"Only two things will be different in your life five years from now -- the people you hang out with and the books you read."
-- unknown
Is that true?
I dunno. Let's see. Five years ago I was hanging out with a bunch of Japanese and reading, primarily, books about Japan -- history, philosophy, fiction.
Now my peers are Cambodians and people from everywhere but Japan (or Canada), and I'm reading a lot of history and a little bit of politics.
Maybe it's true.
In five years, things change. What's that weird fact -- that our body replaces itself every five years or so, regenerating new cells like Pampers generates diapers? (A bad comparison, but what the hell.) We are, literally, a new person. Why should our interests be the same?
(I think you can substitute 'the books you read' with the 'movies you watch' or the 'music you listen to' or the 'people you slaughter'. I mean, the 'people you like', not slaughter. That's, um, what I meant...)
Life shifts, moves, evolves.
So, how about it?
Is it true for you?
Monday, December 20, 2004
THE ONE AND ONLY (INSERT YOUR NAME HERE)
John Irving once said that you should never trust a novelist who writes a memoir, because they all fudge the facts a little bit, making this or that incident just a little more exciting, more interesting or even funnier than what actually took place in the so-called 'real' world. (This was before Irving wrote his own memoir, the wise and entertaining THE IMAGINARY GIRLFRIEND.) From a novelist's perspective, the opportunity to look back on his or her own life can be an opportunity too tempting to resist, a chance to give things a shape and a texture that it lacked the first time around.
We all are busy composing our own memoirs, whether we write them down or not, aren'twe? We remember things the way that we want to remember them; we pick and choose which details to emphasize in the photo-album of our brain, and pull out the pictures for another look whenever we are feeling down and out. The reality of events fades, but the impressions linger, and those impressions are what we try to embellish and brighten, if possible.
I'm reading a biography of Khruschev now, and the writer of the book, William Taubman, quotes generously from the Soviet leader's own memoirs. An interesting pattern develops: Taubman quotes Khruschchev's own written recollections of a certain event or incident, and then he instantly invalidates little Nikita's quote by saying, in essence: "But that's not what really happened..." So the version and validation of his existence that Khrushchev set down for posterity is being rewritten even after his death, by someone he never met. His own version of his own life is deemed to be suspicious, self-serving, inaccurate. History will not settle for one man's version of his own existence.
Most of us will not dictate into a tape recorder the events of our lives, or have our own, personal biographers watching and judging our every action from some future vantage point; we won't have to worry about somebody contradicting our take on events.
It's intriguing to think about, though. How would others write the story of your life? Not after you're dead -- I mean right now. How would your mother and father and boss and high school history teacher transform the daily details of your existence into words on paper? If you picked the same event -- let's say your first day at work in a new job -- would the narrative be the same? The emotions, the anxities, the small, unnoticed triumphs?
I'm guessing no. I'm betting that you would get as many different stories as there were partici-
pants.
And given that we're mired in the festive season (well, Cambodia isn't, but still), it's safe to say that, were Jesus's disciples asked to give a precis of the dude, a brief character sketch of who he was and what he accomplished, the results would have been uneven. The contradictions would have stood out. ("No, no, no, it wasn't wine that he turned water into -- it was apple juice, guy. No, man, he didn't walk across the water -- he boogie-boarded across it. Dude, I swear. I was there, alright?")
The point is, it's our world and our universe. We're dictating what we do and how we do it. But there's a million other people bumping and bopping off of us at any given point in time, and they're writing their own biography of each of us; they're compiling, subconsciously, their private databank containing information on the one and only (insert your name here).
Paul Theroux said that, like most people, his public self rarely matched his private self. (The Japanese recognize this more than others -- tatamae and honne, they call it.) We all have a face we show to the world and a face we look at each and every week while we brush our teeth. (That's a joke -- I know we're supposed to brush our teeth each and every day, not each and every week. It was a typo, I swear. I brush my teeth, like, all the time. Honest...)
