The son of a rice farmer.
He stands proudly at the stove as he stirs the Wok with fresh green vegetables and chicken. He cooks his own Isaan food, the food he has eaten all of his life. His T shirt and shorts are no different from any urban young man. His dark brown skin sets him apart from the others in a Melbourne Leafy suburb. He wears his Asian heritage with pride, his shoulders always back like a sentinel from an Ancient Khmer Temple. He strugles with the English Language but his eyes and face speak a Universal Language. There is a kind smile. There is often a cheeky smile. He has a strong sense of self, a maturity beyond his chronological years.
He has been away from the Village and his family for five years. He has held me in ICU and Chemotherapy Wards.
He spends several days a week as a volunteer in a Charity Shop in Inner Melbourne. He has cooked Western meals for my friends. He has made my friends welcome in our home. Often he sings folk songs from the North East of Thailand. He has played tennis and enjoyed AFL Football matches.
He is my Rock…