The Moth Radio Hour: Confrontations
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This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Katherine Burns, and today we're hearing about confrontations. It's a theme that runs through a lot of stories, which makes sense. We tend to tell stories about things we're willing to fight for. Many of us are hardwired to avoid conflict, turn the other cheek, keep the peace, mind our own business. But for almost everyone, there comes a time when enough is enough.

A quick note, because of the nature of our theme, the stories in this hour are a bit intense. Like this first story, which is about choosing when and how to engage with someone who does not share your views. It covers sexual identity and how that can sometimes lead to conflict. Here's Padraig Otuma, live at The Moth.

I didn't get into the university course that I wanted when I finished secondary school, high school. And I didn't know what to do. I wasn't entirely sure what to do with my life. And I looked at my options and I decided that I would join a missionary organization because I thought, why not? There's the possibility of travel and maybe even the possibility of learning a new language.

And so I got the application to join this missionary organization. And it was the kind of application you'd expect from a Christian missions agency. Is religion important to you? What does your priest or your minister say? Tell us a little bit about your faith, etc. Are you used to intercultural experiences? All of those things were really fine for me to fill out in the application form. And then it had this question that said,

"Have you ever been involved with the following?" And there were four tick boxes. One said alcoholism, one said the occult, one said drug addiction, and the last one said homosexuality. And I had never come out to anybody at that stage. But I'd known that I was gay since before I knew what gay meant.

I looked at this application form and the world fell apart. And I thought, I won't apply. But I had no other options really. I didn't know what to do. And I went and I got a youth group leader from a church youth group. And I said to him, I need to talk to you about something. And he said, okay. And I said, come over into the corner. And I opened my mouth to talk.

But I couldn't. I had no language. I just started to weep instead. And not a kind of a nice relief kind of weeping. This was the kind of weeping that hurts and gets worse and where you feel like your tears are from acid. And then I said to him, "I have to show you something." And he was like, "Okay."

And I went and I got the application form and I opened to the page and I pointed to that box and I said, I have to tick the homosexuality box. And I saw his shock. He was a young man too. He was 24. I was 17. And he didn't know what to do.

And then he started to tell me a story. He told me about a time that he had been at a big prayer gathering and there was somebody there saying, "We want to pray for people here who are in pain. We want to pray for people here who are in pain." And he was feeling really awkward because he was in pain but he was too embarrassed to go up because the reason he was in pain was that his left testicle was quite sore.

But he didn't want to go up to the nun at the front of the church to say to her, "My left testicle is in pain." And he was telling me this after I'd just come out to him. So I was thinking about his balls and wondering, "Why are you talking?" And I realized he was trying to say something embarrassing, and he thought, "Well, you've just come out, so I'll talk about my left ball." It didn't quite comfort me, really.

Anyway, I did apply to join this religious organization. I did tick that fourth box and I felt like an abomination. The Irish word for abomination is a duafracht and that comes from an old word meaning monster.

And I felt monstrous. I used to practice saying, I hate myself in all the languages I knew. So, es fúil na mhéin in Irish, or je me déteste in French, or this in sign language.

I hated myself so much. So I joined this missionary organization and because I ticked that box, that monster box, shortly after I joined they'd arranged an exorcism for me but it didn't work. So there was another one and another one and they got worse. People screaming holy words in your ear that felt anything but holy. Using language that is meant to be elevated but actually was terrible.

And when three exorcisms hadn't worked, it was decided that maybe I should go to what was called reparative therapy. Now, reparative therapy is neither reparative nor therapeutic. The idea is that somehow you can be turned straight by somebody with no qualifications or accountability asking you invasive questions. One of the reparative therapists - I went for about two years, there was two different ones - one of them used to start off each session with a little tick sheet.

And he used to ask the questions in the text sheet in the medical plural. "Have we been thinking about men this week?" I'm 19, of course I've been thinking about men. "Have we been fantasizing about men this week?" "Have we been flirting with anyone this week?" And unfortunately, I was a nun magnet, so the only people that were flirting with me were a bunch of frisky nuns who had a really, really creative understanding about what celibacy meant.

