The Rent Collector

“When people ask where we live, I tell them we reside alongside the bank of a beautiful river called Stung Meanchey. After all, the name does mean River of Victory. If they know the place at all, they hesitate, smile quizzically, and then we both break out into tremendous laughter, for in spite of being named river, Stung Meanchey is the largest municipal waste dump in Phnom Penh—indeed, in all of Cambodia. The place is mountainous, covering over 100 acres. Piles of putrid rubbish tower hundreds of feet high, surrounded by constantly shifting valleys that weave and connect like the web of a jungle spider. Navigating its changing paths can be tricky.” 

While this passage provides basic information about the story’s setting, it also reveals Sang’s attitude toward Stung Meanchey, the dump where she lives. Sang also believes that the name of the dump, “River of Victory,” is painfully ironic. However, the dump is where Sang will encounter many victories, both her own and those of other characters.

“There is a story told by some—perhaps myth, perhaps not—that claims she was the illegitimate child of Vadavamukha, a sky god with the body of a man and the head of a horse. (Having a horse-headed father would explain a lot.) The myth says that for years he hid his daughter in a trash can to conceal the evidence of his escapades from his wife, Reak Ksaksar Devy, the blood goddess. One day, however, when Reak became suspicious, Vadavamukha hurled the can from the sky. It landed at Stung Meanchey with Sopeap inside—and she has been here ever since.” 

This fable about Sopeap’s origins indicates that residents of the dump both hate and fear their Rent Collector. The mockery of her appearance—in the implication that “a sky god with the body of a man and the head of a horse” fathered her—is both cruel and childish. However, the idea that Sopeap is worthy of a fable and descends from the gods foreshadows the importance Sopeap will have to the story overall, and to Sang in particular.

“The drivers of the monster bulldozers that push the trash into piles at night will sometimes around the shelters, leaving them intact for several days. Other times, a beautiful shelter, painstakingly crafted during the better part of a morning, may be nothing but a mix of flattened hope and moldering trash a day later. It’s a lesson that is learned early at Stung Meanchey—and yet, it’s a lesson not of discouragement but rather of persistence. Just as ants do when their nest is disturbed, we return, survey the damage, and then without hesitation immediately get to work rebuilding.”

Sang provides more information about life at Stung Meanchey, but this also serves as an excellent metaphor for life: No matter what happens, the important thing is to keep trying. This relates to the novel’s motif of hope.

“I always tell Ki that it’s a dangerous thing sending me to work the dump, not because I’ll get run over by a truck, burn my legs and feet, or fall into a pool of toxic sludge—though all those are possibilities. It’s dangerous because my thoughts get away from themselves. Mixed with emotion, they pile up like the garbage that surrounds me. They stack layer upon layer, deeper and deeper, month after month—crushing, festering, smoldering. One day something is certain to combust.” 

This quote reveals Sang’s sense of humor, juxtaposing as it does her own thought process with how the garbage surrounding her decomposes. Sang also reveals two fundamental things about her character. First, even though she has not yet learned to read, she is a highly intelligent person with a rich inner life. Second, by comparing her thoughts to garbage, Sang demonstrates a lack of self-confidence, which her lessons with Sopeap eventually help her overcome.

“I put down my sack and picture myself standing in front of a chalkboard, the same as Sopeap, showing Lucky how to carefully draw each perfect line. I take a deep breath, not caring that the air is particularly smoky, and then I try to remember if I’ve ever been asked a more satisfying question. I can’t think of what it might have been.” 

The thought that one day she could teach someone else to read or write takes Sang aback. This demonstrates the importance of literacy and depicts how education can transform a community. Literacy has a ripple effect: Just as Sopeap teaches Sang, so too can Sang pass this gift on, not just to her own son, but to others. 

“I leap toward him, wrap my arms around his waist, pull his body close against mine, and hold tightly. We embrace for a long time, but the best part of the evening—the moment I will remember more than any other—is that Ki hugs back.” 

This passage is representative of the relationship between Ki and Sang. Although Ki is unsure that Sang’s lessons with Sopeap are useful or even positive, he nonetheless supports Sang’s choices, even when it costs him money and time. He celebrates Sang’s achievement—her ability to read—out of love and respect for his wife. Sang’s gratitude toward Ki is similarly represented here, and she understands how special Ki is when she states that what she will “remember more than any other” is not just reading, but Ki’s joy in her accomplishment.

“‘I’m saying that life at the dump has limitations, but it serves a plate of predictability. Stung Meanchey offers boundaries. There are dangers, but they are understood, accepted, and managed. When we step out of that world, we enter an area of unknown. I’m questioning if you are ready. Everyone loves adventure, Sang Ly, when they know how the story ends. In life, however, our own endings are never as perfect.’” 