We judge ourselves by the face in the mirror while everyone else renders a verdict based on the face they see in the classroom, the cubicle, the hallway, the street. We silently, wordlessly write our memoirs in our heads, not realizing that the people we're judging are doing the same. We're all the heroes of our own lives (if we're lucky), and that simple, grinning fool you see at Starbucks every day may have a life story that, were she to tell it, would take you out of your own biography and make you shake your head with awe, fear or even reverence.
You just have to ask to hear it.
We all are busy composing our own memoirs, whether we write them down or not, aren'twe? We remember things the way that we want to remember them; we pick and choose which details to emphasize in the photo-album of our brain, and pull out the pictures for another look whenever we are feeling down and out. The reality of events fades, but the impressions linger, and those impressions are what we try to embellish and brighten, if possible.
I'm reading a biography of Khruschev now, and the writer of the book, William Taubman, quotes generously from the Soviet leader's own memoirs. An interesting pattern develops: Taubman quotes Khruschchev's own written recollections of a certain event or incident, and then he instantly invalidates little Nikita's quote by saying, in essence: "But that's not what really happened..." So the version and validation of his existence that Khrushchev set down for posterity is being rewritten even after his death, by someone he never met. His own version of his own life is deemed to be suspicious, self-serving, inaccurate. History will not settle for one man's version of his own existence.
Most of us will not dictate into a tape recorder the events of our lives, or have our own, personal biographers watching and judging our every action from some future vantage point; we won't have to worry about somebody contradicting our take on events.
It's intriguing to think about, though. How would others write the story of your life? Not after you're dead -- I mean right now. How would your mother and father and boss and high school history teacher transform the daily details of your existence into words on paper? If you picked the same event -- let's say your first day at work in a new job -- would the narrative be the same? The emotions, the anxities, the small, unnoticed triumphs?
I'm guessing no. I'm betting that you would get as many different stories as there were partici-
pants.
And given that we're mired in the festive season (well, Cambodia isn't, but still), it's safe to say that, were Jesus's disciples asked to give a precis of the dude, a brief character sketch of who he was and what he accomplished, the results would have been uneven. The contradictions would have stood out. ("No, no, no, it wasn't wine that he turned water into -- it was apple juice, guy. No, man, he didn't walk across the water -- he boogie-boarded across it. Dude, I swear. I was there, alright?")
The point is, it's our world and our universe. We're dictating what we do and how we do it. But there's a million other people bumping and bopping off of us at any given point in time, and they're writing their own biography of each of us; they're compiling, subconsciously, their private databank containing information on the one and only (insert your name here).
Paul Theroux said that, like most people, his public self rarely matched his private self. (The Japanese recognize this more than others -- tatamae and honne, they call it.) We all have a face we show to the world and a face we look at each and every week while we brush our teeth. (That's a joke -- I know we're supposed to brush our teeth each and every day, not each and every week. It was a typo, I swear. I brush my teeth, like, all the time. Honest...)
We judge ourselves by the face in the mirror while everyone else renders a verdict based on the face they see in the classroom, the cubicle, the hallway, the street. We silently, wordlessly write our memoirs in our heads, not realizing that the people we're judging are doing the same. We're all the heroes of our own lives (if we're lucky), and that simple, grinning fool you see at Starbucks every day may have a life story that, were she to tell it, would take you out of your own biography and make you shake your head with awe, fear or even reverence.
You just have to ask to hear it.
CAMBODIAN WEDDING TRIVIA
One interesting (if mystifying) aspect of Cambodian wedding receptions:
While everyone else sits inside and dines on various courses and listens to the pleasant music provided by the live band, the bride and groom and their respective families wait outside the hall the whole time, greeting everyone who arrives, and they only join the reception near the end, after most people have finished eating and already left.
Which makes me, as a guest, feel very guilty about eating and enjoying myself while the guests of honor wait outside in the parking lot.
While everyone else sits inside and dines on various courses and listens to the pleasant music provided by the live band, the bride and groom and their respective families wait outside the hall the whole time, greeting everyone who arrives, and they only join the reception near the end, after most people have finished eating and already left.
