Cambodian New Year

My Cambodian friend smiles
as I say
"arun sursda",
"good morning"
he laughs as
we talk.

I want to understand why
Cambodians created a monster:
should I enquire further?
can I name it?
to name is to master
so I’ve heard, so
I'll call it the Dark.

Not absence of light, the sun
behind a cloud, or the cool velvet of night,
the Dark is palpable, real and cruel.
It lurks, hides, creeps,
peers from corners,
scurries at the edge of vision,
a fleeting presence, a
demon of the mind.

Names of infamy,
a roll-call of beasts,
Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot,
Manichaean pawns, perhaps,
playthings of a supremely malevolent being;
always there,
waiting,
across the divide,
spiderlike,
in the Dark.

My friend knows too well
that nightmares can kill,
a leaf in a storm he was
washed down a river of blood,
so many others were lost.

April 13th, Cambodian New Year,
the Springvale Town Hall is
packed with people.
A feast is about to begin.
The Cambodians I've met are friendly,
gentle and kind.
The monks eat first,
serene in saffron robes.
We wait, respecting the robes and
the covered men.
When the monks finish we rush
the food piled tables.
The meal is 'chnang', delicious,
the air aromatic,
the hall bursts with laughter, music, and
talk amid swirling colours;
it's not Year Zero in the
Springvale Town Hall,
but when I look into eyes,
past smiles,
I see pain.

The Dark created that pain.
The Dark proclaimed Year Zero.
In Germany the Dark threw babies into
cyanide gas chambers.
In Uganda the Dark places a gun into
a young boy's hand.
He must kill his family.
He must sever his father's penis
and place it in his murdered
mother's mouth.
The Dark armed The Lord's Resistance Army.
The Dark built Auschwitz.
It sat with Hitler, Hess and Haushoffer
in a Bavarian jail.
Stalin's daughter saw the Dark
pulling her father's strings.
The Dark was in Indonesia the other day,
and Iraq, Egypt, Australia and America.
It's with us now, waiting.
The Dark built a mountain of
skulls at Samarkand.
The Dark emptied Pnom Penh.

My friend laughs.
It's Cambodian New Year and
life is renewed.
I watch the precise, graceful movements
of the traditional dancers and
feel crude and clumsy in comparison.
My friend asks,
"Sok sabbaye tay?"
I reply,
"Sok sabbaye",
I'm O.K.
It's not Year Zero,
Springvale is not Pnom Penh.

My friend plays a video from Cambodia,
news from home.
A corpse is being prepared
-his uncle.
The Buddhist funeral rites require the
body to remain in the house,
packed in ice,
for a week.
There is much sorrow and tears,
but sorrow is of the Wheel and
part of life.
My friend is happy,
delightedly he points out
cherished relatives and friends,
people he never expected to see again.
Death is natural,
death is partner to life.

The Dark is not death.
The Dark kills, but not to live.
The Dark is with us again,
do you feel it?
It comes when named.

The Dark is strong
but not omnipotent.
It can be beaten,
forced to retreat.
I smile and
think of light,
laugh, and
remember love,
for love can illuminate the Dark.

Cambodian New Year,
the festivities end,
the sky is sprinkled with stars.
A new year begins,
a better year for some.
I say "or koun", thank you,
my friend smiles and says,
"kyon lea howie",
Goodbye.

(c) Tony Foley 1993, 2006