Janne Talstad

Hill of the Poisonous Trees

4-13.3 2022

Opening:

Friday 4.March 8:00 PM

Open Saturdays and Sundays:

13-15

Supported by BKV and Norske Fagfotografers Fond.

No religious rituals. No religious symbols. No fortune tellers. No traditional healers. No paying respect to elders. No social status. No titles. No education. No training. No school. No learning. No books. No library. No science. No technology. No pens. No paper. No currency. No bartering. No buying. No selling. No begging. No giving. No purses. No wallets No human rights. No liberty. No public transportation. No private transportation. No traveling. No mailing. No inviting. No visiting. No faxes. No telephones. No social gatherings. No chit chatting. No jokes. No laughter. No music. No dancing. No romance. No flirting. No fornication. No dating. No wet dreaming.  No mastrubating. No naked sleepers. No bathers. No nakedness in showers. No love songs. No love letters. No affection. No marrying. No divorcing. No marital conflicts. No fighting. No profanity. No cursing. No shoes. No sandals No toothbrushes. No razors. No combs. No mirrors. No lotion. No make up. No long hair. No braids. No jewelry. No soap. No detergent. No shampoo. No knitting. No embroidering. No colored clothes, except black. No styles, except pajamas. No wine. No palm sap hooch. No lighters. No cigarettes. No morning coffee. No afternoon tea. No snacks. No desserts. No breakfast (sometimes no dinner.) No mercy. No forgiveness. No regret. No remorse. No second chances. No excuses. No complaints. No grievances. No help. No favors. No eyeglasses. No dental treatment. No vaccines. No medicines. No hospitals. No doctors. No disabilities. No social diseases. No tuberculosis. No leprosy. No kites. No marbles. No rubber. No cookies. No popsicle. No candy. No playing. No toys. No lullabies. No rest. No vacations. No holidays. No weekends No games. No sports. No staying up late. No newspapers. No radio. No TV. No drawing. No painting. No pets. No pictures. No electricity. No lamp oil. No clocks. No watches. No hope. No life.

- Sarith Pou

As I crouched down on the curb outside the hill of the poisonous trees a tear drop left my right eye and like an unbroken string hit the boiling concrete of the pavement, evaporated in the humid heat, the tear merged with the water of the wind, the air which left my lungs came out not as a sigh, nor a whimper, nor a gasp, or even exhale, relieved to be freed from these narrow hallways of horror, my breath kept leaving my body as an endless stream with no source except my soul, or the soul of the ones who had entered mine as I wandered through these narrow passages of torment, it kept coming and coming, the breeze from my windpipe, a soft and unstoppable force in an even stream, as if all the ghosts which I had passed the last hours, which had entered me, was now leaving me, to return to their chambers of eternal torture.

A hand touched my fragile shoulder, as sensitive as soothing, as sorrowful as solemn, and as I kept looking onto the evaporated tear on the boiling concrete, the echo of the tear, feeling the subtle shift in scenery, the torture tourists whispering among each other, wandering silently into the waves of heat in anguish and contemplation, the image of shadows distorted by the intense sunset light and the waves of heat which always distorts both perception and sight in this land of black magic, his hand touched my shoulder and soothed my soul, as the spirits left my carcass in an endless exhale, I asked him; «how could so few enslave so many?» A whole nation.

He sat there dwindling his ring fingers, not adult, nor adolescent, born from the victims of year zero, the survivors of the annihilation, his face calm as twilight, his cheeks hard and high, eyes made of charcoal, as focused as noontime, his eyes filled with night, with the twinkle of supernatural life, reflecting the barb wire of the hill of the poisonous trees, as the walls of the prison gradually shifted into the hue of yellowish orange, as the fluorescent street lights merged with the last rays of sundown, he asked me softly and firmly in broken English; «where you from?»

I told him I was from the north, a place he knew, because of the twenty second day of the seventh month of the eleventh year of the twenty first century, where my nation endured for one day what this forlorn nation had to face for more than thousand sunsets and sunrises, noon followed midnight followed noon followed midnight, in days as long as years for the human mind, seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, in constant submission and enslavement, to a force with no core, with no intention except nothingness, the eradication of all ideally human, hidden under a cloak of vicious doctrines, like liquid snakes of rotten darkness floating through the roots of our soil, for at any moment to envelope our souls, the sun disappearing behind the concrete walls of barbed wire, his silhouette talked as he turned away: 

«Imagine a thousand Breivik.» He said.

He told me they threw babies and small children onto Samanea saman, the rain tree, until there was nothing left of them, their parents left to be tortured, to squeal, at the hill of the poisonous trees, to report their family and friends for the crime of being artists, politicans, doctors, lawyers. Sometimes I hear their screams, manifested as sonic numbness, a scream with no mouth, with no sound, with no breath, in their chambers, whimpering inwards, then I see the labor camps, placed among the vast fields, failed crops of rice, flooded, dead and forlorn, a dying nation moving along like ghosts, in black pajamas, always silent, silenced, no voices here, in the valleys of death, in the killing fields, there is only one voice, the one screaming over the speaker:

«To destroy you is no loss. To preserve you is no gain.»

Though through this pitch black darkness, through the cracks, illumination appear, as the sun sets in the distance, the labor camps are hushed, the impenetrable blackness of a night with no artificial light, where the utterance of a somber sob is punished with violence, where a howl in the dark might lead to death, a voice starts singing, a verse, then silence, then another verse in another part of the camp from another fragile voice, the song moving along in the night, as fireflies in the dark, acapella lullaby, verse to verse from human to human, songs from underneath sheets to obscure the originator, hidden songs of solemn sorrow, the tender illegal song of the night saves the soul until another horrid dawn, voices like a butterfly flowing from face to face, trembling in the fear of canaries, stolen songs, until sunrise, in a land where eating insects among the crops is the only highlight of the day, the song moves along like a current, a sonic relay of solace.

As I once again returned to the cold and slumbersome territory of my origin, leaving my heart under the hill of the poisonous trees, my travel companion sent me a message from the pearl of Asia. She had asked her native Tuk Tuk driver what his greatest wish was, after a long day at the killing fields. He looked at her, then onto the distance from the bridge they were standing in dusk, the blood red light caressing the yellow river, his face turned towards her, a smile on his lips, his opaque almond eyes wet with awe over the sheer beauty of a country he had never left nor would ever leave. 

«To see snow in Cambodia.» He answered.

Text by Kristian Skylstad