I grew up with a lot of familial silence,
and I didn't understand what that moment was
like for me when I had to process this tragedy that
just happened that was a lot more fresh.
But also in the background of everything
that happens in Cambodia is the need
to process the genocide as well.
And like I said, I grew up with a lot of familial silence,
but sometimes my father would tell me stories.
And this poem I'm going to read is in his voice.
The radio brings news.
When I told lies, he says, the grass
grew so fast it hid the whole field.
The river drowned the men with guns,
and flowers wilted over their bodies in apology.
But nothing happened if the lie wasn't good enough, like when
I said, "I love my country.
I love my people.
I want to be a communist too," and I'd raise my axe
and hack the dirt for my spoon of rice, for my cup of soup.
The river was clear.
The river was fresh.
If only I was a log if only I was a bird,
I would have freed myself.
Once the soldier asked me why I worked so hard,
his uniform nice.
I lied to him and pounded my fist to my chest.
And then he left me alone.
At night, the radio crackled and someone dimmed the volume
so fast you might have thought the sound of static
was grass growing.
In the dark, I listened closely.
I thought I heard escape.
I thought I heard Thailand.
I thought I heard the soldier asking me
if I wanted to run away with him and five others
tonight, if I wanted to eat.