| Author | Message | ||
| M
Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3949 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Battambang/Palo Alto dinnyc I doubt there was a family left intact. At night in the camp, the stories spilled out in newly-learned English, in French, and in Khmer. It did not matter. Languages meshed into one litany of pain. (I never saw my father again. We don't know where my older brother is. The baby died. There were no doctors. I was sent to be re-educated.) The darkness was hot and everywhere. The air was thick with dust and spiral stars. The quiet was profound, unless there was a border skirmish. None of the refugees noticed the gunfire because telling their stories was more important. (I want to go to Canada, to be an engineer. Is my English well enough for New Zealand? In America they say there is enough to eat. I will never go home again.) The last time i saw Sattya, he was eleven; underfoot and omnipresent in the bamboo hospital. The last time, that is, until I saw his photo on the cover of "Time." "Asian Whiz Kids." He still had a story. (My name is Sattya. I am Khmer. I go to Stanford. I am a success. Everyone tells me how very very fortunate I am.) |
