Meuk resigned last Friday. He filled out the official resignation form, scrawled a thank you note to a colleague, then disappeared … off the face of the Earth.
I was busy upcountry at the time, but I heard about it via my HR lady and figured it could wait until Monday. Meuk can be a little impetuous at times and who knows? By Monday he may have changed his mind and be back in his little office cubicle, working away on his own as usual. Stranger things have happened.
But it didn't. Meuk was rostered to work the following day but he was a no-show. A few days later when I did try to call him, there was a weird bleep-bleep-bleep sound at the end of the line.
I'd been blocked. Similarly, I'd been unfriended and blocked from his Facebook page.
Meuk had made a clean getaway. But from what? It is a question that has haunted me all week.
"No need to take it personally," said my HR lady. "He is just feeling kreng jai. You know? Kreng jai."
There it is. That infernal word again. Kreng jai. But let's finish off this story about Meuk before we delve into that.
It is a few months short of 10 years ago that Meuk came into my life.
He was one recipient of a little charity I set up with my close friend and regular character in this column, Evil Neil, revealing, finally, how unjust that moniker is. The charity was designed to ensure orphans of the 2004 tsunami would have enough funds to continue their education; one of those students was Meuk.
He, like the others, was in Matthayom 1, or Year 7, at the time. They are all 23 now. A couple did drop out of school, one girl got pregnant and one boy had a brush with the law, but the majority completed senior school with more than a few continuing onto university, vocational college or nursing school.
(Our greatest success story has been little Moo, now in his fifth year in the medical faculty at Prince of Songkhla University. I have told him I want nothing in return for his education other than unlimited prescriptions for Xanax and Vicodin in my twilight years.)
For the first six years I only knew Meuk through pictures he sent along with his grades, which we requested each semester, as he marched through high school.
The first time I met him face to face was when he moved to Bangkok to study in a university. He was a quiet kid, skinny and dark-skinned with bad acne, the result of bottling too many stories up inside him. It was a bit of an effort extracting conversation out of him, but that was probably due to his nerves at having to carry on a conversation with a big farang.
He supplemented his studies by coming to work at my school on weekends. He was not the most gregarious worker I'd ever had, but he was trustworthy and efficient. Two years ago he became full-time.
There were never any scandals or problems with Meuk, other than he would bottle up little problems until they weighed heavily on his prematurely-lined forehead.
He always did things the long way. One time, with a lot of books and materials to move from the school into a van, he sent a three-page text message to me outlining the need for him to have some extra help.
"Why didn't you pick up the phone and just ask me to send somebody to give you a hand?" I asked Meuk when I saw him next.
"Kreng jai," he answered. That word again.
I ended up calling him "The Volcano" — in a nice way, of course — owing to his propensity to burst into tears at the slightest problem that popped up. I did try to toughen him up and get him to talk about problems before they became too big for him. Clearly I failed on that point.
Now that he has disappeared off the face of the Earth, none of my Thai staff seem surprised.
"He is very kreng jai of you," says my HR lady. "He doesn't want to hurt your feelings after everything you have done for him. So don't be sad."
Don't be sad? How can I not be sad with the knowledge that despite my protracted stay in this country, the cultural divide remains so cataclysmically huge I wonder if I have really understood anything in my 25 years here?
Thais are quick to tell you that kreng jai is an allegedly unique Thai feeling that we Westerners may not possess. I base that on the infernal, ever-recurring question Thais ask: "Do Westerners feel kreng jai?" It's as if it, like jasmine rice and som tam and Myanmar migrant worker scapegoats, are the exclusive domain of this kingdom.
The word is often translated as "consideration for another person's feelings". You make sure another person doesn't feel sad or upset or lose face by your actions. More often than not, it is something you choose not to do in order to save that person's feelings.
I like the fact Thais value this, though bristle at the suggestion we farang don't possess it. Any group of people who are keeping my feelings in mind are always welcome and indeed, if you are a Westerner in some high position in this country, a lot of the day-to-day problems of your company may never cross your consciousness owing to this element.
Don't feel excluded or disenfranchised; count your lucky stars.
Kreng jai, however, is a little like you and me. It has another murkier, shadowy element to it.
It is a "Get Out Of Jail Free" card for those less savoury situations one must face, as displayed more than adequately by my youthful ward last Friday.
It goes a little like this; by resigning, Meuk knew I'd be upset. Meuk doesn't want to upset me. So the best way to avoid upsetting me is to quietly resign, then block my telephone number and Facebook access. In that way, I am spared the agony of having to listen to Meuk announce his resignation, thus sparing myself the upset of having to cope with his resignation.
Did you get that? You may have to go back and re-read that last paragraph, unless you are one of my beloved Thai readers who understands it perfectly and is right now nodding in serene understanding — the exact opposite of my Western readers, who are all jumping up and down in frustration at this warped and flawed logic.
Meuk blocks me out of his life to save me the disappointment of learning about his resignation. He's being considerate. He doesn't think any further than this; that the act of blocking me and disappearing of the face of the Earth will, in itself, upset me far more than if he simply resigned.
He didn't confront. And that is why kreng jai remains an annoying Thai trait in my office — and yours — to this day.
In one Friday afternoon I lost a young man whom I'd seen grow up from a spindly little 13-year-old to a relatively well-rounded (albeit volcanic) 23-year-old. I didn't just lose him; I was cut off like some abusive stepfather.
Have I just been witness to a deep-rooted Thai character trait which we foreigners have difficulty understanding?
I am starting to believe that line is a bit of a con.
The cultural chasm may still be yawning and bottomless, but did Meuk simply disappear owing to kreng jai?
I suspect not. Thais may be dressing it in jasmine and orchids and calling it kreng jai; I suspect we should be really just calling it for what it is: cowardice. n
