Growing Up in a Leprosy Village, My Story from Surin, Thailand

What was it like growing up in a leprosy village?

It’s the question I’ve heard often since moving to America—and one that still makes me pause before answering. Why? Because it’s never a simple question. There are layers to it, stories within stories, and emotions that words can’t always capture in just one conversation.

This is the story of my childhood in Surin, Thailand—a place marked by both stigma and strength, pain and perseverance. It’s about the people who raised me, the food that sustained us, and the legacy I carry forward.

Image 1: A small remnant of the old village gate—once tall, sealed with heavy metal doors and locks. It stood as a barrier, built to keep those with leprosy in.

Image 2: The dirt path behind the village, once thick with trees and overgrown shrubs, has now been cleared to make way for vehicles coming in and out.

I feel a deep responsibility—as someone who lived in a leprosy village, left, and came back—to be a witness and a storyteller. These people are my people. Their lives shaped mine. Their stories deserve to be told with dignity, honesty, and heart.

*A man from my village tending his herd of cows and water buffaloes along the edge of the village dirt road.*

What Is Leprosy?

Leprosy, or Hansen’s disease, is a chronic bacterial infection that affects the skin, nerves, and eyes. If left untreated, it can lead to physical disabilities. But the good news? It’s curable—with a multi-drug therapy (MDT) that’s been widely used since the 1980s.

In the mid-20th century, Thailand experienced a leprosy outbreak. To manage it, the government established colonies—separate villages where patients could live, work, and receive treatment. Some were sent there by force. Others came because they had no place left to go.

Inside these colonies, the government provided land, housing, and basic resources. But outside, the stigma was crushing. Families were torn apart. People with leprosy were mocked, feared, and cast out.

Life Across Generations

These colonies became home to generations of families, like mine. Today, my village has seen six generations grow up within its bounds.

1st Generation: The original leprosy patients. Most are now in their 80s and 90s. They lived through isolation and built lives inside the colony.

*First Generation Leprosy Elders from My Village—Many Now Gone, But Never Forgotten.*

2nd Generation: Their children—including me. We were born without the disease but carried its stigma.

Second Generation: The women who grew up in the shadow of stigma, yet carried families, traditions, and quiet strength through it all.

3rd Generation: Grandchildren of the first patients. The stigma has softened but still lingers.

**Third Generation:** Grandchildren of the village’s first residents, growing up with more opportunity—but still shaped by the legacy their families carry.

4th & Beyond: The newest generation of children. Technology, education, and shifting culture have helped, but the legacy remains.

Great-grandchildren, now decades removed from the past, gradually growing up in a village that feels more ordinary—and more hopeful.

Generations Shaped by Leprosy, Bound by Love

Though the world outside has changed, and progress has reached our village in new ways, the impact of leprosy still lingers—not just in memory, but in the lives we lead and the bonds we share.

3 women, one old man, and one young child sittin together and looking and smiling at the camera.

First Generation: Like my uncle, who lived through the early days when the village was enclosed, cut off from the world by locked gates and stigma.
Second Generation: Myself, born into this legacy and shaped by it, even as I eventually left to build a life across the world.
Third Generation: My nieces, who have grown up in a Thailand that looks different than the one I knew, but still carry pieces of our story.
Fourth Generation: The little girl in the photo, born into a new era—one of smartphones, schooling, and slowly shifting attitudes.

Four generations now live side by side, connected not just by blood, but by a shared history of resilience and quiet strength.

This photo captures more than just faces—it holds stories of survival, adaptation, and love passed down through decades. It’s proof that even with a painful legacy, life continues. We carry it with us, not as a burden, but as a reminder of where we come from—and how far we’ve come.

A Village of Resilience

We lived on government land in a U-shaped cluster of stilt homes with tin roofs. Some were tall, others low. Each new patient received one home. No bathrooms. No electricity until just two years before I left. We used wells and rain urns for water, and the bathroom was a hole in the ground—or the bushes.

two men bending over to catch fish in the mud.

A man floating in water holding fishnet in his hands.

But life was rich in other ways. We farmed. We fished. We dug for bugs in the rice fields. We raised chickens, pigs, ducks, and cows. Water buffalo helped plow our fields and slept beneath our homes at night. Every family had fruit trees—mango, coconut, banana, jackfruit, lychee, lime, starfruit. Food was everywhere.

We spoke multiple languages—Thai, Lao, Khmer, tribal dialects. We cooked with bold Isaan and Cambodian flavors. The community was a patchwork of cultures, bound by hardship and love.

My Brother-in-Law Yen: The Last Thread

Today, most of the village has changed. Electricity, internet, smartphones—modern life has crept in. But my brother-in-law, Yen, still lives the old way.

A Thai man walking through rice paddies with water buffaloes in the background.

A shirt-less Thai man walking through rice paddies.

He lives off the land, raises buffalo and cattle, and uses herbs for medicine. He’s a healer, a farmer, a quiet guardian of the old ways. When the family gave him a TV and a smartphone, it felt like the last thread of our old world might unravel. But he’s still holding on—unmoved by modern noise.

A rustic Thai hut in the middle of a rice fiedl. — *My brother-in-law’s old hut, worn down by years of rain and decay. He now lives in a slightly better home, but still apart from the village.*

Dr. K and the Beaulah Land Services Foundation

Dr. Kanchana Kongsuebchart—"Dr. K"—was one of the most selfless people I’ve ever met. A successful doctor, she gave it all up to serve people with leprosy full-time. She founded Beaulah Land Services Foundation (BLS), a Christian nonprofit that brought medical care, hope, and dignity to forgotten communities.