And then one time, I was just saying no to these questions, one time he said to me, "Okay, look, have we been walking down the street, seeing a guy we like, indicating to him going up a dark alleyway and having sex in the dark alleyway?" And I was like, "No!" One time he really got annoyed at me and he went, "Okay,

Have we, for instance, been imagining ourselves sitting on the floor by the sofa with our head in a lover's lap while our lover strokes our hair? And I wanted to say, "Well, I haven't." The reparative therapy all ended at one point. The therapist had become really fixated on getting me to talk about which parts of a woman's body I found most attractive.

And I felt like I was being schooled in misogyny and predatory masculinity. And I said to him, "I don't want to have the kind of sex you want me to want to have." And he said, "You know what your problem is, Podrick? Your problem is language." And unbeknownst to me, we are accidentally on my territory. And he said, "You're selfish. You shouldn't want to have sex with a woman."

you should want to give sex to a woman. And I realized, this is bullshit. And it all fell apart. And the exorcism happened. And the monster box broke open. And I walked home, never went back. And the world was suddenly wide and wild and wonderful and frightening for me because I didn't know what to do now.

For the next number of years, I studied language, I studied theology, I studied communication, I studied conflict, because I was determined to find a way to rescue me through language and perhaps be involved in the work of rescuing other people through language from these kinds of abominable experiences of being cured from being LGBT.

I became convinced that if we learn how to exercise the muscle of our tongue, we might be able to use language in a way that can save us, not shame us. And so for 20 years now, I've worked with thousands of people who would come from a conservative or negative point of view regarding LGBT people about what does it mean for us to have meaningful, difficult conversations with each other.

And in one room, it was about 15 of us, three or four LGBT people, the rest clergy, who came from very conservative backgrounds, who had been brave enough to come to this engagement, sometimes at some risk from their own congregations.

And we were there talking over a two-day residential experience. And those experiences can be awkward. You're always experimenting with language with each other. When I'd said something once, one of the people in the room had said, "I had never realized that homosexuals were capable of love. It's great to realize that." And part of me was glad, and then part of me was like, "What?"

Somebody else in the room was really nervous and said, "I will never officiate at a gay wedding. I will never officiate at a gay wedding." And I thought, "I'm going to take an experiment with language." And I said, "Do you know any gay people who'd want you at their wedding?"

And I tried to be gentle, but you can never shame somebody into thinking something better about you. And I wasn't trying to shame her, but I think she was shamed, so that was never going to work. It got to the end of this two-day experience, and just about a minute before we were about to finish, the person in the room upon whom I had hung all of my anxiety - I always do that in the room, I choose one person, and my unconscious projects everything onto them -

And so this guy, just a minute before we were finished, said, "I have a question for the homosexuals in the room." I thought, "Oh God, I've failed. This has not been a success." And I thought, "Maybe I should say, 'Email me.'" Or, "You could have said it earlier on." I could have said all these kinds of things. But the night before, he and I had had an unexpected encounter.

because over making a cup of tea, he had said to me, "I hope you appreciate the sacrifice I've made in coming to this event." I said, "Oh, sure, I do." And he said, "I'm missing my favorite television program."

I'm like, "Oh gosh, that's not that much of a sacrifice." And I said, "What's your favorite television program?" And he told me it was a political TV show from back home, a current affairs news program. And I said, "Oh, my partner Paul is the producer." And he was like, "What?" And he knew Paul's full name because he's that kind of a geek that knew the name of everybody involved in the show.

And he seemed to be caught between this moment of wanting to ask me all the insider information about this TV show, but to do so, he'd have to acknowledge love between two men. And his curiosity won out. And so he did ask me all these questions. So this had happened just the night before. So there we were a minute before we were finished. I was exhausted. I just wanted to go home. And I said, "Okay, what's your question?"

