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Rouge seized power over Cambodia in the mid-seventies. The family fortune had been lost during the war, but at least most of his kin had survived the murderous regime. The majority of them had fled in time, in contrast to countless other unlucky families. He wonders if that’s partly why he’s often treated like a
barang
in his own country, rather than a true Khmer. Or, rather, like an
anikachun
, a not very flattering term for a person with no fixed abode — a gypsy, a wandering refugee. Were some Khmer Rouge survivors envious to a certain degree? Did they resent the fact that Phirun had avoided the suffering unimaginable to those who hadn’t lived through the nightmare?
    The cold water soothes his headache and makes him stay in the shower for a few more minutes.
    Years after the war, towards the end of 1989, his parents, sister and he had ended up in Belgium in search of a future. Other family members found their new lives in France; some ended up in the United States. Settling in Belgium had brought on a monumental change in their lifestyles, especially for his mother. She had gone from being the wealthy, respected and well-educated wife of a successful high-ranking public servant, to an underpaid maid who barely spoke a word of her new country’s language.
    Phirun’s thoughts skip to a recent conversation that he held with his friend Ratanak, a local Khmer. They had met by chance at a wedding party, and had instantly hit it off. Not that they had much in common — Ratanak was a hardcore booze and karaoke devotee, while Phirun tended to enjoy life in smaller doses, somewhat more subtly. But they still felt a respectful curiosity towards each other.
    It was all the more surprising that one night, over a few cans of Beer Lao, his friend had called him an
anikachun
. It was late and Ratanak’s drunken ramblings were acquiring a sharp, bitter undertone. It wasn’t until a week later when they met again that Phirun’s friend apologised for the derogatory comment. He explained that he had lost his temper after being humiliated by an arrogant overseas-raised Khmer man who had treated him like a peasant earlier that day.
    Phirun steps out of the shower dripping wet, and moves to examine his face in front of the mirror. He needs a shave, he decides, and starts lathering up.
    On that particular night in the bar, his friend had been talking about how all the rich
anikachun
were coming back now, their pockets bulging with wads of money, to exploit their own people — as if they hadn’t already suffered enough.
    “Oh yeah? Like me, or what?” Phirun had huffed. “You’ve got more money on you than I have.”
    But Ratanak had continued unabashed.
    “Rich or poor, it doesn’t matter. It’s that arrogant attitude your kind treat us with. Really, you secretly still think we’re all ignorant peasants who belong in rice fields, don’t you?”
    Phirun’s attempts to object went ignored as Ratanak continued his drunken tirade.
    “Your
barang
passport might be full of foreign stamps, but I don’t want a
barang
passport, you know, even if I could get one. I’m proud of my culture and my identity; I’m not selling it off like all those fake, so-called Cambodians who are only Cambodian when they reckon they can make a profit out of us.”
    At that point Phirun felt it was time to go home. It would be useless trying to explain to his friend how he himself had felt more Cambodian than anyone else around him, every single day of his teenage years. Those rural foreign schools were full of local kids clueless about the effect their casual racism and exclusion can have on a young boy. The daily humiliations, the constant reminders about the tawny colour of his skin, his limited vocabulary and funny accent, the fact that his parents were living off state benefits. All was fair game to the bullies. Not all kids had been like that, of course, otherwise he would never have survived. But the exposure to persistent xenophobia, even if