Which makes me, as a guest, feel very guilty about eating and enjoying myself while the guests of honor wait outside in the parking lot.
Sunday, December 19, 2004
THE GREAT 'ALEXANDER'
Oliver Stone, whose new film ALEXANDER has been universally derided by American critics, was on a promotional tour in Europe this week, where he stated that one of the reasons for the lack of success back home was that Americans did not know their history as well as the Europeans did.
It sounded like a pretty feeble defense -- until I watched ALEXANDER, and loved it, and realized that Stone is right.
ALEXANDER is pure Oliver Stone -- melodramatic and forceful and over-the-top and the opposite of subtle. If you hate Oliver Stone, you'll probably hate this film.
I'm no Alexander the Great expert. I just finished reading one book on the guy (by Robin Fox, who was Stone's advisor), but it gave me a sense of the man and the context to understand the world in which he lived.
Almost all of other people's criticisms of the movie are attributes to me -- the narration by Anthony Hopkins, the episodic nature of the script, the emotional anguish of Alexander.
Particularly that last point. A lot of critics have stated that Colin Farrell does nothing but weep and moan throughout the movie.
All very true. But let's look. Let's look at what made Alexander particularly revolutionary. He agonized over his troops deaths'. He praised them before battle. He respected his defeated adversaries. He actually cried over his men. This is all historically accurate. This is what helped build the Alexander legacy. And this is what Stone gets chided for.
What Stone does, brilliantly, I think, is illuminate a period of history that will be little understood by those who watch the film if they don't have some basic knowledge of what events of that time were like. Is it Stone's responsibility to provide that context?
Well, yes and no. He does offer some historical information to set the scene, but how much can you give in a movie like this? I saw J.F.K. when I was sixteen, and I'd say sixty percent of the sixties' social context depicted in the flick went right over my head like a missle. Didn't affect my enjoyment of the film.
The difference here, I think, is that this is a story set long, long ago, before Christ. It deals with social customs and political ideals that are substantially different than what we now know. It's a time and an era that he has brought to life splendidly well, but I don't think a lot of people will have the patience or interest to sit through it, unfortunately -- it will seem baroque, unwieldy, sometimes silly.
All very well and good, but how is it as a movie?
This is my take on it. The film is called Alexander -- not 'Alexander the Great'. I think that's key. The Alexander from myth and history remains just that -- mythic. Somewhat ethereal. Not quite real. Stone has gone back and tried to imagine, conceptualize, depict, what it would be like for Alexander, himself, to come of age with his burden and his destiny. Stone depicts the boy and the man inside of the myth -- the tears and the rage and the confusion and the bloodlust. What would it be like to be considered the son of Zeus and the son of the most powerful man in the world? What would that do to you? Stone goes inside of the myth to try to bring forth Alexander.
If people don't like the film, fine. That's their perogative. But to see the joy that most critics' feel in dismissing a work that, for me, overflows with adolescent guts and passion and energy and grace is more than sad; it's debilitating. It smacks of cynicism and snarkiness and everything vile that growing old represents. Much of Alexander's life, and this film, focuses on the inevitability of glory's death, the long, inescapable fall that follows all those who seek to soar higher than the rest.
Perhaps, to some, this film is an example of that -- Stone's hubris expanded one last and final (?) time.
Not for me. For me, this film is an example of epic thinking. I think it has bravado and heart. It is long and slow, melodramatic and bloody. It dares to depict simple, primal thoughts. It beats with the heart of young dreamers. In its grandiosity, it practically invites the scorn it has received.
Let people scorn. The irony, I think, is that the young, who know very little about the present, let alone the past, will this film, and be intrigued, mystified, perplexed. They will want to know more about this strange man named Alexander. They will search the net, go to the library, explore. Somewhere in the world, a twelve or thirteen or fifteen year old boy or girl, just beginning to think of concepts like destiny and adventure, power and ambition, will see this film, and be enthralled, and marvel at one whose ambition knew no bounds, and whose desire, in all its multifaceted glory, had no territory or limits. They will, perhaps, wonder about those same qualities in themselves.