Dr. K didn’t just provide medicine. She launched programs for education, vocational training, livestock and farming support, physical therapy, and scholarships. She partnered with local and international groups to bring long-term change.

I got to see it up close. During my final year of college, I spent six months volunteering alongside her—living, working, and witnessing her daily acts of compassion. Her legacy is immense.

She passed away in 2023, but her impact lives on.

A Thai woman in teal shirt smiling at the camera.

The Woman Who Changed My Life

Dr. K also changed my personal life. She brought Rebecca—my third mother—into our village after hearing about the danger I was in from a corrupt official. Dr. K said, "If you can help her, please do."

That conversation led to everything that came after. Within two years, I left the village and started a new life in the U.S.—safe, loved, and full of hope.

A woman touching her shoulders and smiling. — *Rebecca, my American mom, who changed my life after visiting my village. Read more about our stories here.*

A Mentor, A Friend, A Healer

Dr. K wasn’t just a doctor—she was family. A motherly figure. A woman of unshakable faith, strength, and purpose. She visited our village often, not just with medicine, but with comfort, encouragement, and hope. When I lost my aunt-mom, who raised me from infancy and suffered a miscarriage just hours apart, it was Dr. K who traveled across Bangkok’s notorious evening traffic, asked for a pop-up bed at the hospital, hugged me while I wept. She stayed with me the entire evening, making sure I was never alone.

Afterwards, she took me into her BLS home to recover—physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

I asked if I could plant a couple of lime trees in her yard to honor the losses I was carrying—my mother and my baby. I wanted a physical symbol of remembrance—something I could see, touch, and return to whenever I visited Thailand. A way to ground myself in the fragility of life, and the healing that can grow from grief. Dr. K said yes, and took me to a local nursery to pick out the healthiest saplings. I cried quietly as I dug into the earth that day. It was one of the few things I could do to mark the weight of what I had just lived through.

Years later, I returned to that same yard and found one of the trees still standing, tall, rooted, and full of life, just like her legacy.

My Food Blog and Why It Matters

One of my main goals for starting Simply Suwanee was to reconnect with my Thai roots and tell the stories of the people who raised me. Over the years, it’s grown into something much more.

Through food, I share memories, history, and identity. I didn’t learn to cook from recipes—I learned by watching the women in my village cook for hundreds at weddings, funerals, and festivals. Their knowledge lives in me, and I pass it on through every blog post.

A woman sitting next to an elderly man, hand with him, having food in front of him.

A woman holding an elderly woman's hand while sitting near each other.

Preserving Their Stories—One Page at a Time

One of my deepest hopes is to publish a coffee table book—woven from my own photography and rare images of the elders I grew up around. It would be a tribute: to their strength, their food, and their lives in the face of leprosy’s devastating stigma.

After completing my Feed the Village project, I went back—this time with a notebook, camera, and recorder. I sat beside the people who raised me. I listened to their stories, asked about their favorite dishes, and held space for memories too important to fade. That experience changed me. It made this project feel sacred.

These aren’t just stories. They’re blueprints of survival. Of love. Of quiet resilience.

A woman holding an elderly woman's face in her hand while she's crying.

These are the people who carried me. Who remind me why I do this work—especially on the hard days. They are my blueprint.

A woman holding an elderly woman's hand in her face while crying.

The Village Women Who Taught Me

I also hope to publish a cookbook with the women in my village—the ones who taught me to cook by feel, instinct, and memory. Slightly older than me, they’ve been in my life since I was small. I looked up to them as vibrant, sassy young women full of life and stories. I watched them get married, raise children, and now grandchildren.

Today, they’re still together—like sisters—cooking, laughing, and showing up for one another through life’s hardships. They’ve been some of my biggest supporters, always stepping in to help with my Feed My Village project whenever I return home.

Their stories and recipes deserve to be preserved and celebrated. I would love to publish a book with them—one that shares their magnificent lives, their wisdom, and their food. They inspire me endlessly and have given so much with so little.

A Thai woman cooking and stirring a pot on her small stove inside a house.

A Thai woman cooking and stirring a pot while looking and smiling at the camera.

If you know anyone who might help bring this dream into the world—whether through publishing, partnerships, or community support—I’d love to hear from you.

My Own Culinary Lens

And finally—one more dream. I’d love to create a coffee table book of my own: a visual love letter to the food I grew up with, told through my photography and my memories. A personal take on the flavors, textures, and stories that shaped me.

Yes, that’s a lot of books and recipes—but more than anything, it’s about preserving legacy. It’s about uniting cultures, honoring the past, and giving voice to a place that’s too often forgotten by the world.

If you have ideas, suggestions, or connections to help make this dream a reality—I’d love to hear from you.

Moving Forward

The leprosy village I once knew is fading. The elders are aging out. Rural Thailand is changing fast. But I carry their stories forward—through my blog, through Feed My Village, through memory.

And I’ll never stop telling our story.

These are the people who keep me grounded when life gets hard. They’re my compass when I feel lost, my blueprint when I need direction. On the hardest days, I draw strength from the lives they’ve lived and the love they gave. Their stories run through me. They shaped me—and remind me that I can do hard things. They are my guide, my foundation, my home. The people and the village that raised me—they are my North Star.