September 18, 2018 — The duty to remember. This phrase, promoted in the years following the First World War, reached its peak in the early 1990s. Its meaning is simple: remember, bear witness, educate, to prevent terrible events from repeating themselves. Cambodians who fled the wars of the 1970s and the Angkar regime between 1975 and 1979 largely remained discreet. In France, in the United States, and elsewhere, their children learned very little about their origins. A cultural difference with France and its famous duty to remember? Not really.

Last Thursday, the Institut Français screened A Visible Invisible Minority, a film by Mathieu Pheng, a French director of Cambodian origin. The documentary draws on several testimonies from Franco-Cambodian adults born in France after their parents' expatriation. The second generation. Through this narrative, Mathieu Pheng explores their quest for identity.

Trauma

A debate opened following the film's screening. Journalist Éléonore Sok, singer Laura Mam, poet and lyricist Kosal Khiev, and photographer Serey Siv were able to speak and testify about their childhoods, education, and 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 his thoughts in the aftermath of the debate. "At home, there were two opposing depictions of Cambodia: a very romantic representation with paintings of Angkor temples, Apsaras, countryside... And on the other hand, Cambodia under the Khmer Rouge. It wasn't necessarily a coherent discourse, but rather fragments, words: 'war,' 'Pol Pot'... The country was associated with suffering." Information about Cambodia was lacking for many of those interviewed. In the 1980s and 1990s, as they rebuilt their lives in their adopted countries, parents were reluctant to reveal their memories of Cambodia. Culture, art, sport, politics, and even daily life took a back seat. They didn't want to testify; they wanted to start over. Elsewhere.

The duty to remember became central to French schools and families in the 1990s. It concerned the Second World War and the Holocaust. Forty-five years separated this narrative freedom from May 8, 1945, and Germany's capitulation. Forty-five years. Franco-Cambodian children of the second generation grew up in France between 1980 and 2000. Jean-Baptiste Phou refuses to call it an omertà, at least not a deliberate one. "It's not something imposed or coordinated. There's certainly a trauma that prevents those directly affected from speaking about it naturally, perhaps out of a concern for self-preservation and that of those around them." This seems to be inherent to humanity. A universal notion. "This shouldn't be specific to Cambodia but to any collective traumatic event, such as mass crimes," he adds.

The principle of universality suggests that each person's subjectivity is different. Everyone's sensitivity varies according to nature, behavior, and experience. The desire and ability to bear witness undoubtedly stems from this. This traumatic silence is, of course, not true for everyone. Laura Mam grew up in the United States. Her mother spoke to her often about her country of origin. "She would tell me: no, if you do that you're not a good Khmer, people won't love you. With that behavior, you would have been killed during the war," she testifies, amused. Her mother constantly spoke to her about daily life in the kingdom, about society, about customs. Alongside her anthropology studies, the singer extensively researched and documented Cambodia. This raises the question of these individuals' interest in their country of origin. And it is far from systematic—quite the opposite.

A Curiosity Far from Guaranteed

Parents' accounts of their past can trigger a certain curiosity about one's origins, a teenager's desire to learn more. At least, that's what seems to emerge from the various testimonies. Éléonore Sok, a journalist for La Croix and France Culture among others, is present at the debate at the Institut Français. Her father is Khmer, her mother French; she recalls. "As a child, I was curious about my family history, but it was my mother who put it into words, from her side and from my father's as well. She was the keeper of the narrative. I only became truly interested in Cambodia at sixteen, when he returned there." Her father remained silent for a long time; she believes "perhaps he didn't know how to pass it on." An instinctive silence.

"My encounter with Asia took place ten years ago. Cambodia, my father's country of origin, an unknown land," one can read on her website. Jean-Baptiste Phou chose to distance himself from it voluntarily. "As a young person, I never researched Cambodia, because my parents gave me a harmful vision of the country. And if I mentioned that my parents came from there, there would be systematic references to genocide, misery... Like something horrible that inspired pity. Very early on, I found it burdensome and preferred to say I was French or Chinese," he confides.

Jean-Baptiste is presenting on Thursday, September 20, his play Cambodia, Here I Am at the Bophana Center. Four Khmer people of different generations meet at the Cambodian consulate in Paris. Their relationship to their origins and their quest for identity are central to the play. Today, he is settled and grounded. He knows enough about the kingdom to write such a play, very much focused on sociology. "The direct influence of parents and family is never incidental; I would even say it's structuring. It was only as an adult that I became aware of this and undertook a process of deconstruction to try to free myself from certain influences and no longer be conditioned by them. This is particularly true in the history and relationship I have built with Cambodia." At twenty-five, he decided to reconnect with his roots and take flight to Cambodia. It was finally at that moment that he was able to write his own story, to construct his own identity.

The Third Generation

Much water has flowed under the bridge since this massive exodus of Cambodians to other horizons. Nearly forty years. Memories are now shared more easily. Education contributes to this, as does the country itself. A striking example is the Tuol Sleng genocide museum, formerly Ponhea Yat, the high school transformed into a torture camp by the Khmer Rouge. Several times during a visit, the audio guide mentions the duty to remember and the effort to testify about what happened to those who never entered.

Like Jean-Baptiste Phou, people from the second generation largely learned about their country of origin on their own. Many were charmed by what they discovered and are today of an age where they may have children. The desire to share their vision of Cambodia with them can be overwhelming. But Jean-Baptiste is wary of this. "I'm not certain one should act in the opposite direction, that is, try to influence children in the opposite way: 'this is my story, so it's yours too. This is YOUR country, love it, be proud of it.' It's an injunction that may seem positive but for me could just as well provoke the same resistance and rejection from children. Transmission should not be an imposition of memory, but rather the gift of enough keys and landmarks so that afterward, people can choose what to do with them and thus build their own story." As was ultimately the case for him.

Thibault Bourru

Thibault BourruA passionate lover of literature and Asia, Thibault shares his experiences through his writing.