This film is for the young and the dreamers.
Saturday, December 18, 2004
A JOLIE GOOD TIME...
Angelina Jolie appeared last night on this British discussion show called HARDTALK, which is, as the name implies, usually pretty hardhitting, politcally divisive stuff, meaning that the host grills the guests over the coals until they either cry 'uncle' or the program gives way to a commerical -- only this was a big-time-beautiful-famous-Hollywood-actress-kind-of- guest, so the questions were soft, sensitive, sympathetic. (I think the host was probably hoping to sleep with her, actually...)
They discussed her work with the UN, which mostly involves serving as a spokeswoman for various international causes related to issues involving landmines, refugees, etc. She has been to Sudan and Sierre Leone and basically every other horrible place on the earth, although she hasn't hit Welland, Ontario yet. (Maybe after the Fallujah thing settles down for good?)
She also talked quite a bit about Cambodia; she has an adopted Cambodian son, and has built a house up in Battambang province, although I'm not too sure how often she stays there. (I'm betting bi-annually, for a week or so at a time.) A few months back she was here in Cambodia, meeting with Prime Minister Hun Sen, flashing that Joker-smile of hers, talking carefully about how she would consider quite sincerely their offer of Cambodian citizenship. Last night on the British show she said she would accept it, so I guess she's decided to take the plunge and tie herself even further to the country.
There's two ways to look at celebrities like Jolie: 1) That she's a publicity desperate, emotionally
starved egotistical actress who is desperate for attention; or 2) That she's a genuinely good person who has led a life of extreme privilege, was gradually made aware of the fact that there's a wider, more severe world out there, and then, given what she has, and what is able to give, decided to do something about it.
I choose the latter explanation. Yes, she's probably spoiled, and arrogant, and condescending. (But aren't we all?) And it seems somewhat hypocritical to fly in and out of these places for a brief inspection tour of misery and carnage.
At the same time, as she herself said in interview, she found it hard to believe that people would think that she did all of this work with refugees, flew all over the world, witnessed all of this heartbreak, just so she could pretend that she enjoyed helping people. That's what it boils down to, I think; she's helping people. Not as much as the aid workers who give their lives, no, but she draws attention to causes, and arouses curiosity in young people, and perhaps sheds a little light, gets a little news time, for issues that would otherwise be neglected if a gorgeous film star wasn't discussing them through pouty, bee-stung lips.
And I can guarantee that the people she meets in refugee camps (and in Cambodia itself) do not hold any grudges whatsoever against her. They are poor, and they need help, and they see this foreign woman who would like to talk to them, listen to them, perhaps comfort them. They are told that she is important; they understand that she will listen.
And she is there.
That seems to be the clincher. She doesn't have to do this stuff. I don't imagine it's easy touring the havoc of Sudan, and I can testify that it's not easy to witness the maimed and the emotion-
ally torn in Cambodia. It takes something out of you. It also puts something back INto you as well, something foreign and invigorating.
The next time a celebrity appears on t.v., by all means, hold them up to scrutiny. Ask yourself why they are doing this, and what they're getting out of it, and what we're supposed to view them as -- martyrs, opportunists, wankers.
But remember that somewhere in the world there was a little boy or girl (definitely poor, most likely starving) who talked to that celebrity, and perhaps they smiled, possibly even laughed, and for a moment or two, someone was there. Someone listened. That Hollywood star left, yes, flew up, up and away, into the blue, that's true, but it was a moment, nevertheless; it was real and genuine and heartfelt. And I think that the poor (and maybe all of us) live from moment to moment, so one instant in time carries more weight than you may imagine. One moment can carry everything.
They discussed her work with the UN, which mostly involves serving as a spokeswoman for various international causes related to issues involving landmines, refugees, etc. She has been to Sudan and Sierre Leone and basically every other horrible place on the earth, although she hasn't hit Welland, Ontario yet. (Maybe after the Fallujah thing settles down for good?)
