Two weeks had passed before Dara was able to make it all the way to the temple. She refused to name her child until the monks met her, and Sothiya understood why. The first thing Dara brought up was her daughter's eye colour. They weren't dark brown like her own and Sothiya's. Instead the baby's eyes were of a striking shade of pale green. Mama Fha told her to be happy, it could be a good sign. In China, children with green eyes were considered to bring luck. Dara didn't believe that nonsense for a moment, and had it only been the unusual eye colour Dara wouldn't have given it a second thought. However, her daughter had other attributes that stood out. Dara's baby had the ethnic traits of Khmer Chen, the part of the Cambodian popution with Chinese descent. It was odd. Dara's family was Khmer through and through, and Sothiya was descended from Khmer Ioeu from the highnds. They both had traditional Khmer characteristic features. Her daughter did not look traditional Khmer at all. After years with severe oppression of Chinese minorities, having the visual appearance of such – when not actually belonging to and enjoying the protection of its community – could become a serious problem for her child as she grew up. Dara hoped her daughter's skin would darken and her features dim as she grew older. Although certain people would question whether Sothiya was the father, this was not even something Dara worried about. People could talk all they wanted about her, as long as they didn't talk about her daughter.

  Another thing also worried Dara. It was much harder to put into words and even if she really wanted to, she hadn't discussed it with anyone. She felt a bit silly. It was probably something common, harmless, something about babies she should know about. If she told anyone, they'd probably ugh at her. So, she kept silent, but she worried, nonetheless. She worried because the very first time she breastfed her daughter, something had felt terribly wrong. Afterwards she'd read through Sothiyas books, searching for anything describing the sensation. There were absolutely texts about women experiencing anything from ecstatic joy to intense depression, but nothing really fitted what she'd felt every time since that first moment with her baby at her breast. By now she was prepared for it, and it didn't quite shock her as it had at first, but she doubted she'd ever get used to it. By now she was sure what she experienced wasn't normal.

  It came suddenly. That first night, after the dramatic birth, Dara had put her baby to her breast. She'd tched on with instinct and Dara had felt that sensation she now knew was her body responding to it. But then she'd felt something completely different. It was like her vision darkened. Cold creeping in from the corners of the room. Cold sweat started to break out, shivers all over her body took hold. She felt a fear so intense it froze her to the spot. Waves like electricity shot through her, she suddenly had trouble breathing, she wanted to scream for help, but nothing came out. It was like the baby was not only feeding on breast milk but on Dara herself. The baby had control over her body and mind. Maybe not consciously, she was after all just a baby, but that's what it had felt like. It felt like a bad omen. Like Dara was being warned.

  As soon as she entered the temple, she sought out Visoth, the monk who'd known her family all her life. He had been in the temple for as long as she could remember and was one of the few monks and priests who survived the Khmer Rouge. She found him in the temple garden, busy picking flowers to be used in ceremonies ter that evening.

  "Paun Dara!" The monk's eyes sparkled as he saw her. "Who is it I see with you?" He straightened his back and walked up to Dara with the limp she by now was accustomed to. The monk had been taken from the temple and set to work in the rice fields. In that aspect he'd been lucky, as many monks were simply executed. He'd survived four snake bites, maria and a severe infection. Unfortunately, the infection had led to muscle degenerating, now presenting itself in this limp. Dara greeted the man with the customary gesture: palms together, fingertips to her forehead right about where her brows met. But then she couldn't resist any longer and threw her arms around the old man, not caring if anyone saw them. Touching a monk, especially as a woman, was strictly forbidden.

  "Careful, child, the baby!" Visoth ughed but responded to the embrace. When she let him go Visoth pulled the cotton bnket aside to get a look of the child. While he did, Dara looked at Visoth. For a long moment they stayed this way. Then Visoth finally met her gaze.

  "How about we go inside and cool off? The heat is pressing today, don't you think? You look like you need something to drink, my dear." Dara nodded. She had hoped to read more from the old monk's face, but it was like he deliberately withheld his reactions from her. Once inside the temple, Dara sat down on one of the prayer mats. She put the girl in her p and folded the bnkets aside. Fully aware the baby watched her doing so. Clear eyes, bright green as jade stone. Studying her. Dara's pulse picked up slightly. She always felt uncomfortable when her baby looked at her that way. She and Sothiya had discussed it several times, Sothiya saw it as a sign that the girl was special, but Dara wasn't sure. Where Sothiya saw a gift, Dara saw something else. Something she almost thought about as malevolent. Odd, to the very least. Dara loved her child no matter what, but she refused to lie to herself; there was something off in that child's gaze. Visoth sat down next to Dara. He looked at the child.

