Cambodian Dance Keeps Traditional Culture Alive in Arlington

The piece below was my first published piece since starting Journalism school at Georgetown. It was published on 03/13/08 by the press service Radio Free Asia, which predominantly provides news (radio and internet) to politically-repressed Asian nations.
The piece was translated in Khmer (Cambodian) and posted on the Khmer page. Here is the link: http://www.rfa.org/khmer/batyokka/2008/03/13/Khmer_Americans_vs_Ancient_Culture/.

Here is the full text in English:

For Cambodian Americans in the Washington area, keeping traditional culture alive is a fight against long odds. The battle’s fought, however, week after week at the Arlington Mills Community Center, where Cambodian-born parents bring their American-born children for lessons in ancient heritage.

The children come midday Sunday, shuffling into the center in richly-colored, sequent-studded Av Noay, a tradition Cambodian dress. They’re here for classical Cambodian dance and music lessons and to understand their roots.

Jonathan Dos, a fifth-grader at Carlin Springs Elementary, patiently holds two mallets above the dark hardwood bars of a curved wooden instrument known as a roneat ek. It’s like a xylophone but has a rich eastern tone that fills the room as Jonathan plays. It’s a simple tune, like a Cambodian version of “Chopsticks.”

The instructor, Ngek Chum, watches his pupils while bowing a violin-like instrument called a Tro. There’s not a musical sheet in the room. “I use my ear,” Chum says.

Most adults here were born in Cambodia and have seen hardship. The majority arrived in the United States between the late 1970s and early 1980s—during or after the dark, genocidal era of Pol Pot’s regime. In an effort to create a classless society, the Khmer Rouge directly or indirectly killed nearly 1.7 million Cambodians—one-fifth of Cambodia’s population—between 1975 and 1979. Particularly targeted were intellectuals: professors, engineers, doctors, and artists.

Above: the violin-like Tro

Upon arriving in the United States, the Cambodian refugees established “Khmer” communities throughout the country. Some 4,000 live in the Washington area.

In a larger room across the hall from Chum’s music lesson is Devi Yim, the Dance Master. Yim stands on tip-toes at the head of the class, her outstretched arms moving gracefully in large circles to music played from a stereo. Facing Yim for this, the Coconut Dance, are 30 girls, some no more than five years old. The children, clad in yellow, green, and blue outfits, sway to Yim’s lead. All eyes are upon the teacher.

Like the others, Yim has seen hardship. “They gave us three days to leave,” she says, referring to the Khmer Rouge order to evacuate Phnom Penh in 1975. Yim and thousands fled to the countryside on foot and at gunpoint.

Yim, five at the time, was separated from her family and forced to tend rice fields in the countryside. Her brother was killed.

In the early 1980s, after the fall of the Khmer Rouge, Yim graduated from the Royal University of Fine Arts. She first performed dance in the United States in 1990 on the invitation of the U.S government. “My country was still at war,” says Yim, “I decided to stay here.”

Now she teaches the children what she learned in her homeland. “I want to keep my culture alive,” Yim says. “That’s why I do it every weekend.”

Sara Say agrees. A former 2nd Lieutenant in the Cambodian Special Forces, Say has been performing in America since arriving in the early 1980s. Afraid their heritage would be lost in the relocation, Say and 30 other refugees brought dance with them.

Say, now a writer, drummer, and singer, lives and performs at local venues. In March he’ll be at Washington College. “We must show them that we are from somewhere else in the world,” says Say about the children. “They have to learn what is their background.”

It’s a refrain heard again and again among the parents: it’s important that the children know their heritage.

Kathy Rafferty sits in a plastic chair in the community center while her adopted daughter, Grace, practices dance moves. Grace was born in Cambodia and brought to the United States by Rafferty at six months old. Rafferty’s not Cambodian, but she understands the importance of culture and identity.

The dance lessons teach culture and help with identity, Rafferty explains. “She wailed at first, but when the kids get older they really start to appreciate the lessons.”

Another mother, Nalen Smith, watches proudly as her 5 year old daughter Meghan performs. “My kids don’t know the culture yet,” says Smith, who spent 5 years at the Khao-I-Dang refugee camp (pictured at right) on the Thai border and lost her sister to a boarder-guard’s bullet. “I bring Meghan to dance because I want to keep the culture alive,” she says. “It’s not easy.”

The littlest ones, like Meghan, are too young to understand. But they eventually learn. “After a while they realize that they have their own origins,” says Say, the former 2nd Lieutenant.

Today, and for the next few months, the children are practicing for a recital in April for the Cambodian New Year. It’s one of the community’s biggest events, and the children will perform at Gunston Middle School in Arlington.

Victoria Yap, a Chinese-Cambodian American, passes-out four-foot Peacock feathers to twenty children in the break room. They’re about to practice the “Peacock Dance” for the New Year festival, and the excitement is palpable. “They become the Peacock,” says Yap, explaining the narrative of the ancient dance.

Dance and music lessons, however, require lots of free time. And in American, free time comes at a premium.

Poly Sam, a US-educated Cambodian immigrant, found refuge in the United States in 1983 after spending five years in a refugee camp. Before that the Khmer Rouge forced him to tend water buffalo in the countryside. Though he escaped Cambodia, 5 five members of his family did not.
Sam, a broadcaster for Radio Free Asia in Washington, juggles the demands of a modern lifestyle. Though he’d like his children to learn more, there are limits. “We try to maintain our identity,” says Sam. “But, we’re busy.” Circumstances don’t always allow, he says.

Sam is pragmatic, and although he embraces his past, he is also grateful for the present. “Being American is a good thing,” he says. “My kids will be successful.”

Others agree, but some more reluctantly. “I don’t want them to be too Americanized,” says Seng Chao, a Cambodian immigrant whose two children perform at the center.

It’s hard for the children not to be Americanized. Unlike the first generation, these kids speak perfect English. They also eat pizza between lessons and remove new Michael Jordon Nike’s upon entering the center.

It’s a tough balance to strike: new versus old, near versus far, American culture versus ancient traditions from a land 9,000 miles away. And there’s also the unchallengeable fact that these children, as much as any, are American.

But they’re also Cambodian, something that the parents at Arlington Mills Community Center don’t want forgotten. That’s why they wear the Av Noay. That’s why they come every week.

The children seem to understand: when the music starts, the playful bantering stops. The girls grow quiet, deep in concentration, anticipating their next dance move. For a few minutes, time stands still and Khmer culture comes to Arlington.

But when the music stops, the laughter and whispering in perfect English begin. It’s an American classroom again, and Cambodia seems as far away as it is.