Chapter 1/Scene 1: Storytelling

I grew up in a traditional Thai house: four bedrooms, one bathroom (attached to the back), ample open space, and a kitchen. Wooden inside and out, the place retained warmth and the rich smells of food. But what made it Thai was the house’s height: it stood on stilts, five feet off the ground. Thailand is famous for its torrential rain. Many times—more times than I could remember—mud accompanied these rains. My task was to keep clean, dry towels inside the front door, by the entrance above the cement basin at the bottom of the stairs, which was filled with water for washing our feet.

My three brothers shared a big room, my parents another, and my sister and I shared the third. But I remember the extra room—used for visiting relatives when in town—most fondly. We would meet in that room after school to work on school assignments together.

After clearing the dinner table, Koon Paw (Dad) would set up a cushion on the low table, and we would sit on the floor, filled with excitement. Koon Mae (Mom) would only finish half of her teacher’s work in the classroom. She would spread her papers on a table in the corner and sit in a chair to grade them. The room buzzed with whispers and rustling pages; Dad relaxed on the cushioned table.

Then he’d tell a story. The room’s wood panels opened up, and in their place we saw jungles and palaces, noble chieftains, and wild warriors. The riches of Thai history paraded before us in that room. Dad brought it to life, telling tales as if he’d lived them, giving us a part of himself with every story.

“Before you were born,” he would begin, leaning into the flickering candlelight, “Siam (country name before Thailand) fought many wars with the Burmese. They strapped on their swords, setting out for battle, though many wondered if they would return home. The men—hundreds upon hundreds, every boy big enough to carry a sword, every man young enough to march—went to war to defend this lovely land from invasion.”

My older brothers’ eyes sparkled as each saw himself swaggering off to war, sword in hand. “Some of those men wondered if they would ever come back home. But this was the frightening question they should have asked themselves: would there be any home to return to?” Dad had an uncanny ability to pause at the perfect moments. Racked with suspense, we held our breath, waiting for the following words.

“You see,” he resumed, “this story isn’t about our war with the Burmese. It isn’t about those brave men carrying their swords.” (My brothers exchanged disappointed glances.) “This story is about the ones who stayed at home.”

“But those were just women and children!” my oldest brother complained.

Dad nodded. “Just women and children,” he said. “And you will hear what those women did.” I sat up straighter. Eager as I always was for my father’s stories, a special thrill went through me.