Patrick Doan in the European Review of Books:
Where there’s an airport, there’s security, and where there’s China, there’s screening, so here we are at the checkpoint at Baiyun International Airport, where austere officials are checking that we’re not carrying anything suspicious. We go through the scanner first, and A-kong takes his time. When the diaphanous image of his suitcase’s entrails finally appears on the screen, the agents are surprised to see quite clearly a thirty-centimeter knife, lying peacefully alongside twelve boxes of Doliprane (paracetamol) 1000mg, one hundred and eighty COVID masks (which he will later offer to my cousin) and eight camera batteries — for A-kong suffers from a rather severe scopic compulsion. A conversation in Mandarin ensues between the agent and my father, who hopes to convince the woman not to confiscate his « fruit knife ». Meanwhile, while my wife Insa questions the reliability of Luchthaven Schiphol’s security service (we’d flown from Amsterdam), my daughter Elly rolls her eyes, my son Robin pretends to look at his smartphone (without a network), and I watch my father adopt a familiar posture: a man of good faith imploring clemency from his next superior. This time his plea has little effect. But I know it has worked before — at least once.
It was forty-seven years ago, in a sweet potato field on the edge of the jungle. A few days earlier, the Khmer Rouge had entered Phnom Penh as liberators, then started shooting at everyone.
More here.
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