In The Shadow Of The Banyan

From an early age, Raami views the world through the lens of storytelling. When the first Khmer Rouge soldier bangs on the gate of her compound, Raami believes he is a tevoda, a saintly figure from Cambodian mythology rooted in Hinduism. Once she realizes he brings no peace or joy, she thinks back to the figures of the Cambodian epic poem The Reamker, in which angelic devarajas and demonic rakshasas do battle. Of the Khmer Rouge, Raami recalls, “I wondered what they were really. Soldiers or peasants? Children or adults? They looked neither like devarajas nor rakshasas, the mythical gods and demons I’d imagined them to be” (34). Already, the simple binaries of good and evil found in ancient literature fail to explain the complexities of real life.

That a seven-year-old girl relies of storytelling to make sense of the world—especially one that’s falling apart before her eyes—is unsurprising. Yet Raami takes this to a whole other level thanks to her father’s influence. A poet whose own work is rooted in ancient Cambodian literary traditions, Papa instills in Raami an appreciation for how storytelling can help a person survive unspeakably trying times. In the open-air prayer hall, the morning after the family’s arrival at Prey Veng, the majestic sight of the early-hours fog as it flows in ribbons through the Buddhist temple reminds her of the heavenly Kingdom of Ayuthiya from The Reamker. When Raami asks if this is heaven, Papa replies, “At least its mirror image. If one glimpses heaven’s reflection on earth, then somewhere must exist the real thing” (71). Raami will repeatedly fall back on such hopeful aphorisms as the trauma of her ordeal worsens.

Yet Raami’s tendency to view her suffering and that of her family through folklore takes on a darker cast as the narrative progresses. For example, she justifies her father’s decision to give himself up to the Khmer Rouge as a sacrificial act akin to the Buddha sacrificing his body as a rabbit to a starving Brahmin, who is in fact the Vedic deity Indra in disguise. Given that the rabbit incarnation ends up living on the moon, Raami too believes the spirit of her father lives on the moon. But it is her association between the moon and Papa that causes her to feel compelled to be alone at the Stung Khae harvest festival and to leave Radana unattended, which results in Radana’s death. After the mosquito attack, Mama acknowledges Raami’s unhealthy fixation on stories, which she received from her father. Mama says, “Yes, your papa may have brought you wings, Raami. But it is I who must teach you to fly. I want you to understand this. This is not a story” (206).

Although Raami ultimately becomes more of a realist like her mother—a transformation seen in her rejection of Queen Grandmother’s banyan prophecy—folk stories continue to serve her as a tether to Papa’s memory. And Ratner herself understands the power of storytelling. In the Q&A at the end of the book, Ratner says that during the most difficult times living under the Khmer Rouge, she used stories as incantations. Ratner writes, “Stories were magic spells, I felt, and storytelling, the ability to tell and recall something, was a kind of sorcery, a power you could use to transform and transport yourself” (339).