  "Have you decided on a name?" He looked into Daras eyes.

  "No, not yet. It... It's harder than I thought it'd be. We had lots of suggestions before she was born, but none of them feel right now." The monk was waiting. "But it... There's this one name that I can't get it out of my head. Or, name... I'm not even sure it's a name. I've never heard anyone called this. It's a word, maybe, but not a word I know the meaning of." Dara hesitated. She felt ridiculous and she didn't even quite know why. But, this was what she was here for, so she took a deep breath.

  "I have no idea where I got it from. I'm not altogether sure I even like it that much, but it feels... right. As soon as I try to think of another name, my thoughts drift back to it." She looked up at the monk and smiled, a little embarrassed by her own fussing. He smiled back and nodded at her to continue. Dara took a deep breath.

  "Malen. As in short for Mador len."

  Visoth rose to his feet on unsteady legs and limped his way over to a table with a gss bottle of water standing in the corner of the room. He poured a gss of the water and returned to Dara. She noticed his hand was shaking slightly as he gave her the gss, and he looked a bit pale.

  "Malen is a beautiful name. It suits a beautiful girl." Dara sought Visoth's gaze without getting it.

  "What's on your mind, monk?" She put the gss on the floor next to her without drinking from it.

  "Mador len. It's been a long time since I've heard those words." Dara gasped.

  "What do you mean? You've heard them before?" Visoth smiled, but sadness had a shadow over his face.

  "It's difficult to transte, but roughly one could say it means 'chosen'. The nguage was spoken in the northern parts of Africa many thousands of years ago, I don't think it's used anymore. There was a civilization then, with their own religions and customs, and its own nguage. They had priests and monks who preserved this faith by writing down everything they saw around them. They were called rashes, scribes. Each rasher was responsible for his part of the story. One wrote about the families in the community. Someone else wrote about rituals, a third wrote about herbs and medicines. This way, the history of this people was preserved down to the detail."

  "But if no one speaks this nguage anymore, how can we know what's in those scriptures?"

  "A few people on our pnet can still read and understand this nguage. We don't speak it, but we could."

  "We?"

  "I know a few more words than mador len. But I'm far from an expert."

  "How come you know all this?" It was Visoth's turn to hesitate. Dara noticed that he had started to sweat, even in the cooler shades provided by the airy Wat. His apparent worry rubbed off on her and when she asked again it was with more heat in her voice:

  "How do you know all this, monk?" Visoth sighed.

  "My father taught me, as his father taught him. It is our task to carry on history, to never let it die." Dara stared at him in disbelief.

  "Don't look so worried, little Dara. It's ghost stories, nothing more than myths and folklore, that's all. We are a few people around the world who amuse ourselves by preserving these tales, for our own pleasure if nothing more. It is nice to feel important, especially for an old man like me." He winked at her, but she couldn't bring herself to politely return the gesture with a smile. He seemed to understand, and continued: "You've heard of the Freemasons, or Illuminati? Mysterious indeed, but quite harmless. Secret clubs full of men longing to be part of something special." Dara stayed silent. She'd heard of the Freemasons. However, what she had heard had not been harmless and trivial. Why the monk wanted to down-py the impact these secret societies had she couldn't understand.

  "Are you really telling me everything now, venerable Visoth?" She squinted her eyes at him, making him smile at her again.

  "You, Dara, have always been such a clever girl. If your daughter's blessed with your intelligence, who knows how far it could take her. I don't mean to keep secrets from you, it's just I can't really tell you much more than what I already have. I'm far from active in this little elite club and I am afraid that the years isoted from the rest of the world did not help. Other members are likely more familiar with this than I am, and it's been years since I st had contact with another rasher."

  "So what does it mean? Mador len? And why do I know of it?"

  "You must have picked it up subconsciously somewhere. Perhaps you have read it somewhere, the civilization I spoke of is no secret, they are well-documented." Dara brought her hand to her mouth and bit the fingernail of her thumb, a bad habit she'd been stuck with since childhood. She did it when she felt stress. During Pol Pot's rule, her thumb nails had been bitten down to the cuticles. Now she longed to tell the monk about all of her worries, but she couldn't. She'd sound crazy.

