Christine Su

Lowell, MA and San Francisco, CA

My father was born in the province of Kampot, to the southwest of Cambodia’s capital city of Phnom Penh, in a small municipality called Tani Tuk Meas. While I know very little about his childhood, I like to envision that his daily life was much like what I have seen in idyllic paintings: coconut palm trees swaying in the warm summer winds, green rice fields, people making offerings at the local Buddhist temple. I like to picture him running along a red dirt road on his way to elementary school, wearing the typical uniform of a white shirt and blue shorts or trousers. I see him peering over his mother’s shoulder as she cooks something delicious in a clay pot, over a fire. Unfortunately, much of my connection with my father comes through my imagination, his story a narrative I invented.

During the Khmer Rouge regime, more than 2 million people died of starvation, disease, overwork, torture, and execution in what became known as the “killing fields.” Among them were my father’s parents, grandparents, siblings, cousins, and friends.

Consequently, Cambodia was not spoken of in our house, and as far as I knew, it was a bad place—or at least, a place I believed had stolen my father’s happiness. Any mention of it caused my father to retreat into a disconsolate silence—or explode with anger. I learned early on not to ask anything about Cambodia or his life there, as I never knew which of the two extremes would result. Interacting with him became a complicated dance, as our conversations could only extend so far. 

In retrospect, he undoubtedly suffered from survivor’s guilt. He must have repeatedly asked himself, why did I survive and get to live in the United States, while my family members disappeared into the void of nameless multitudes tortured and slaughtered by the Khmer Rouge? What could I have done to save them? Was I wrong to leave them and come to the U.S.? Certainly, these questions weighed on him, causing sleepless nights and overwhelming grief, and a need to isolate himself. 

As an adult, I had resolved to (gently) break through my father’s silence and persuade him to tell me more about his life in Cambodia, about his parents, his siblings, his friends. Before I could do so, however, my father was diagnosed with dementia. Any intention of having meaningful conversations soon gave way to 24/7 basic care. When he passed away just after Thanksgiving in 2023, I mourned the loss of not only his physical being, but of his untold stories, the memories of Cambodia I so wanted hear from him. He and I would never share those stories about his past. But, I decided, I could show him that the soul of Cambodia he knew before the war still exists, albeit transformed in a 21st century context. I could finally bring him home, after many decades away. And in so doing, we could write a story together.

On a humid morning in January 2024, I sat on the edge of a stone wall, facing the Kampong Bay River in Kampot. While an achar (temple elder) chanted, I gently scattered my father’s ashes into the water, followed by petals from pink and white lotus flowers. In Cambodia, the lotus is an essential element of both every day and exceptional days; it is both utilitarian, its seeds and leaves used in food, textiles, and traditional medicine, and sacred, its full flowers and pulled petals offered during Buddhist ceremonies in hallowed temples. Lotus plants begin in darkness as humble seeds encased in mud, but emerge from the water as hardy flowers that stretch toward the sun. What a fitting and beautiful metaphor for Cambodia, a country shrouded by the darkness of war and genocide, yet in the process of rebirth and regeneration.

It is also a fitting metaphor for my journey, for the process of healing the trauma I inherited. There is a saying that while lotuses often grow naturally in areas of still water and hot sun, where they do not appear organically, Cambodians will plant them. Indeed, in darkness, in the void left by my father’s silence, I had to plant my own seeds.

Christine Su is koan kat (half Khmer). Her father is Khmer and her mother is British. Christine is a professor at University of Massachusetts, Lowell. She spends her summers in San Francisco. Follow her on Instagram @khmergenerations.