Her

by Constance Allan (Australia)

I didn't expect to find Cambodia

A man much shorter than I stands in front of the tree. I am fifteen when the much shorter man tells me about the Chankiri Tree. He tells me about it as I gaze up at its imposing presence. He tells me about it as I stand metres from a mass grave. He tells me about the Killing Tree. His voice is quiet, fitting for the orchard that this field once was. But there is a pain to his pitch. He hides it well though. He gulps it down and resumes his sense of professionalism. I almost wish he doesn’t though. I almost wish he would break down crying or start yelling or simply walks away and refuse to continue. He doesn’t, of course. He continues in his professional and painful quiet. “They would smash children and babies’ heads into Chankiri because their parents were accused of crimes against the Khmer Rouge.” My brain lags. I feel like my laptop at home when I open too many tabs, like the small rainbow circle turning and turning until I can catch up. “They would hold them by the feet and swing them into it.” The rainbow circle disappears. My insides threaten to lurch out of my body and crawl away. I can feel white splurges of spit either side of my mouth as my tongue refuses to dampen. Even holding a baby is too much for me—they’re too delicate, too unpredictable. Whenever one is passed into my arms at family gatherings or Christmas parties, panic sets it. What if I am the one to damage it? The baby in question, sensing my panic, then inevitably begins to cry and I have an excuse to palm it off back to its mum. I scowl at Chankiri. My rational brain understands that this isn’t her fault, her doing. Yet, I will her to speak to me, to explain, to not let the much shorter man take the fall. Will her willows weep, crying for clemency, for her roots roped her an involuntary perpetrator? Or will her trunk taunt me, with brutal tales of beaten toddlers, a bowing collaborator? But she says nothing. Still and solemn. Chankiri has hundreds, maybe thousands, of pieces of strings hanging off it. They look like the friendship bracelets you can buy in surf shops back home. Blues, purples, yellows, with beads in the middle. Pinks, reds, greens, falling and cascading into one another. I search the bracelets. Some are newer than others, their bright coats still intact. Others faded and frayed still cascade as loyal soldiers guarding its neighbouring grave. The girl beside me reaches into her backpack. Her hair is braided like a punishment. After fumbling with zips she pulls out her phone, angles it upwards, and taps her screen. I don’t know why she does this. And I don’t ask. Maybe she wants to show everyone how much she is taking this in; a public display of mourning self-indulgence. Or maybe she is genuinely wanting to remember Chankiri and her victims. For the girl with the braids would forget her otherwise. The girl with the braids wasn’t enjoying the accommodation so far. The night before we met Chankiri, my ears were bruised by her bitching. “To think we paid to sleep on rock hard beds.” I inhaled. “The bathrooms are so small I can barely move.” I exhaled. “My family would never stay here.” I inhaled. "It’s not the fucking Italian Riviera." I didn’t say that though. I stood silent, my indifference complicit to her complaints. I am fifteen when we drive away from the much shorter man. I stare out the window of the bus as it revs. The girl with the braids tells everyone about a new phone waiting for her at home. Our bus crunches on the gravel passing through the gates. I turn to see the much shorter man talking to another group of fifteen white people. He’s too far away now, but I can still hear his voice in my head. He is painfully quiet. I cannot see him anymore. But I will always see her. I listen for her too. Yet she says nothing.