I’ve forgotten that these pages flip over. They’re transparent, exposing my skin. Writing my story again. We all arrived on earth the same way but how do we leave it with our handprint?
I almost forgot how to write.
The pen abandoned its ritual.
I need my mother’s words so I can remember. Her stories.
On the run, her feet are always moving. But she can’t speak. She lost herself in Cambodia.
Those years stick to her like cement.
Or so we believed…
My grandmother’s chicken curry wasn’t the only thing that rotted in the pot after Khmer New Years in
1975.
Will the future be released or held hostage?
We stop at “the Sweet Tamarind Tree”. My mother rests. I sit beside her under the shade.
We’ll get back to the act of remembering.
Just not now.
Letter to my mother
Dear Mak,
I can see you now. In Cambodia, dancing under the sun as it slowly vanishes behind wooden
houses. You said the young lads and ladies congregated every evening outside. You said you
all danced. Maybe when you all danced, you forgot your pain… Maybe as you all swayed to the
music, -your minds forgot that just weeks before-everyone was living in that intolerable
nightmare that kept going and going… But now, all that doesn’t matter, your legs and hips move
side to side to the golden voices of our beloved Khmer singers.
Sinn Sisamouth. Houy Meas. Ros Sorey Sothea.
Their music was banned. The singers were also taken away and never seen again. Their
voices, – forbidden, when the horrendous and ludicrous goal was to achieve, year zero in
Kampuchea, -now rise from the dance floor!
Most of you are now orphaned. Just this once, as the sun slides behind mountains, you say to
yourselves and silently to each other, through smiles and laughter that shape hills on your
cheeks; let’s forget. Let our music, from our beloved Khmer rock stars twist our pain, our grief
into synchronised graceful arms and legs. Let’s transmute longing into enthrallment, to the tunes
of our golden era.
Khmer Oldies.
Mak, you said there was no flirting amongst the flock of young men and women…
Just, dance… dance… dance…
The regime has fallen. And far too soon, a new regime will replace the old one. Nevertheless,
don’t think about that. The drum beats found you again. Joy fills the lines around your lips. You
all survived the unspeakable. Thirsty and sweating, you all dance as the humid air erases time.
Shirts clinging to chests. And as the speakers echo your unforgettable past and foreseeable
future…The night reveals itself.
Sophearcheath (Sophie) Heang grew up in Canada. She is a writer and spoken word poet who collaborates with musicians, creating a ‘page to stage’ experience for audiences. Sophie is completing her first book, Remember me in Stillness, -a prose and poetry memoir-; a creative inquiry into the inter-generational genocide experience of Cambodian-Canadians who arrived in Canada in the 1980’s. “The Sweet Tamarind Tree” is a passage from her manuscript, Remember Me in Stillness. Sophie’s work is supported by the Canada Council for the Arts.