And he said, "My question for the homosexuals in the room is, how many times since we got together two days ago have my words bruised you?" And suddenly I wasn't tired anymore. Curiosity unfolded between us. Wonder sprung up in the interactions between us all. And somebody in the room, one of the other LGBT people said, "Oh, you're fine. You're nice. Don't worry." And he went, "No, no, don't patronize me.

How many times? So one guy said, I've given up counting after the first night. And he said, are you telling me that every time I come in, you come into the room and meet someone like me, that you have to protect yourself? And one of the women in the room said, it's not just come into this room, it's turn on the radio. It's hear ourselves being discussed. And he said, I have some work to do.

And I watched him save himself with language. And I watched him save the room with language. And I watched him save me from putting him into a monster box that I had spent so long trying to get out of. Thank you. - Padraig O'Tooma is a poet from Belfast. He's the author of the memoir, "In the Shelter," and the poetry books, "Sorry for Your Troubles," and "Readings from the Book of Exile."

I'm a big fan of his poems. Here's one I love. Narrative theology number one. And I said to him, are there answers to all of this? And he said, the answer is in a story and the story is being told. And I said, but there is so much pain. And she answered plainly, pain will happen. Then I said, will I ever find meaning? And they said, you will find meaning where you give meaning.

The answer is in a story, and the story isn't finished. Padraig Otuma is interested in language, conflict, and religion, and he writes, lectures, and leads retreats at home and overseas. He and his partner are the founders of the storytelling series 10x9 and have a lovely storytelling podcast of their own. To find links of Padraig reading more of his poetry, go to themoth.org. Coming up, a woman raised by her conservative southern mother tries to shake things up a little bit.

That's when the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts and presented by PRX. This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Katherine Burns. In this show, we're talking about confrontation with inner and outer demons alike.

And sometimes we can be affected, not just by the fights we actually engage in, but also the ones we choose to avoid. This story starts in the Deep South and eventually moves to Ireland. Just so you know, there's some mild sexual content. Here's Trisha Rose Burt, live in Nashville, Tennessee.

When I was in the sixth grade, at some point during the school year, I started to wear my bright red raincoat to school every day. And I wore it all day long, inside class and outside class, rain or shine. And I wore that raincoat for days, until my teacher finally asked me why I kept wearing my raincoat all the time. And I was so ashamed by my answer.

because I wasn't supposed to be talking about this kind of subject. And so I leaned down to her and I whispered, "I wear my raincoat every day because I don't have any bosoms." You see, I didn't have anybody to talk with about my changing body, or in my case, my not changing body.

Mama and her generation of southern women were raised that it was impolite to talk about female body issues. It wasn't ladylike. In fact, it was kind of shameful. There were some words that they couldn't even say. They'd say things like, darling, we were so glad that Nancy had her period because we were so afraid that she was going to be pregnant.

All I know, if it wasn't for that movie that we saw in Girl Scouts, I would have had no idea what was happening with my body. And I'm pretty sure we only saw that movie because our troop leader was from Wisconsin.

So in addition to not being able to talk about basic bodily functions, there were lots of other criteria for acting like a lady. And some of them made sense, and some of them were pretty restrictive. So, like, it was okay to be pretty, but you couldn't be sexy. It was inappropriate to flaunt your body or whatever you might be doing with it.

So at my wedding, at my reception, I'd been there for about 10 minutes, and Mama starts chasing me to cut the cake and dance the first dance, and she's pushing me to wrap things up, and she's driving me nuts, and I don't know what she's doing, so I say to my sister, I'm like, why is Mama in such a hurry for me to leave? And my sister says, Tricia,

"Mama's afraid if you're not in a hurry to leave, like every new bride should be, that all of her friends will know that you've done it." So, and that brings up possibly the biggest criteria for acting like a lady. A lady makes sure that everyone feels comfortable.

