of their livelihood. We had plastic surgeons, gifted with the ability to restore not just function, but also identity and hope. Our anesthetists were the silent guardians of our patients, standing watch over every breath. Our operating theatre and ward nurses were the hands and heart of our mission, providing comfort, care, and compassion from the first triage to the final post-operative check. Our administrator was the anchor, the one who turned the chaos of overwhelming need into a structured flow of healing.

Each member brought more than just their professional expertise; they brought their faith. They brought a belief that every person who came to our clinic was a beloved child of God, deserving of dignity, respect, and the very best care we could offer. We were not there as saviors, but as servants, privileged to be the instruments of a healing that is ultimately in God’s hands.

This spirit of service was magnified by the incredible partnership we shared with the local Cambodian medical personnel. These are the true heroes of healthcare in Ratanakiri. They work day in and day out with limited resources, driven by a deep commitment to their own people. It was a profound honor to serve alongside them, to share our knowledge, and to learn from their resilience and ingenuity. Our senior surgeons embraced the opportunity to train their local counterparts, planting seeds of skill and knowledge that will continue to bear fruit long after our mission has departed. This was not just about performing surgeries; it was about building capacity and empowering the local community to continue the work of healing.

The Clinic: Where Overwhelming Need Meets Unwavering Hope

The days in Ratanakiri began before the sun had a chance to burn off the morning mist. By 6:45 a.m., our team was already at the clinic, but the line of people waiting had started forming hours earlier. They came on foot from nearby villages and by any means possible from remote areas, their faces etched with a mixture of pain, anxiety, and a fragile, flickering hope.

Registration was the first challenge of the day—a gentle, organized chaos. It was a flood of human need, and our first task was to listen, to understand, and to begin the process of triage. This is where the heart of our mission truly began to beat.

The triage station was a masterclass in experience and discernment. An experienced Obstetrics and Gynaecology consultant, with decades of wisdom in her eyes, would review each case. She would hold up an X-ray to the light, her brow furrowed in concentration, her mind working to determine if surgery was the answer, if it would truly bring relief and not just further hardship. We saw the immediate need for more support. "If only we had a radiologist sitting beside her," we’d say to each other, "to help confirm what our eyes and her experience tell us." It is a prayer we now lift up for our next trip: Lord, will you send a radiologist to join us?

From triage, patients were scheduled for surgery. Our scheduling system was a testament to adaptability—a large board covered in colorful post-it notes. Each note held a name, a condition, a life story waiting for its next chapter. The head nurse and surgeons were in constant motion around this board, a fluid dance of prioritization. A note would be moved up, another shifted down. A simple move of a small piece of paper could mean the difference between surgery today or a delay of a few hours, a decision weighed with the utmost care, balancing urgency, resources, and the ever-present hand of God’s grace.

The waiting area outside the operating theatres was a sacred space. Here, families huddled together, their quiet prayers mingling with the sounds of the bustling clinic. The air was thick with anticipation. For many, this was the culmination of years of suffering. They were dealing with conditions that had been neglected or left untreated, not from a lack of desire for healing, but from a lack of access to care. We saw hernias that had grown to debilitating sizes, chronic infections that sapped the life and strength from hardworking bodies, and traumatic injuries that had never healed properly. The sheer volume of need was, at times, overwhelming.

Inside, the operating conditions were tight. The minor operations room held two tables side-by-side, demanding a level of focus and coordination that pushed our team to their limits. We thanked God for the gift of air conditioning, a small mercy that held the oppressive Cambodian heat at bay and allowed our surgeons to work with clear heads and steady hands. The main operating theatre was just as constrained, a space where every movement was precise and purposeful. In these close quarters, we were reminded of the power of teamwork, each member anticipating the other’s needs, working in a seamless rhythm of shared purpose.

Stories of Restoration: One Life at a Time

In the midst of the overwhelming numbers, it was the individual stories that fueled our spirits. Each patient was a unique soul, and each surgery was a chance to witness a small miracle.

We met a young boy, no older than five or six, born with polydactyly—an extra thumb on his small hand. He was frightened, and his cries echoed in the small operating room as the local anesthetic was administered. But his mother stood by, her face a portrait of unwavering trust. She had brought her son here believing that a better life was possible for him. The procedure was quick, but its impact was immeasurable. When it was over, we placed her son back in her arms. She looked down at his corrected hand, then up at us, and her smile was like the dawn. Through her tears, she whispered her thanks. In that moment, it wasn't just a thumb that was removed; it was a potential lifetime of stigma and difficulty. Her boy would now grow up able to grip a tool, to write his name, to navigate the world without this mark of difference. A happy mum, a changed life.

Then there was the beautiful little girl with a cleft lip. Her eyes, bright and full of life, seemed to hide a shadow of shame. In many communities, a physical difference like this can lead to isolation and cruel words. Her surgery was more complex, but the result was transformative. When she woke, her mother was there. We had placed small casts on the girl’s arms to prevent her from accidentally scratching the delicate stitches on her lip as she slept. The mother saw not the casts, but the future. She saw her daughter’s beautiful, complete smile. She saw a future where her child would be known for her spirit, not her scar. Again, we were blessed to witness the profound joy of a happy mum, a joy that radiated with the promise of a restored future. We treated countless cysts and lipomas, growths that, while often benign, could become sources of chronic pain and discomfort.

One man came to us with a cyst on his leg, just above the knee, that had grown to the size of a small melon. It was messy and complicated, but its removal brought him immediate relief. He had been living with this burden for years. To be free of it was to be given back a piece of himself. 

Yet, our mission was also defined by the wisdom of restraint. A woman came to us with an old, severe fracture of her foot. All her metatarsals were broken, the bones fused in a painful-looking malunion, with clear evidence of chronic osteomyelitis, a deep bone infection. Our surgeons examined her X-rays, they watched her walk, and they talked with her. Amputation was an option. Major reconstructive surgery was another. But she could still walk. She had adapted, and she was functional. To operate would be to risk that fragile functionality, to potentially leave her worse off. And so, with careful explanation and compassionate counsel, the decision was made not to operate. This, too, was an act of healing—an act of humility, recognizing that sometimes the most loving thing we can do is to trust the body’s incredible resilience and not intervene.

In every case, in every decision, we were guided by a single principle: to love our neighbor as ourselves. In the heat, in the chaos, in the face of overwhelming need, we saw the face of Christ in every patient who walked through our doors. And in the smiles of relieved mothers, in the gratitude of men freed from chronic pain, we felt His presence with us, affirming our purpose and renewing our strength for the day to come.