A Nail the Evening Hangs On - Monica Sok

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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

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