In my family, women come out of the womb knowing that their first priority is making sure that everyone feels comfortable. We are in permanent hostess mode. And this isn't just physically comfortable, this is emotionally comfortable. You never want to upset anyone. So even if that includes repressing something you may want to do or say, because a lady doesn't cause trouble.

Now, I didn't have a very good honeymoon and I didn't have a very good marriage, so I got divorced and I moved over to Ireland. It just worked out that way. So I moved over to Ireland to sort of jumpstart my life.

And after a year of being in Ireland, I am the happiest I have ever been. I'm leading life on my own terms. I'm writing and painting, having left a business career behind. I'm dating a man who is seven years younger than I am with a ponytail. And I am rapidly running out of money.

I don't have a work permit, so I can't get a real job, and so I keep looking for these cash-under-the-table positions. And I see a poster for an artist model, and I think, "This is great." I mean, the money's good, the class is nearby, and I've been to art school. I've drawn from the model loads of times. I know exactly what you have to do as an artist model, and one of the things you have to do is model nude, which in some circles may be considered flaunting your body.

But I've been to art school, and so I know that artist models are not viewed in a judgmental or sexual way. They're viewed, they're just a series of lines and shapes, tone and shadow. Artists draw from the model to hone their craft, like musicians practicing their scales. And in my experience, there's a sacred contract between artists and models. Models help artists become better artists, and so they're respected.

Now, I know all of this intellectually as I go into my first modeling gig wearing this long, dark green silk robe I bought at Neiman Marcus a couple years ago back when I had a different life that included money. And when the time comes, I step onto the riser, I drop my robe, I'm standing there completely nude.

And on the outside, what the students see as me is a very confident model, gracefully moving between poses of varying lengths. And on the inside, in my mind, there's these old tapes of ladylike behavior playing in my head, and I'm thinking, "Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh, what am I doing? What am I doing? I'm standing here, butt naked, in front of total strangers."

But no one's judging me. They're just drawing. And I'm actually really pretty good at this. And so this becomes a permanent gig. And every time, I feel really comfortable with my body and what I'm doing with it. And then Mama comes to town. And one night, I say to her, "You know, Mama, I have to go to work." And she says, "Well, what do you do for work?"

Now, Mama has been a real trooper as she's watched my life sort of careen off the path that she thought I would lead. But I just think if I tell her that I'm modeling nude, this just might be the thing that pushes her over the edge. So I think about not telling her, and then I think, you know, I'm an adult. I need to be able to tell her what I'm doing with my body. And I think it's time to change this dynamic. And so I say, "Well, Mama, I'm a nude model."

And there's this long pause as the reality sets in. And she looks at me sort of bewildered and says, "Honey, do you do it for the money?" Like I'm a prostitute or something. And I say, "Yes, I do model for the money." But I explain to her that I'm just a series of lines and shapes, and she relaxes a bit, but I can tell she's really glad I'm doing this in Ireland and none of her friends have to find out.

Back in the States, it is my 15th college reunion at Vanderbilt University.

And all of my friends were there, including a lot of my sorority sisters. And we used to dress in pink and green and drink wine spritzers. And now they're raising children and building families, and they want to know what I'm up to. And I'm a little nervous to tell them because I'm not entirely sure how they're going to react. But I think, I told Mama, I'm on a roll. So I say, well, you know, I'm a nude model.

And one of my friends says, "Tricia, I am more interesting because I know you." And another friend says, "You not only dropped your clothes, you dropped your baggage."

And they look at me like I'm a rock star, like I have found the cure for cancer. And I begin to feel so evolved and I think, I have got this. I have got this all figured out. I have broken this age-old cycle of ladylike behavior. I

I can say the words period and pregnant. I can stand nude in front of total strangers and be comfortable with that. I do not have to follow other people's rules for me. I can lead my life, my life, and it's gonna be great. In Ireland,

I have modeled so much and I get this great reputation of being a good model. And so I begin to model in front of professional artists, not just students. And one of them recommends me for this gig. There's this British art director who's in town working on a film that Angelica Houston is directing. And he wants to do a birthday card for her using the female figure. And I get recommended. And I am thrilled. I think...