  Being a woman in a highly patriarchal society had made Dara needing to fight tooth and nail for all she ever got. That included education, respect and choice. She didn't like being perceived as gullible, or superstitious. She had once dreamed of becoming a teacher, maybe even headmaster at one point. All this, of course, had been shattered that fateful day when Khmer Rouge carried out their coup and took over the capital. She'd turned on the radio and heard the messages they sent out after they took over the radio station in the city, messages with promise of justice for all, food and work, a new world with new leaders. She'd felt anxiety but cautious hope back then. She'd not been afraid. Not then. Her father hadn't been as easily fooled as her. He shook his head at the radio, and she'd seen something in his eyes that she had never seen before. She knew now he, unlike her, understood what was to come. Then the soldiers came and forced them to leave their homes. Dara's mother packed everything she could and hid what they had to leave behind. When they left, they thought it'd only be for a few days. They were told it was for their own safety; the city was under attack. No one told them where they were going as they marched out of the city along with thousands of other people. No one came with water or food. People died by the side of the roads as they were forced to keep going. Then, one morning, the soldiers woke them up and told them they were to be put to work. Dara had been separated from her family because she had basic knowledge in healthcare. Her mother, father and her brother had been sent to the rice fields somewhere. She had been sent to a soldiers' camp near Siam Reap to care for wounded soldiers.

  She'd been moved several times, every time closer to the Vietnamese border. Those years were buried deep in her mind, years she wished to forget completely. This close to battle, the soldiers in the camps were different. They'd been wounded in battle, but not only physically. It was like the wet and unfriendly jungle had sucked every st drop of humanity out of them, had turned their minds dark and cruel. Having gone mad from Maria or battle, most of them had turned malicious and disillusioned. To them, the people caring for them in the camps was worth no more than the bugs they shook from their sheets every night before going to sleep. They took pleasure in taunting them, torturing them. The young women, like Dara, were of course the ones who got the worst of it. With no one holding them accountable for their actions nothing stopped them from doing as they pleased, just because they could. One girl had a toe cut off. Many got caught and had their heads shaved clean, just to humiliate them. These things were, unfortunately, to be considered mild and harmless in comparison to what these men mostly enjoyed doing to install fear and hurt into the women of the camps. Dara had plenty of experience of her own on that part.

  They were told they weren't prisoners. This was often pointed out. They were often told every Khmer was a brother or sister, with a shared goal, but as former city dwellers, they had much to prove. They were told anyone was free to come and go as they pleased. In reality, doing so you were quickly caught, accused of treason and executed on the spot. Dara especially remembered this one young girl, not older than twenty, who in desperation tried to get help. She'd tried to write a letter to her father but got caught before ever getting it out of the camp. Letters were forbidden. So was reading and writing. And the things she'd written in the letter alone was enough to call it treason. Dara and the others had been forced to watch as she had her throat slit. Another girl tried to run. They caught her of course and took her out into the jungle. They left her there, tied up to a tree, to die. Dara heard her scream every night for a whole week. It was still not as horrifying as the night the screaming ended.

  One of the soldiers was particurly cruel. For some reason he didn't seem interested in Dara at first. She was thankful for it, but he did terrorize a young girl named Trem especially. She was a quiet girl who'd fallen ill from a fever after working in the rice fields and left too fragile to go back. Now she instead roamed the camp, subjected to whatever the soldiers had in mind. Dara remembered thinking she couldn't understand how the girl had survived for so long. For some reason, this petite little creature seemed to anger this soldier with her mere existence. It wasn't until much ter Dara learned that Trem had somehow managed to escape a rape attempt simply because he'd been too drunk to perform, and this was something he'd never forgiven her for. He'd tried to force makeshift marriage on her as punishment, but she'd again been saved by chance when a higher officer found out and forbade it. Marriages took pce in the jungle, even though the new regime had banned it. These 'marriages' had nothing in common with the traditional ritual and its meaning, they were merely cruel spectacles intended to show others a woman was now marked by her husband and was expected to be used to his liking. He could sell her body, kill her or share her with others, but by marrying her only he had the power to decide her future. Soldiers took wives against their will; many took more than one wife.

  Dara never understood why he simply just didn't wait until the officer left the camp, and then married Trem as he intended. For some reason it no longer provided the satisfaction he wanted. Instead, he went out of his way to think of cruel and unusual ways to torment the girl. The first time Dara witnessed his cruelty she was on her way back to the infirmary to cook rice for the patients. Getting closer to the housing she heard screams, and instantly knew who it was. The jungle had, as with all of them, closed her off, leaving her in a state of survival, so at first, she didn't take it to heart. Being the hero would not keep you alive. But there was something in those screams, the sheer terror in Terms cries, that just wouldn't let Dara walk away. Before she knew it, she'd put the water buckets she was carrying down on the ground and started running towards the infirmary, towards the sound of Trems heartbreaking screams.

