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I sat under the pagoda, moved by the monks’ chanting, which was accompanied by a chorus of over forty attendees.

A woman sitting next to me in a dance performance, I realize, is crying. It is hard to tell at first because she holds her body so still but tears pour down her weathered face.

The suit jacket that Chhun Phanapha is wearing is such a bright shade of pink that it seems to be glowing. It is the first thing you notice about her when you walk in the room.

The silence in the pagoda is almost deafening. Under a clutch of trees a group of children are playing but they seem to make only a little more noise than the long lengths of tangerine fabric hanging to dry in the breeze, and they disappear soon…