"Oh my gosh, my nude image is going to be in front of an Oscar winner. I mean, this is like my break. All of my bravery has paid off in this amazing way." Right? So I go to the art director's department and I knock on the door and he says, "Come on in," and I go inside and I immediately know that something is off. For one thing, he's finishing off a bottle of wine in the middle of the afternoon.

And for another thing, the TV set is blaring. I think, how can you draw from the model when you're getting drunk and watching TV at the same time? It doesn't feel very sacred or respectful. And I start to get this really unsettling vibe. And my gut is saying, get out of there now. But then these really old tapes start playing in my head about ladylike behavior. And I think...

Well, I don't want to say anything that'll hurt his feelings. I don't want to make him feel uncomfortable. So I start to talk myself out of what my instincts are telling me and I rationalize, well, maybe getting drunk and watching TV is just part of this guy's creative process. I take off my clothes. I step up on the riser. I'm standing there completely nude.

And the pose he wants me to hold is one where I'm standing there with my legs apart and my hands over my head in a V, like I'm in a mid-jumping jack pose. I cannot be more exposed or vulnerable. And on his mantle, I see at least 10 not particularly good drawings of women holding this exact same pose.

It's clear he doesn't want to draw from the female figure. He just wants to look at naked ladies. I get really, really scared. I begin to calculate how long it can take me to get to the door, and I start to look for other exits, and I'm escaping, I'm planning an escape route, all the while, while I'm standing there holding this mid-jumping jack pose. And then he says - not me - he says, "This isn't working."

I put my clothes on and I'm heading for the door and he says, "Hey, do you want to see your drawing?" And I go, "Okay." I look at this not particularly good drawing and he says, "Well, I raised your breasts so you would look better." And for a moment, I am that 11-year-old girl ashamed in my raincoat. Then I'm offended. Then I'm outraged. And then I remember how scared I am and I just get the heck out of there. I never modeled again. And it's not because that guy scared me.

although I was really lucky he was just a creep and not a criminal. I never modeled again because I scared myself. I had put myself in a potentially dangerous situation because I didn't want to hurt the feelings of some man I didn't even know. It was time for me to redefine what it meant to act like a lady for me, which started with saying what needed to be said no matter who felt uncomfortable. Thank you.

That was Trisha Rosebert. Trisha is a writer and a performer who also travels and speaks about how people can be inspired to live the story they were meant to live. She's been married to the man with the ponytail for more than 20 years now, and her mother actually told her friends that this story was going to be on the air.

Coming up, as a young boy, Arnchorn Pond uses music to survive the murderous reign of the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia. That's when the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts and presented by PRX.

This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Katherine Burns. Our final story takes place during the infamous reign of the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia in the 1970s. The regime murdered hundreds of thousands of their perceived political opponents, and it led to the deaths of around 25% of Cambodia's population. Although the story is ultimately hopeful, this isn't an easy subject, and the story includes some graphic descriptions of violence.

Here's Arne Chornpond, live at St. Anne's Church in Brooklyn, New York. In 1975, when I was just 12 years old, the Khmer Rouge took over Cambodia. They won a war over a Cambodian government backed by America. In that moment, I was separated from my family. I was taken to a Buddhist temple where they converted into a killing place. And it was chaotic, and then the Khmer Rouge now started

shooting people. They systematically shoot people and mostly they were educators, they were professors, they were doctors and the reason was that they accused being pro-Americans. I was forced to live there with about 700 children. We were not prisoners but we were forced to live there, work there and to die there. And half of us were starved to death.

And they killed three or four times a day, and many of us, many children were forced to watch. The Khmer Rouge did not use their bullets anymore. They make a special axe like this and hit people in the back of the head, and you can hear it like a coconut shell, like the axe hitting a coconut shell. You can hear it miles away. I can even hear it right now.

