A Nail the Evening Hangs On. Monica Sok
Читать онлайн книгу.
on my door. The exchange students order room service too,
and the same woman walks the flights of stairs nine more times.
Fireworks crackle and I think, I’ll be back to this same festival with my family.
In the morning, thirty missed calls. There has been a human stampede
on the bridge to Koh Pich—347 reported dead, 755 injured.
Shoes litter the river. The exchange program advises us to stay away
from Diamond Island. The prime minister’s remarks: This is the worst thing
to happen since the Khmer Rouge. The Americans agree.
I grow quiet in my windowless room. I step outside for air.
The city, a crowd disappearing. The crowd, evacuated to the provinces.
Cambodia, a perpetual stampede.
School canceled at the university——a funerary ceremony instead.
Do the Americans understand the program director when she tells us
her neighbor’s son has died? Most likely not. Later that evening
they still don’t understand, but I go with them anyway
to the Heart of Darkness, the nightclub empty but open.
We dance with Khmer boys. Strobe lights pull us on the floor. This way.
That. Our feet grope the shiny, black tiles reflecting the bar
where old expats sit with Khmer women making money. Yeah, yeah.
It isn’t expensive to get here or get back. We tuk-a-tuk-tuk and we dance. They laugh.
Meanwhile my mother calls me. My father calls me. My auntie calls me
from Prek Eng. My uncle down the street from the hotel.
My uncle in Kandal. My cousin’s uncle in Siem Reap.
The Radio Host Goes into Hiding
Disguising myself as old people
to survive in these fields of black-uniformed Khmer red-white krama
our outlined rib cages and tight skin
if I could air
the voices of the people to the Powers of the world
what would they say
about the Khmer Rouge would we throw our fists
Angkar is everything we shout
everything
we the old people
allowed saucepans
new people only possess spoons to dig more than eat
what a society
*
I was warned by the French
before they left Kampuchea in a hurry
Come with us they said but like my only friend Rithisal
I chose not to abandon
in such cowardly fashion
Rithisal young historian says
why the Powers do nothing to end this experiment
first began with American president orders from menu
campaign breakfast lunch dinner
snack on Ho Chi Minh Trail Kampuchea after independence
not land
for wars Khmer Rouge in power threatens
Phnom Penh evacuate now
the city will be bombed I say quiet Rithisal not so loud
*
in the fields
I rehearse alone
in my thoughts in Phnom Penh my job was cyclo driver
cyclo driver cyclo driver
see my legs so strong my skin dark from sun
born in Battambang
cyclo cyclo cyclo cyclo
almost humming Yol Aularong aloud
but Rithisal heard whispers the song is dead
*
much time passing no radio
to tell world news or hear news of world
hello welcome to Year Zero Public Radio we are on air
my confession
I among the new people
act as the old people
I among the old people once lived
as new people
I among enemy
am enemy
*
at night I stand close to Angkar leaders
who invite us to their meetings in loudspeaker
the village chief speaks in slogans
but
like water to survive I must hold on to an individual idea
to keep strong because
to be reeducated is to be destroyed
the sweet potato
a young girl plants in the ground
five miles from the village commune
she does not know I am watching
she hums an Angkar
song walking home
*
Rithisal
his wife Rachana a singer
which camp is she we don’t know
her voice like milk when she sang
in secret Rithisal writes what leaders say or do
records the tortured witnesses young man hands tied eyes plead
stare straight into gun barrel floating in river
not so loud Rithisal not here
think of Rachana I say
but leaders suspect
Rithisal and me then send us to a place
called Tuol Sleng he whispers his kids used to go to school here
and where is Rachana looks away
*
we enter I forget which day but it is Year Zero the place Tuol Sleng
a prison people locked in stalls old people new people Khmer Rouge
maybe Pol Pot himself instruments of torture in the schoolyard
Rithisal writes won’t listen to me he writes
I ask him if he thinks his children are Angkar’s children now
he raises a fist says Whoever opposes
Angkar is a corpse Angkar never
makes mistakes Angkar
is everything Angkar cares for
us all
*
these fields rice paddies