She also talked quite a bit about Cambodia; she has an adopted Cambodian son, and has built a house up in Battambang province, although I'm not too sure how often she stays there. (I'm betting bi-annually, for a week or so at a time.) A few months back she was here in Cambodia, meeting with Prime Minister Hun Sen, flashing that Joker-smile of hers, talking carefully about how she would consider quite sincerely their offer of Cambodian citizenship. Last night on the British show she said she would accept it, so I guess she's decided to take the plunge and tie herself even further to the country.
There's two ways to look at celebrities like Jolie: 1) That she's a publicity desperate, emotionally
starved egotistical actress who is desperate for attention; or 2) That she's a genuinely good person who has led a life of extreme privilege, was gradually made aware of the fact that there's a wider, more severe world out there, and then, given what she has, and what is able to give, decided to do something about it.
I choose the latter explanation. Yes, she's probably spoiled, and arrogant, and condescending. (But aren't we all?) And it seems somewhat hypocritical to fly in and out of these places for a brief inspection tour of misery and carnage.
At the same time, as she herself said in interview, she found it hard to believe that people would think that she did all of this work with refugees, flew all over the world, witnessed all of this heartbreak, just so she could pretend that she enjoyed helping people. That's what it boils down to, I think; she's helping people. Not as much as the aid workers who give their lives, no, but she draws attention to causes, and arouses curiosity in young people, and perhaps sheds a little light, gets a little news time, for issues that would otherwise be neglected if a gorgeous film star wasn't discussing them through pouty, bee-stung lips.
And I can guarantee that the people she meets in refugee camps (and in Cambodia itself) do not hold any grudges whatsoever against her. They are poor, and they need help, and they see this foreign woman who would like to talk to them, listen to them, perhaps comfort them. They are told that she is important; they understand that she will listen.
And she is there.
That seems to be the clincher. She doesn't have to do this stuff. I don't imagine it's easy touring the havoc of Sudan, and I can testify that it's not easy to witness the maimed and the emotion-
ally torn in Cambodia. It takes something out of you. It also puts something back INto you as well, something foreign and invigorating.
The next time a celebrity appears on t.v., by all means, hold them up to scrutiny. Ask yourself why they are doing this, and what they're getting out of it, and what we're supposed to view them as -- martyrs, opportunists, wankers.
But remember that somewhere in the world there was a little boy or girl (definitely poor, most likely starving) who talked to that celebrity, and perhaps they smiled, possibly even laughed, and for a moment or two, someone was there. Someone listened. That Hollywood star left, yes, flew up, up and away, into the blue, that's true, but it was a moment, nevertheless; it was real and genuine and heartfelt. And I think that the poor (and maybe all of us) live from moment to moment, so one instant in time carries more weight than you may imagine. One moment can carry everything.
Friday, December 17, 2004
EVIL'S DAUGHTER
A feature article in The Cambodia Daily last weekend profiled the life of a typical teenage girl living in the northern provinces of Cambodia, a pretty young student looking forward to leaving the simple, somewhat secluded rural life behind as she moves to the big city of Phnom Penh to pursue her dream of studying accounting at a university; the only unusual part of this story, the only somewhat disturbing part, is the identity of her father -- Pol Pot.
Yes, that Pol Pot, the deceased lunatic leader of Democratic Kampuchea, that bizarre visionary who attempted to create an agrarian utopia, a worker's paradise, and instead launched four years of torture, deprivation and starvation that killed two million Cambodians. He ended up somehow surviving into the late nineties, eventually dying of natural causes in rural Cambodia.
The fact that his daughter is still alive, and contemplating studying at a university here in Phnom Penh is more than a little strange -- it's downright surreal, if only because, up until a few months ago, I was teaching here, and she could very well have ended up in one of my classes.
Think about it. It'd be like Hitler or Stalin's kid coming to class. Come on in, pull up the chair, have a seat. And what does your father do?