Sometimes they asked us children to come around when they were killing people, and the Khmer would watch us in the face, each of us' face. If we show any emotion, it's instant death. We were squeezing each other's hand tight so that we wouldn't cry. For me, I learned how to shut myself off. I made myself numb to the situation. I shut my heart off.

off completely. I literally did not smell the blood and the mud and the shit anymore. If you care about something or somebody, the suffering would be unbearable. You will go insane. I died a million times over when I saw my sister starve slowly to death, my beautiful sister. And I was helpless. I was powerless. I couldn't do much. In the midst of this

killing, the Khmer Rouge would find the children, they found the strongest children, about five or six of us to play revolutionary song for them in an instrument. So I picked up the instrument and I learned very fast. They brought a master who was an old master with the white hair and he looked at me and us at the eyes and said, "You'll have to learn fast." And surely for after a week or two,

Those three boys, they didn't learn the instruments fast enough. They were slow to learn, and with my master, they killed them. And luckily, they didn't ask me to kill them. And I learned very hard, and I was so happy that I learned faster than anyone else because my family owned an opera company. I have artist blood in me. They brought another master,

And this time, Master Mech came and we became like a father and son. And there was a man, frown face, a Khmer Rouge commander. He was always emotionless, his face. And he's not afraid to kill anybody or shoot anybody. I think he was assigned to watch us closely, and I noticed that.

In 1970, I survived the... two years I survived the temples. I was among only the 60 children left. Out of those 700 children were killed and starved to death. And then the Vietnamese invaded Cambodia in 1979. Four years after that, the Khmer Rouge would take my instruments away, now they gave me guns, so Master Mac has to prepare me for full-blown war. And in the bottle, the Khmer Rouge has thousands of kids.

were put into the front line and got drawn to fire first and to die first. And sometimes the Khmer Rouge would shoot us from behind. So we didn't know which side we were on because we were all children and kids were shot left and right from me and they were hit in the stomach and the head. I was with the children there. We would carry guns, I remember.

Gun that M16 were made, they said, "This is good for you because it's less heavy, it's made from America." And then they gave me another gun that made in Russia. And another gun, the bigger gun, I remember they said they make it in China, AK-47. So I carried them all. There was a time now only three of us left with that commander.

and our tactic was to fight in guerrilla fights. So we fight, we shoot, and they die, we run. All of my friends died around me, and I feel helpless again. I cannot do a thing to help them. Blood was all over me. I cannot go on anymore. I cannot kill anybody anymore. We were at a hammock between the trees, and it was quiet, I remember. It was in the jungle, deep in the jungle.

I wanted to die. And I know that if I do this unthinkable thing, I want to challenge him also. This is my wish, my last wish if I go now. And this is a defiance wish for me for that guy who I cannot take order from him anymore, that commander. I want to tell him that I'm in charge now. I'm sick of you telling me to do and told me to kill. I remember Master Mike

taught me in the temple. He didn't only taught me the revolutionary songs. That's how I survived playing music for the Khmer Rouge leader and also play music for that commander. And I knew he was watching us. I'm not sure what he was thinking. But then Master Mech secretly taught me the wedding songs, the love song. And that would cause instant death for him. I decided to do this then.

I sang a song. This is the name. Someone, something took over me and I... The song is about a beautiful woman and you tell her why she cried and you tell her why you cry. That's the song. And I hope he let me finish before he shoot me. Oh, you're my life. You're my life.

