An unintentional human omerta

The duty of remembrance. This expression, promoted after World War I, reached its peak in the early 1990s. Its meaning? To remember, testify, and educate to prevent terrible events from happening again. The Khmer people who fled the wars of the 1970s and the Angkar regime between 1975 and 1979 have, in most cases, remained discreet. In France, the United States, or elsewhere, their children have learned very little about their origins. Is this a cultural difference with France and its famous duty of remembrance? Not necessarily.

Last Thursday, the French Institute screened Une minorité visible invisible, a film by Mathieu Pheng, a French director of Khmer origin. The documentary features several testimonies from Franco-Cambodian adults born in France after their parents’ expatriation—the second generation. Through this narrative, Mathieu Pheng addresses their search for identity.

Trauma

A debate followed the film screening. Journalist Éléonore Sok, singer Laura Mam, poet and lyricist Kosal Khiev, and photographer Serey Siv were able to express themselves and share their experiences of childhood, education, and the discovery of their country of origin. Jean-Baptiste Phou, artistic director of Cambodian Living Art, moderated the session. His father left Cambodia for France in 1973, followed by his mother in 1975. He shared after the debate: “At home, there were two contrasting portrayals of Cambodia: one was very romantic, with paintings of the Angkor temples, Apsaras, the countryside… And on the other hand, Cambodia under the Khmer Rouge. It wasn't necessarily a constructed discourse, but rather snippets, words like 'war,' 'Pol Pot'… The country was associated with suffering.” For many witnesses, information about Cambodia was scarce. In the 1980s and 1990s, while they were rebuilding their lives in their host countries, parents were not particularly inclined to reveal their memories of Cambodia. Culture, art, sports, politics, and even daily life were placed on the back burner. They didn’t want to bear witness, they wanted to start over. Elsewhere.

The duty of remembrance in France became central in schools and families in the 1990s. It focused on World War II and the Holocaust. Forty-five years separate this narrative freedom from May 8, 1945, and Germany's surrender. Forty-five years. The second-generation Franco-Cambodians grew up in France between 1980 and 2000. Jean-Baptiste Phou refuses to call this an intentional omerta, at least not in the conventional sense. “It's not something that was imposed or planned. There’s certainly trauma that prevents those directly affected from talking about it naturally, perhaps in an effort to protect themselves and those around them.” This seems to be a human condition—something universal. "It shouldn’t be specific to Cambodia, but to any collective traumatic event, like mass crimes," he adds. 

The principle of universality suggests the subjectivity of each person. Sensitivity changes depending on nature, behavior, and experience. The desire and ability to testify come from that. Therefore, this traumatic silence is not necessarily universal. Laura Mam, who grew up in the United States, shared that her mother spoke a lot about her homeland. “She used to tell me: ‘If you do that, you’re not a good Khmer, people won’t like you. With that behavior, you would have been killed during the war,’” she recalls with amusement. Her mother constantly talked about daily life in the kingdom, society, and customs. While studying anthropology, the singer extensively researched Cambodia. This raises the question of the interest of these individuals in their country of origin. And it is not always automatic.

A curiosity not so obvious

The testimonies of parents about their past can trigger curiosity about one’s origins and the desire to know more as a teenager. This seems to be what emerges from the various testimonies. Éléonore Sok, a journalist for La Croix and France Culture, was present at the debate at the French Institute. Her father is Khmer, her mother is French, and she remembers: “When I was little, I was curious about my family history, but it was my mother who put words to it, both from her side and from my father’s side. She was the one who held the narrative. I only truly became interested in Cambodia at the age of 16 when he went back there.” Her father remained silent for a long time, and she believes “maybe he didn’t know how to pass it on.” An instinctive silence.

“My encounter with Asia occurred ten years ago. Cambodia, my father’s homeland, was an unknown country,” can be read on her website. Jean-Baptiste Phou, on the other hand, consciously distanced himself from Cambodia. “I never researched Cambodia when I was young because my parents gave me a toxic view of the country. And if I mentioned that my parents came from there, there were constant references to genocide, misery… Something horrible that inspired pity. Very early on, I found it heavy, and I preferred to say I was French or Chinese,” he reflects.

Jean-Baptiste will present his play Cambodge, me voici on Thursday, September 20, at the Bophana Center. Four Khmers from different generations meet at the Cambodian consulate in Paris. The relationship to their origins and their quest for identity are central to the play. Today, he is settled, grounded. He knows enough about the kingdom to write such a play, which is very focused on sociology. “The direct influence of parents and family is never anecdotal; I would even say it is structuring. Only as an adult did I realize this and began a deconstruction process to try to free myself from certain influences and no longer be conditioned by them. This is especially true in the history and relationship I built with Cambodia.” At 25, he decided to reconnect with his roots and travel to Cambodia. It was only then that he could write his story and build his identity.

The third generation

A lot of water has passed under the bridge since the massive flight of Khmers to other horizons. Forty years. Memories are now shared more easily. School contributes to this, as does the country itself. A striking example is the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, formerly Ponhea Yat, a high school turned into a torture camp by the Khmer Rouge. Several times during the visit, the audio guide mentions the duty of remembrance and the effort to testify about what happened to those who have never entered.

Like Jean-Baptiste Phou, many from the second generation have mostly learned about their homeland on their own. Many have been charmed by what they discovered and are now of an age where they have children. Their desire to share their view of Cambodia may be overwhelming. But Jean-Baptiste is cautious. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea to act in the opposite direction, trying to influence children in the opposite direction: ‘This is my history, so it’s yours too. It’s YOUR country, love it, be proud.’ This kind of injunction may seem positive, but for me, it can just as easily provoke the same resistances and rejections from the children. Transmission shouldn’t be an imposition of memory but a sufficient gift of keys and landmarks, so that people can choose what they do with it and build their own story.” As it ultimately happened for him.

Thibault Bourru