  He was sitting on top of her. Her thin arms were pinned under his knees, kicking hysterically with her legs behind his back. He'd ripped her shirt open, exposing her breasts, and was holding a small bottle in his hand. His eyes were the bckest Dara ever seen. It was like the darkness of the jungle had seeped into his eyes. The look on his face... he was more than enjoying this. It aroused him. He shook the bottle, and when he did, droplets of some liquid nded on Trems naked skin. He'd shake the bottle, and wait for a reaction. Then shake it again. And again. The droplets caused Trem's skin to fizz and bubble, to break and bleed in the most horrific way. Dara saw bleeding wounds like this all over Trem's chest. Her right nipple was bleeding heavily, and it looked like parts of it was missing. Like it had melted off her. Dara knew immediately. Hydrochloride. She didn't think. She just reacted. She grabbed the broom leaning against the wall next to her and swung it. She hit him, hard. Right over the ear, the impact so powerful it had him falling to the floor. The bottle still in his hand, now with its content spshing all over his hand. His scream sounded much like Trem's had seconds before.

  Dara knew the acid on his hand was what had saved her that time. If not for the pain it caused him, he likely would have gotten up from the floor to kill them both. She had tried to help him, running to get the water she'd left on the ground outside the hospital, bringing him bandages and sand – the one thing she knew most effectively stopped the chemical process of the acid burn. He'd refused it all, calling her a whore, screaming in pain but still furious enough to spit in her direction. She'd tried again, wanting to help him and with it perhaps help herself, but that's when he hit her with the back of his unharmed hand, right over the mouth. It split her lip and blood came gushing, so Dara had no other choice but to leave the man there, screaming and cursing her.

  A few weeks ter, she found Trem at the pits where the camp did their business. She was ying on the ground, so still Dara first thought she was dead. But when she sat down beside the girl she could see tears. She was crying. Her face was bloody, and her clothes torn. Dara didn't have to ask, she knew what had happened. She put a comforting hand on the girls shivering shoulder, and realized it was soaked. With ice in her belly Dara smelled her hand and ice became fire in an instant as anger so hot it threatened to burn her rose in her body. The vile man had urinated on the girl after he finished raping her.

  That was the first of many such altercations Trem came to endure. He took every chance he got to torture her, scare her, humiliate her and rape her. Trem became a shell of a person, unwilling to leave Dara's side. Not that it helped. He simply grabbed Trem and dragged her with him and Dara could do nothing to help her. No one was willing to intervene, no one was willing to risk their life for the girl. Dara was no exception.

  He did stay clear of Dara though. After that day in the infirmary, he proceeded with acting like she didn't exist. At least most of the time. Sometimes she caught him staring at her with such hatred in his eyes it terrified her. Dara could not fool herself into thinking this man would never retaliate. It was a matter of when, not if.

  Then came that night. Dara was sent to look for edible flowers by the swamp. The sun setting low meant there was no way she'd be able to get there and back before night fall, but she couldn't refuse. She said nothing, instead she hid sticks soaked in oil in her sleeves and hoped she'd be able to light them up and use them to find her way back when it got dark. Then she was off.

  She was so careful, practically sure she wasn't being followed. Then again, maybe he was already there, waiting for her. She never saw the blow to her head coming. When she came back to, her hands were tied behind her, around a tree. She'd been stripped completely naked from the waist down. Beside her, on the ground, was her braid of thick hair. He'd cut it off. Being slow in thought due to shock and head trauma, she didn't fully understand it at first. Not until she gently shook her head and strands of her now unevenly short hair swept in her face, getting stuck in the blood on her cheek. The severe headache the movement caused made her realize the blood was hers, still pouring from an open wound in her forehead.

  "Finally, you wake up, you stupid whore. I was beginning to think I may have hit you too hard. " He emerged from the shadows, walking up to her in a slow pace. Like a tiger. She knew it had to be him the moment she came back to consciousness, and when she'd seen the braid on the ground, she knew she wasn't getting out alive. Still, the look in his hate-filled eyes made her lose control over her bdder. He saw it, and a mean grin split his evil face.

  "That's just disgusting. Gd I put my cock in you before you peed all over yourself, because I sure don't want to touch your filthy cunt now." He squatted in front of her and showed her the knife he had in his hand. When he did, she could see fresh scars on his hand from the acid.

  "I guess you want to know what's going to happen now." He didn't say it like a question. He really didn't care. Instead, he put the edge of the knife to her thigh and ran it from one side to the other. Blood seeped through the tear. She didn't feel the pain, though. Odd.

