Cambodia is experiencing peace. Its land, once deeply scarred by war—from the Cold War and the Vietnam War to its own civil conflicts—still carries the weight of that history. Today, both people and country are striving in an era where modernity moves faster than many can fully grasp.
Yet, we have been shaken once again by wars elsewhere, including ongoing conflicts in the Middle East and Ukraine. In response, Cambodian contemporary artists have transformed remnants of violence—such as bullet casings—into artistic jewelry as symbols of peace and harmony. This practice embodies reconciliation and resilience, turning instruments of destruction into expressions of healing.
Inspired by this, I created The Weapon Speaks with the help of translation by Chath Piersath.
The Weapon Speaks
They laugh in the joy of their success,
The hands that forged my frame,
Trading my steel for streams of gold
To bolster a mighty name—
While I am cast into the dark,
An instrument of ruin and shame.
White or red, they shout in delight,
Baptizing me "destruction’s son."
Through day and night, they kindle rage
Until the firing has begun—
I soar and spin, I tear the flesh,
Until the bloody work is done.
I explode; the innocent perish,
And I am left with a cursed name.
A month, a year, a lifetime passes—
What karma do these makers claim?
When glory rises from the smoke,
Do they escape the earth’s own flame?
Why do they make me their lonely pawn?
They smile again when I am sold;
I am stripped of peace, a slave to greed,
A story of blood and hunger told.
I blast through homes, through brick and bone,
While they return to produce more gold.
Because of me, the young and old
Are shattered, or erased from light;
The crippled live in searing pain,
Begging through the hollow night.
While dealers in their gilded towers
Embrace comfort, soft and bright.
They display me boldly to the world,
To those who hunger for the fray.
Day by day, the buttons wait
For fingers poised to take the day.
I hear but three words in the wind:
Peace. Killing. Bloodshed.
What sin have I committed here
To be forged and bound so tight?
They film my fire with boastful pride,
A spectacle of hollow might.
But in the end, I witness only
The widow’s grief, the orphan’s fright.
Schools and temples, homes and hearts,
I leave them fractured, torn apart.
I, too, am shattered in the dirt—
A forgotten scrap, a jagged shard—
While they feast in jeweled towers,
Safe behind a metal guard.
I, mere scrap of cold, hard metal,
Have seen the world divide and tear.
But now I pray for reconciliation,
To be reshaped into what is fair.
Let the artists of this broken land
Find my pieces everywhere.
Reforge my soul into adornment,
A ring, a necklace, a silver dove,
Something for the rich and poor
To give and take in signs of love.
A gift for blessed, sacred days,
Watched by the quiet stars above.
Let me rest on a finger or a neck,
At weddings where the children play.
That would be a true, deep peace:
A world mended, come what may.
No longer a pawn of death and war,
But planting peace in the common clay.