I closed my eyes and it was silent. And I looked at him. He let me finish the song and he turned away. Then all of a sudden explosion and I blacked out. And the next day, Cambodian girls who were refugees came to look for firewood and they rescued me. They took me to the camp.

where I met a man called, he's American, they call him American. I was adopted to America in 1980, I came to America. In the 90s, I went back to Cambodia and found a changed country. I found out that most of my, I had about 35 immediate members of my family died, and I found out that 90% of all the performers died.

of all the artists died, including my family. And then I heard about that commander was still in the place where we were separated 30 years ago. I found something a few years ago called the Khmer Magic Music Bus, which I had music master and the young master on the bus. This is the first Khmer Magic Music Bus in my country. And now it's peaceful now. There were UN...

there and trying to bring peace to Cambodia as peace now and I just took the bus. The bus is bringing music, just traditional reintroduced music to especially to remote, remote Cambodian countryside where the children never, there, never heard live music or touch any instrument in their lives. After the American bombing and the Khmer Rouge genocide, nothing exists. They burn everything to the ground and there

25 of us playing music and then they were on stage and all of a sudden I thought there were nobody's gonna come show up. We have 25 musicians with us, traditional musicians and then all of a sudden just like this there were three or four or five thousand people showed up. These are ex-Khmer Rouge family, ex-Khmer Rouge soldier but they just now wear different uniform. The commander was there and I asked him to come on stage with me. He was reluctant, he said no.

And then he hold the microphone, I asked him to hold the microphone and he was so shaken holding microphone and say, "Please say something about the music that brought us back together here." Finally he did say it. It takes a long time. I've never seen him so nervous and so shaken talking on the microphone like I did.

But then he did it, and they clapped, and we went offstage, and he started talking about, "Wow, why you bring music back?" And I told him, "That's how I settle our score, my score." And we sat a little bit down, and we started discussing about this, and we also started dreaming together. One day, I think, could it be possible that every child in Cambodia and every child in the world

could carry musical instruments, not guns, and sing and dance like this with each other. He sort of nodded. It's not a foolish dream. My dream comes in closer now. And I wanted to live longer. For my first time, I learned how to cry with him and learned how to wish. That's what I've learned from America. I think if there is hope between me and him, I think there will be hope for Cambodia to heal or self-reconcile

and to bring peace. There's a hope for the world that we must, we must desire for healing, for reconciliation, and for peace. I assure you, it's not easy for me, not easy for him, but we must. Thank you. Arne Chornpond is a genocide survivor, human rights activist, and musician.

90% of Cambodia's artists did not survive the Khmer Rouge regime, so Cambodia's artistic heritage was in danger of being lost forever. Arne is the founder of Cambodian Living Arts, which focuses on saving endangered performing art forms and rituals to pass them on to the next generation. Arne believes in the vital power of music and the arts to heal and transform individual people, communities, and even whole countries.

Arne told me that years later, his former commander admitted to Arne that he was aware that Master Mike was teaching band songs. But he chose not to say anything. He wanted to try to do something good amidst all the bloodshed. That's also why he didn't kill Arne when Arne sang the forbidden song that night in the forest. Arne and Master Mike were eventually reunited. He found Master Mike and other great Cambodian musicians living in desperate conditions, no longer playing music.

This inspired Arne to start his music program, and he and Master Mike eventually traveled the world together playing concerts. At the end of the show, we asked Arne to come back on stage and play his flute. He asked the other four storytellers who had been in the show to join him on stage. They formed a semicircle behind him, held hands, and bowed their heads as he played.

So that I don't feel so scared playing the flute. This is a lullaby, sort of lullaby song that it was silenced for a long time in Cambodia. Now I start hearing again around the countryside. To see video of Arne playing his flute, surrounded by his fellow storytellers, go to themoth.org. That's it for this episode. We hope you'll join us next time for the Moth Radio Hour.

Your host this hour was Catherine Burns. Catherine also directed the stories in the show. The rest of the Moss directorial staff includes Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin-Ginesse, Jennifer Hickson, and Meg Bowles. Production support from Emily Couch.

Moth Stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour from Blue Dot Sessions, Bill Frizzell, and Thomas Morgan. The Moth is produced for radio by me, Jay Allison, with Vicki Merrick at Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.

This hour was produced with funds from the National Endowment for the Arts. The Moth Radio Hour is presented by PRX. To find out more about our podcast, to get information on pitching us your own story and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.