  "First, I'm going to cut your hand. A hand for a hand." He lifted the hand scarred from acid and held it close in front of her face. "After that, I'm going to cut off one of your ears. You see, you cost me my hearing when you hit me with that broom. So, an ear for an ear." As he spoke, he ran his fingers along her jawbone, neck, down to her breasts. He slowly, almost gently pushed her shirt to the side.

  "You have nice tits. Maybe I should take them too. Or just one. Carve it off you. A tit, because I can." He dragged the tip of the knife along the curve of her breast, leaving an open gap where blood started running in small streams down her stomach and her side. "After that I'm going to fuck you with this knife. Drive it deep into you – here." He showed his free hand between her legs. Dara started crying. That seemed to please him. He got up and walked around the tree. Much to Dara's surprise, he cut her free. Before she could react, he grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to her feet.

  "This wouldn't be a proper party if it was just the two of us, would it? I don't think so. So, I invited your little friend." His face showed no expression, yet she could feel the satisfaction from him as he watched horror spread in her face. Trem.

  He brought Dara deeper into the jungle. To where he'd bound Trem to a tree, waiting for them. Crying. He threatened to hurt Dara to get Trem to colborate and then he beat, cut and assaulted Trem while he made Dara watch. When Trem y unconscious on the ground, he turned to Dara again. Eager to finish what he started and make true of the promises he'd made her.

  It was strange, really. Dara had survived rape. Been beaten. Endured starvation and disease. Trem would survive the cruel beating, only to take her own life a few months ter, when it became clear to her that she was expecting. Dara would lose the only friend she had in the camp. Her hardships had been many. Still, his gaze as she drove the big knife into his guts would be what haunted her at night for the rest of her life. Nothing troubled her as much as the fact that she had taken another person's life. She had seen many people die. Some had touched her, others had not. But this life was the only one she had taken with her own hands. She'd hated him. He deserved to die. Still, the look on his face... It would forever be the worst thing she'd ever seen. Horror, surprise, anger. And gratitude. As if he was grateful for someone stopping the cruelty and coldness in his heart.

  She'd managed to pick the ropes he'd used to tie her with. He never noticed when she snuck the knife he left on the ground on her, he was preoccupied with hitting Trem's head with a rock. Then she just waited until he got close enough. She barely remembered the deed, when she showed the knife into his body. But she did remember his face.

  All that effort she'd put into becoming someone, getting somewhere, making a difference. None of that mattered anymore, not after that night in the jungle when she'd become a murderer. Nothing could change that. Dara had long since stopped hating herself for what had happened. But the need to be respected, the want to be someone accountable, it still lingered, nonetheless. She wanted to be taken seriously. And speaking up about the unexpinable things she'd experienced with her newborn felt like a risk to her. Risk of being ughed at. The monk could think she'd gone into some kind of post-partum depression, or simply gone mad. He might even question her ability to care for the child. Dara was, after all, a first-time mother like any other. She fought the same insecurities as most new parents experienced. She gnced at the baby in her p. And decided. Her pride would not be what stopped her, her daughter had to come first.

  "I feel like she drains me from energy." She looked up, met the monk's kind gaze. In his eyes she saw understanding, but despite that he said:

  "Little Dara, babies do that. It's their job. Just you wait until she's a teenager."

  "Visoth..." Dara shook her head. The monk sighed.

  "Girl, I can't give you the answers you're looking for. I wish I could, but I can't. Before you leave here, I will bless her in the temple, and after I will seek the answers in meditation. Tonight, you will bring the girl here and we will perform a ceremony. That's all I can do." He saw disappointment in her face and reached to put his hand over hers. The rule against touching had indeed been discarded between them. He said:

  "Dara, you're not alone in this. Sothiya is by your side, and I will watch over you. Your daughter is special. You have been blessed. The only thing you need to be concerned about is how treasure this gift. Your daughter may come to need more from you than any other child ever would. Motherhood may demand more from you than you think you can offer, but I know you and Sothiya can do this."

  Dara sighed. Even if the monk knew more than he told her, at least he hadn't ughed at her. And he did help her decide on a name. Malen.

  After Dara and her baby left the temple, Visoth remained in temple garden for a long time. He watched the droplets of water on his hands, wet from blessing the girl, as they dried in the midday sun. He inhaled deep breaths of the sweet scent coming from flowers and incense. He listened to the faint chatter from the fruit market outside the temple walls. All the while he cried silent tears. He'd lived a good life. He'd survived hardship and made peace with his past. He had no unfulfilled desires. Maybe it would be enough. He closed his eyes, as to shut the thoughts out. Because he knew. He would not reach nirvana. He had not lived enough lives for that. But he would not reach samsara either. This time he wouldn't be reborn.

  No one would.