I'm not sure how much this girl knows about what her father did. I'm not sure how many other people know her identity. From the article, she came across as being, well, typically Cambodian -- kind and simple and a little naive. There was even a recent picture of Pol Pot in his final years accompanying the article, looking very much like a benevolent, content old codger as he posed with a group of grinning children, teeth flashing white against their dark sin.
There have been a few letters to the paper the last few days, angry letters, in which this young girl is reminded that yes, yes, of course, she bears no responsibility for her father's actions. She is innocent, and deserves the right to get on with her life and become the best person she can. Yet the smiling, harmless elderly man in the photos was the butcher of Asia, and many, many Cambodians were robbed of their own photos of wide grins and white teeth, fathers, grandfathers, brothers, sisters, mothers, slaughtered and starved and their families deprived of mementoes, companionship, life. There were millions of people whose lives were ruined directly due to the actions of father -- and she has the obligation (if not the burden) of understanding who her father was, and what his affect on this land has been. I don't envy her, or her years ahead.
Cambodia is a country that seems to live in the present and draw comfort (and horror) from the past. The future is far-off land that may very well be reached, but getting there is not a priority. The majesty of the Angkor Wat temples is offset by the destruction of Pol Pot's regime, a brutal reign that has put the country back fifty, if not a hundred years. The whole nation is an open sore and a gaping wound; the psychological wounds are not only fresh, but piercing. You live for today and only today, seems to be the strategy, in politics and business and life.
And here is Pol Pot's daugther, somewhat oblivious, it seems, to her father's legacy and impact on her native land. She has a shy smile and dark hair and, most likely, a shoddy bicycle that she uses to ride the uneven, bumpy roads of her village. She was a child of a horror that had finished long before she was born, true, but she is coming of age, and learning about life, and there will come a point in the not-too-distant future when she will more fully understand where her bloodlines run.
She deserves a good life, a fulfilling life. She has the right to go to school, learn about computers, plan for her future. Should she come to Phnom Penh, I wish her many nights of shining stars and cool, comforting quiet as she idly walks along the banks of the Mekong, while the motos buzz past and the monks shuffle by.
But there may come a point in time, too, when five, ten, fifteen, a hundred people in the nation's capital will learn of her true identity. They may treat her with sympathy. They may treat her with malice.
She will not be ignored, of that I'm certain.
And, like it or not, whether it's fair or not, they will be seeking answers. Perhaps a nineteen, twenty, twenty-one year old girl cannot, could not and shouldn't have to provide solace for what they seek.
But they will ask, nevertheless.
And, while she does not have to answer for her father's horrors, she has to, at the very least, be aware of them, in all their inexplicable terror and complexity.
That's quite a task.
"I wish you good luck," is what Cambodians often say, and it's what I say to her.
In the years to come, as Cambodia lurches forward to whatever destiny provides for this land and its people, I think she'll be needing it.
Yes, that Pol Pot, the deceased lunatic leader of Democratic Kampuchea, that bizarre visionary who attempted to create an agrarian utopia, a worker's paradise, and instead launched four years of torture, deprivation and starvation that killed two million Cambodians. He ended up somehow surviving into the late nineties, eventually dying of natural causes in rural Cambodia.
The fact that his daughter is still alive, and contemplating studying at a university here in Phnom Penh is more than a little strange -- it's downright surreal, if only because, up until a few months ago, I was teaching here, and she could very well have ended up in one of my classes.
Think about it. It'd be like Hitler or Stalin's kid coming to class. Come on in, pull up the chair, have a seat. And what does your father do?
I'm not sure how much this girl knows about what her father did. I'm not sure how many other people know her identity. From the article, she came across as being, well, typically Cambodian -- kind and simple and a little naive. There was even a recent picture of Pol Pot in his final years accompanying the article, looking very much like a benevolent, content old codger as he posed with a group of grinning children, teeth flashing white against their dark sin.