Sopeap is trying to convince Sang that she does not need to learn about literature. She maintains that analyzing literature could jeopardize Sang’s life at the dump, and that even though Sang might hate Stung Meanchey, it is a predictable world, one she could lose. Although Sopeap is instructing Sang to appreciate what she has, she is comparably repeating the Khmer Rouge’s same mistake. Education is not dangerous, and if it causes people to be unsatisfied with what they have, what needs to change are those circumstances, not the education itself.

“Lately, however, the gangs have been getting more aggressive, more brazen, and nearly deadly. It is an interesting irony. It’s because they are getting violent that Ki insists something must be done. For the very same reason—fear of violence—many of those living here refuse to get involved, and I can’t blame them.” 

Sang and Ki’s problem with the gangs is an age-old debate about self-preservation versus standing up for one’s rights and those of others. Sang understands why people do not want to get involved in Ki’s plans: They fear the gangs’ violent retaliation. However, continuing to ignore the problem only allows it to get worse. In the narrative, the conflict of what to do in the face of evil parallels the Cambodians’ response to Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge. 

“‘Stories are often layered with meaning. If you don’t learn from a story’s message, if you gloss over or dismiss it—even if it’s a message with which you don’t agree—then you have wasted not only your time but the writer’s time as well.’” 

Sopeap argues that all good stories have meaning and “teach” (83). This is a common debate about literature, and many readers (and authors) will argue that some stories are just meant to entertain. Sopeap might have responded that while some stories do not intentionally teach, they teach nevertheless, and readers need to pay attention to that message.

“‘Literature is a cake with many toys baked inside—and even if you find them all, if you don’t enjoy the path that leads you to them, it will be a hollow accomplishment. There was a playwright named Heller, American, I believe, who summed it up this way. He said, ‘They knew everything about literature except how to enjoy it.’” 

Although Sopeap insists that good literature teaches a lesson, she also warns against taking this too far. She reminds both Sang and the reader that stories must also be enjoyed, for if they are not enjoyable, no one will care about or get to the lesson.

“‘If you are certain you are facing evil,’ [Sopeap] says, ‘and not ignorance, you must, if you can, destroy it before it destroys you!’” 

Sopeap answers Sang’s question about what Ki should do about the gangs. Her vehemence surprises Sang and foreshadows the revelations of Sopeap’s own experiences with evil at the hands of the Khmer Rouge. It also indicates Sopeap’s regret at her own passivity in the face of that evil.

“‘Three words, Sang Ly, three simple words that communicate more, mean more, than worldly riches. Words provide a voice to our deepest feelings. I tell you, words have started and stopped wars. Words have built and lost fortunes. Words have saved and taken lives. Words have won and lost great kingdoms. Even Buddha said, ‘Whatever words we utter should be chosen with care, for people will hear them and be influenced by them for good or ill.’” 

Sopeap explains to Sang that it is not literature that is powerful; the words themselves contain the power. Sopeap speaks of the three words—“I love you”—that allow Sang to tell Ki or Nisay how she feels to demonstrate the power of words, claiming that they are worth more than “worldly riches.” Sang realizes the power of words on her own later in the story, and she passes this lesson on to others.

“‘Sang Ly, the desire to believe, to look forward to better days, to want them, to expect them—it seems to be ingrained in our being. Whether we like it or not, hope is written so deeply into our hearts that we just can’t help ourselves, no matter how hard we try otherwise. We love the story because we are Sarann or Tattercoats or Cinderella. We all struggle with the same problems and doubts. We all long for the day when we’ll get our own reward.”

Sopeap explains to Sang why there are so many similar stories, claiming that they reflect the human propensity for hope, or the need to believe that “better days” are coming. It is not just hope that connects us, however. It is also the similarities of our struggles, and this is the lesson that Sang must learn over the course of the novel. 

“‘Our trials, our troubles, our demons, our angels—we reenact them because these stories explain our lives. Literature’s lessons repeat because they echo from deeper places. They touch a chord in our soul because they’re notes we’ve already heard played. Plots repeat because, from the birth of man, they explore the reasons for our being. Stories teach us to not give up hope because there are times in our own journey when we mustn’t give up hope. They teach endurance because in our lives we are meant to endure. They carry messages that are older than the words themselves, messages that reach beyond the page.’” 

Sopeap’s poetic explanation of why stories are often similar across cultures proposes that there is a common source of these stories. She contends that the stories we write and read are stories we already know, echoing Jung’s belief in the “collective unconscious.” Literature, for Sopeap, reveals our common ancestry and helps us to reclaim it.

“‘That, Sang Ly, is the paradox,’ she continues, ‘the part that is perplexing. It seems that if we take these stories too literally, if we expect our personal lives to always end with a handsome prince, most of us will close our books with shattered dreams. Yet, on the other hand—and this is the part that frustrates—if we don’t take the meaning of these stories literally, if we treat these tales as simply entertainment, we miss the deepest, most life-changing aspects of the stories.’” 

