Nationalité

I was told to keep quiet, somebody would do the talking for me. Here, finally, was a fine display of common sense. My Cambodian vocabulary is dire at best, permitting mostly discussions about lunch, dogs, and water, so when it comes to getting a new nationality in a country known for the corruption of its officials and its obfuscatory, arcane administration… yes, I better keep quiet.

It was a simple process really. I sat, and waited. I watched wrestling on the sparkling TV set in the corner of the room. Then I sat and waited some more. Eventually I was checked for distinctive marks on my visage. I was told I was too white, too European - a last attempt to get a few extra dollars? I cast sideways glances at my anxious looking mother. She pointed quietly at the tuna cans propping up the official’s desk, and we stifled a laugh.

At 28, I can barely muster the energy for a good sulk, and so I sat, playing the role of the clueless, obedient, quiet daughter to perfection. I tried to think important thoughts, to weigh the matter at hand in the grand scale of things. I have been calling myself French all my life, in spite of some obscure origins and a lot of globetrotting. I had not asked for this, but surely there must be some significance to this day? I wanted to be happy. I wanted to feel elation, a sense of belonging, some sort of revelation and a feeling of homecoming. But as I rubbed at the stubborn ink stains left on my fingertips, all I could feel was hunger. I scanned the market stalls of this small provincial capital. I thought: Baguette. Roast Pork. Pickles.

As the car sped back towards Phnom Penh, I was handed a nom pao, a steamed bun which I hungrily bit into, hoping for warm, filling satisfaction.

It tasted of death.

Gritty, rotten-egg, sick-dog-bottom death.

I tried to eat another bite, then hid the offender at the bottom of my bag while no one was watching.

Nobody had asked me what I wanted.