There have been a few letters to the paper the last few days, angry letters, in which this young girl is reminded that yes, yes, of course, she bears no responsibility for her father's actions. She is innocent, and deserves the right to get on with her life and become the best person she can. Yet the smiling, harmless elderly man in the photos was the butcher of Asia, and many, many Cambodians were robbed of their own photos of wide grins and white teeth, fathers, grandfathers, brothers, sisters, mothers, slaughtered and starved and their families deprived of mementoes, companionship, life. There were millions of people whose lives were ruined directly due to the actions of father -- and she has the obligation (if not the burden) of understanding who her father was, and what his affect on this land has been. I don't envy her, or her years ahead.
Cambodia is a country that seems to live in the present and draw comfort (and horror) from the past. The future is far-off land that may very well be reached, but getting there is not a priority. The majesty of the Angkor Wat temples is offset by the destruction of Pol Pot's regime, a brutal reign that has put the country back fifty, if not a hundred years. The whole nation is an open sore and a gaping wound; the psychological wounds are not only fresh, but piercing. You live for today and only today, seems to be the strategy, in politics and business and life.
And here is Pol Pot's daugther, somewhat oblivious, it seems, to her father's legacy and impact on her native land. She has a shy smile and dark hair and, most likely, a shoddy bicycle that she uses to ride the uneven, bumpy roads of her village. She was a child of a horror that had finished long before she was born, true, but she is coming of age, and learning about life, and there will come a point in the not-too-distant future when she will more fully understand where her bloodlines run.
She deserves a good life, a fulfilling life. She has the right to go to school, learn about computers, plan for her future. Should she come to Phnom Penh, I wish her many nights of shining stars and cool, comforting quiet as she idly walks along the banks of the Mekong, while the motos buzz past and the monks shuffle by.
But there may come a point in time, too, when five, ten, fifteen, a hundred people in the nation's capital will learn of her true identity. They may treat her with sympathy. They may treat her with malice.
She will not be ignored, of that I'm certain.
And, like it or not, whether it's fair or not, they will be seeking answers. Perhaps a nineteen, twenty, twenty-one year old girl cannot, could not and shouldn't have to provide solace for what they seek.
But they will ask, nevertheless.
And, while she does not have to answer for her father's horrors, she has to, at the very least, be aware of them, in all their inexplicable terror and complexity.
That's quite a task.
"I wish you good luck," is what Cambodians often say, and it's what I say to her.
In the years to come, as Cambodia lurches forward to whatever destiny provides for this land and its people, I think she'll be needing it.
Thursday, December 16, 2004
DO WE KNOW IT'S THE KHMER NEW YEAR AT ALL? (AND DO WE CARE?)
I hear that there's a new version of that Christmas song Bob Geldof put together twenty years ago for famine relief in Africa, the one featuring every living pop star together in one room, singing for a lot of charity and a little publicity. (There was also a Canadian song that did the same thing for the same cause called 'Tears are not Enough', bringing together Geddy Lee and Kim Mitchell and Brian Adams together in the same room, and that image right there is well worth the price of admission and, besides, it's enough to make a grown man weep, it is. I'm not sure who our version of Bob Geldof was. Maybe Mr.Dressup?)
I always liked that Geldof song. Still do. It's catchy and seasonal, with a melody, point and purpose.
But there's one line that alwasy struck me as kind of odd. It's the one that goes: "Do they know it's Christmastime at all?"
Now, that line is about the starving people of Ethiopia, right? And I don't think Ethiopia is the most Christian of countries, although I'm sure the various missionary groups that are out and about are doing their virtuous best to convert the country (and the continent, and the world, and...)
So, the question is: Why would they know it's Christmastime? Why should they even care?
I'm nitpicking, to be sure, and what the hell, it's only a song, and a song written and performed for a worthy cause, so I'm not knocking it for that reason. And I know that the line seems to represent something more than the season itself, but the whole spirit of giving and family and love that season represents. Got all that. It just seems like that's a good example of a western sensibility mixing itself up in a decidedly non-western place.
