to My Mother

As a child, my mother would often take me to school by 7 a.m. in Phnom Penh. She was a woman whose heart was made of steel —nothing was able to break her. She often told me, “Marry when you’re out of college, when you’re stable and have your own life, choose a man you love.” I find it ironic, coming from a woman who once never had a choice of her own.

I often watched her dress me and my sister in beautiful dresses, with elegant hair accessories. My mother, she never once dressed herself up like the other mothers at school. I resented her for it; I wished she were more feminine. I often watched her raise me and my sister alone, despite my father being present. She had nothing, yet everything.

In the end, she gave me everything—that was my mother.

fly, high

𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘴, 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘩 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘦—𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘭𝘺. 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘦𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘥𝘴. 𝘓𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘺 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦. 𝘐 𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘵 “𝘍𝘭𝘺, 𝘏𝘪𝘨𝘩” 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘐 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘢𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘰𝘮. 𝘛𝘰 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘦, 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘤, 𝘴𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘥, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦.

𝘈𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘴𝘰𝘣 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺, 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘦𝘭 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘺.

The Woman Who Sang in Freedom

My grandmother, whom I often called Lok Yeay Qim. A pure-hearted woman, one who taught me values beyond the surface, who showed me that silence and grace were never a woman’s weakness. I often watched her, her delicate voice singing Theravada Buddhist mantras her love and devotion to the spiritual world ever present.

Throughout my childhood, I would sit and ask her to recite Khmer legends to me one of the most well-known being the story of the Weeping Princess, Neang Kongrey. A girl who knew nothing of her mother's cruelty, who loved a man she never should have met, and who cried herself to death when he left, her grief so consuming it carved her body into a mountain that still lies across the Tonle Sap today.

That story came to reflect the lives of women who shed their tears in silence, carrying a quiet devotion to the roles expected of them. It was the first time I understood what devotion was.

A Story from My Father

To a man who knew love, and chose to show it through devotion rather than meaningless words, but what did devotion mean to a man who lost everything to the ashes of his country’s past? It was an endless question, one that shaped a new kind of devotion I came to understand as a child.

War, conflict, power struggles—within a world filled with agony, he left the only thing he cherished to his daughter. It was the last piece of his dignity. He often described my birth and origin vividly, telling me how he prayed for a daughter on an auspicious day before Preah Ang Dongkhal, one of Cambodia’s most sacred temples even giving names that no one in this world had encountered.

I sat and listened, not fully understanding his quiet cry for his legacy, his story being poured into his daughter.