Sleng.
33
Only seven prisoners came out alive.
We sat in the sun in the courtyard to rest, trying to feel this day again. I touched your hand and you let me.
It was such a pretty day. Bicycle peddlers sold nuts and ice cream outside the walls. Bells rang for a Buddhist wedding. Two taxi drivers were play-wrestling by the gates; the others stood around them, joking and laughing. One lifted the other upside down and he split his pants wide open. They all turned to see if anyone was watching and when I covered my smile with my hand, they ran away. We listened to them collapsing with laughter behind the walls.
Vann Nath was one of the seven who survived. He was selected to paint pictures and shape busts of Pol Pot. If a bust broke and he had to start again, he buried the pieces of the broken one carefully, to show no disrespect. When he painted Pol Pot’s skin, he dabbed the brush delicately, to show no disrespect. After it was over he began to paint the tortures, the pictures of Tuol Sleng.
I think of Tuol Sleng and I hear Bach’s passion and I hear the thumping rhythms of
Todesfuge
and the chanting of a horrified chorus in
Antigone
. I hear a voice cry out in anguish, If thisis a man? Human cruelty turned into a note of music, the rhythm of a sentence. Men have invented a word for this. They call it sublime.
Do not hate me for saying such a thing, borng samlanh. Do not think me perverse. I watched your frantic eyes under your eyelids when you slept, watched the rage and resignation at war under your skin. Borng samlanh, let me look in your place for a while. Do not hate me for naming the Sublime at Tuol Sleng. Do not hate me for wanting to chisel your name, Serey, into the rhythm of my words.
Beside you on the bench in the sunshine that day at Tuol Sleng I said, We must speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.
You said, I feel nothing.
34
Our baby was growing and I found fabric at the Russian market and a teapot, blue colored plates and new chopsticks and a basket for a bassinet.
In the mornings you brought me coffee from the Vietnamese bakery and you ate rice porridge with me but we no longer made love one more time before you left. I loved your dark eyes in the morning.
People live omissions their whole lives. And silence turns into lies.
Here, now, listen to my whisper of shame. As our baby grew, I grew tired of your nightmares. I wish now I had admitted this to you, borng samlanh. I wandered through your city, practicing your language, talking with Sopheap and Chan and Mau, dreaming of teaching again, dreaming of a future. One day I put Chan’s hand on my stomach to feel our baby kicking. She grew very still, listening with her experienced old fingers.
She said, A woman needs another woman to lean on so she can find her strength. I will make you a new tea. Your time is getting closer.
Chan’s hands had hauled dead bodies. Stripped their flesh. But I wanted their comfort. Dust is dust is dust. Bones worktheir way to the earth’s surface each rainy season. I wanted to feed on joy like the radiant gods.
Against your closed doors I did not want to admit that your pain and silence would be part of our child. I tried to pretend we could make something new. The morning of Pchum Ben I said, Let’s go to the temple and make an offering for my mother, for your mother and father and brother. In the shuttered coolness I placed your hand on my stomach and for the first time you felt our baby moving inside me. I watched your wonder and your hair was loose and your eyes were bright. You were so beautiful. When the baby stopped kicking you lay back and said, Samlanh, I will go to the temple with you to make the offerings for our parents but we cannot make an offering for my brother. He survived.
35
You found him by your old front door. You were not sure.
Sokha, is it you? Are you still alive?
You were a stranger to him.
Sokha, it is me, your brother.
33
Only seven prisoners came out alive.
We sat in the sun in the courtyard to rest, trying to feel this day again. I touched your hand and you let me.
It was such a pretty day. Bicycle peddlers sold nuts and ice cream outside the walls. Bells rang for a Buddhist wedding. Two taxi drivers were play-wrestling by the gates; the others stood around them, joking and laughing. One lifted the other upside down and he split his pants wide open. They all turned to see if anyone was watching and when I covered my smile with my hand, they ran away. We listened to them collapsing with laughter behind the walls.
Vann Nath was one of the seven who survived. He was selected to paint pictures and shape busts of Pol Pot. If a bust broke and he had to start again, he buried the pieces of the broken one carefully, to show no disrespect. When he painted Pol Pot’s skin, he dabbed the brush delicately, to show no disrespect. After it was over he began to paint the tortures, the pictures of Tuol Sleng.
I think of Tuol Sleng and I hear Bach’s passion and I hear the thumping rhythms of
Todesfuge
and the chanting of a horrified chorus in
Antigone
. I hear a voice cry out in anguish, If thisis a man? Human cruelty turned into a note of music, the rhythm of a sentence. Men have invented a word for this. They call it sublime.
Do not hate me for saying such a thing, borng samlanh. Do not think me perverse. I watched your frantic eyes under your eyelids when you slept, watched the rage and resignation at war under your skin. Borng samlanh, let me look in your place for a while. Do not hate me for naming the Sublime at Tuol Sleng. Do not hate me for wanting to chisel your name, Serey, into the rhythm of my words.
Beside you on the bench in the sunshine that day at Tuol Sleng I said, We must speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.
You said, I feel nothing.
34
Our baby was growing and I found fabric at the Russian market and a teapot, blue colored plates and new chopsticks and a basket for a bassinet.
In the mornings you brought me coffee from the Vietnamese bakery and you ate rice porridge with me but we no longer made love one more time before you left. I loved your dark eyes in the morning.
People live omissions their whole lives. And silence turns into lies.
Here, now, listen to my whisper of shame. As our baby grew, I grew tired of your nightmares. I wish now I had admitted this to you, borng samlanh. I wandered through your city, practicing your language, talking with Sopheap and Chan and Mau, dreaming of teaching again, dreaming of a future. One day I put Chan’s hand on my stomach to feel our baby kicking. She grew very still, listening with her experienced old fingers.
She said, A woman needs another woman to lean on so she can find her strength. I will make you a new tea. Your time is getting closer.
Chan’s hands had hauled dead bodies. Stripped their flesh. But I wanted their comfort. Dust is dust is dust. Bones worktheir way to the earth’s surface each rainy season. I wanted to feed on joy like the radiant gods.
Against your closed doors I did not want to admit that your pain and silence would be part of our child. I tried to pretend we could make something new. The morning of Pchum Ben I said, Let’s go to the temple and make an offering for my mother, for your mother and father and brother. In the shuttered coolness I placed your hand on my stomach and for the first time you felt our baby moving inside me. I watched your wonder and your hair was loose and your eyes were bright. You were so beautiful. When the baby stopped kicking you lay back and said, Samlanh, I will go to the temple with you to make the offerings for our parents but we cannot make an offering for my brother. He survived.
35
You found him by your old front door. You were not sure.
Sokha, is it you? Are you still alive?
You were a stranger to him.
Sokha, it is me, your brother.
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