I'm not sure Cambodia knows it's Christmastime. Well, that's not entirely true; there are a lot of stores here in Phnom Penh that cater to foreigners, so there are actually artifical Christmas trees assembled here and there, with actual Santa Claus hats on sale, should the urge arise to wear one of these caps in the hundred degree heat. And there are, of course, a fair share of Christians here, too, most of them recent converts (recent meaning the last ten years. There was even a newspaper article awhile back about how a fair number of ex-Khmer Rouge soldiers had suddenly found Christ in their later years. Funny how that is...)
Still, I'm almost forgetting it's Christmas. The air is hot and the sky is blue and there won't be snow around these parts for another, oh, never.
Do Cambodians know it's Christmastime?
Some of them, maybe a lot of them, do. They've met foreigners. They've watched t.v. They know the deal. Maybe not the specifics, no, but they get the gist.
Of course, this past year in Cambodia, like every other year, there's been the Festival of the Dead, and the Chinese New Year, and the Water Festival. (There was even, no joke, a National Hate Day until a few years back, where the public could freely express their hatred towards their former Vietnamese oppresors.)
Maybe the question for Africa and every other non-Christian nation shouldn't be 'Do they know it's Christmastime'?
Maybe the questions should be directed at Canada and England and Australia and New Zealand and America. We've exported our celebrations around the world; how many holidays and festivals have we imported? (Or are even aware of?)
Do we know it's the (Chinese New Year/Water Festival/insert any other foreign country's holiday here, including Iceland and Burkina Faso) at all?
Do we?
Do you?
I always liked that Geldof song. Still do. It's catchy and seasonal, with a melody, point and purpose.
But there's one line that alwasy struck me as kind of odd. It's the one that goes: "Do they know it's Christmastime at all?"
Now, that line is about the starving people of Ethiopia, right? And I don't think Ethiopia is the most Christian of countries, although I'm sure the various missionary groups that are out and about are doing their virtuous best to convert the country (and the continent, and the world, and...)
So, the question is: Why would they know it's Christmastime? Why should they even care?
I'm nitpicking, to be sure, and what the hell, it's only a song, and a song written and performed for a worthy cause, so I'm not knocking it for that reason. And I know that the line seems to represent something more than the season itself, but the whole spirit of giving and family and love that season represents. Got all that. It just seems like that's a good example of a western sensibility mixing itself up in a decidedly non-western place.
I'm not sure Cambodia knows it's Christmastime. Well, that's not entirely true; there are a lot of stores here in Phnom Penh that cater to foreigners, so there are actually artifical Christmas trees assembled here and there, with actual Santa Claus hats on sale, should the urge arise to wear one of these caps in the hundred degree heat. And there are, of course, a fair share of Christians here, too, most of them recent converts (recent meaning the last ten years. There was even a newspaper article awhile back about how a fair number of ex-Khmer Rouge soldiers had suddenly found Christ in their later years. Funny how that is...)
Still, I'm almost forgetting it's Christmas. The air is hot and the sky is blue and there won't be snow around these parts for another, oh, never.
Do Cambodians know it's Christmastime?
Some of them, maybe a lot of them, do. They've met foreigners. They've watched t.v. They know the deal. Maybe not the specifics, no, but they get the gist.
Of course, this past year in Cambodia, like every other year, there's been the Festival of the Dead, and the Chinese New Year, and the Water Festival. (There was even, no joke, a National Hate Day until a few years back, where the public could freely express their hatred towards their former Vietnamese oppresors.)
Maybe the question for Africa and every other non-Christian nation shouldn't be 'Do they know it's Christmastime'?
Maybe the questions should be directed at Canada and England and Australia and New Zealand and America. We've exported our celebrations around the world; how many holidays and festivals have we imported? (Or are even aware of?)
Do we know it's the (Chinese New Year/Water Festival/insert any other foreign country's holiday here, including Iceland and Burkina Faso) at all?
Do we?
Do you?
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