I am the son of a traitor who taught me to bow. My father’s spine was a question mark carved by Japanese bamboo. Every morning, he would press his forehead to the floor of Gyeongseong and whisper, “Arigatou gozaimasu.” And I, little snake in a police uniform, would click my heels. I arrested my own people. I smiled while their ribs cracked. I was the Empire’s favorite pet—the Korean who hated Korea.
Do you know what it feels like to have two tongues? One for the master’s whip. One for the mother’s grave. I am a schizophrenic nation. My left hand signs death warrants in elegant kanji. My right hand carves the same names into a prayer stick. Bridal Mask Speak Khmer
Now I speak only in acts.
Instead, find a quiet corner of a forgotten market. Listen to the old women selling radishes. They are speaking it. The old language. The one the colonizers could not brand. It sounds like: I am the son of a traitor who taught me to bow
inspiracije