Sang and Sopeap continue to discuss the purpose of literature. Although Sopeap has insisted that “good stories teach” (83), she acknowledges that taking stories at their literal meaning does not work. As depicted in Sarann, we cannot just wait around for a prince to rescue us from the drudgery of our lives. Nonetheless, to ignore the lessons that stories like Sarann teach us is to ignore something important. The key is to be able to discern which is which.

“My son cries for most of the morning before I hand him to someone else, someone who is not his mother, someone who doesn’t care about him as much as I do, and I trudge back home to learn about literature because it’s supposed to somehow, in my warped mind, help my child.” 

This quote reveals Sang’s inner turmoil, one common to any working mother in the world. However, Sang’s fear here also reflects a lesson she had with Sopeap on conflict in literature. Sopeap tells Sang that much of a story’s conflict is internal. Although Sang meets most things with equanimity, she allows us to see her internal conflict. 

“And as quickly as the doctor appeared, he is gone. I don’t blame him, and I am not bitter. I sit in an overflowing hospital waiting room, brimming with desperate mothers, including many who lost their loved ones. How can I be anything but indebted to this man?” 

This passage reflects Sang’s calm and accepting nature. Most people would be angry at the doctor’s dismissiveness, but Sang is overwhelmed with gratitude and just happy that Nisay is well again. However, it is also representative of Sang’s attitude toward knowledge and wisdom. She takes Nisay to the hospital when it is urgent, but the true healing cannot come from this hospital. For that, she must rely on her intuition and take Nisay back to her village.

“‘We can’t claim heaven as our own if we are just going to sit under it.’” 

This platitude, which Sang attributes to her grandfather, is similar to a familiar Christian saying: “The Lord helps those who help themselves.” While the platitude reflects Sang’s respect for her ancestors and their traditions, it also mirrors her determination to act and to make her own fortune, rather than wait for it to be handed to her.

“There is a Cambodian proverb Grandfather loved that says, ‘For news of the heart, watch the face.’ At this moment, I think it would be more apt to say, ‘For news of a mother’s heart, watch her child’s face.’ Nisay is terrified and my heart weeps.” 

This passage reveals Sang’s inner torment over Nisay’s health. Although Sang seems cheerful most of the time throughout the text, her concern for Nisay’s health overshadows everything else, reflected in her word choice and diction. By revising a proverb, Sang claims that this must be a universal experience, which foreshadows how she will react to Sopeap’s story about losing her son.

“I imagine this is how it must be with our ancestors. They watch us closely, full of love and concern, sometimes whispering encouragement through a crack, but mostly just satisfied to know that we are happy.” 

Sang seems to reach some sort of peace with her questions about the ancestors and the afterlife. She previously discussed this with Sopeap and admitted to not fully believing in such things. She may have been concerned that these beliefs were like her willingness to try folk remedies, which a Western doctor dismissed as “superstitious nonsense” (40). However, both her lessons with Sopeap and her experience with Bunna Heng allow Sang to recognize her encounter with Maly as a metaphor for her spirituality.

“Mother, Nisay, Teva Mao, and I are organizing our home, and, before my eyes, friendship is soothing the sting of injury. Teva is carrying water to fill up our new jar while her daughter, Vanna, keeps an eye on Nisay, who is becoming a handful. Other neighbors are dropping off extra food, sleeping mats, pillows, and cooking items. Love abounds, even at Stung Meanchey.” 

Sang now fully recognizes Stung Meanchey as her home. It is not the loss of her possessions that allows her to see this, but her conversations with Sopeap, Ki, and her aunt that have convinced her. Losing her possessions is a test of her new resolve, and this passage indicates that Sang has fully understood the lesson.

“I had read essays describing the horrors of genocide committed during the Chinese Cultural Revolution. I had lectured on Jewish literature detailing the atrocities carried out by Hitler. I had read the words in my head but never comprehended their depth in my heart—until I lived them. Only later would I realize that there are no words harsh enough, no paragraphs wide enough, no books deep enough to convey the weight of true human sorrow.” 

Sopeap’s account of her own experiences with the Khmer Rouge, as heartbreaking as they are, are not enough to make the reader fully understand them. Some events are beyond words, and the Cambodian genocide is one such event. Like the Holocaust, no words can do them justice, but that does not mean we should be silent. By sharing her story, Sopeap is bearing witness for those who are no longer able to do so themselves. By explaining these things to Sang, Sopeap insists that she, too, bear witness to this atrocity borne of a combination of ignorance and evil.

“‘The educated,’ the new leaders of the regime announced, ‘are a stain on the true worker. Cities are evil. Education and learning is useless and selfish. Money and commerce are corrupt. The strength of a nation is in the working man—not the parasites who live off the laborer! Plant rice for the nation to prosper! Only those working in the fields will eat!’” 

Sopeap repeats some of the Khmer Rouge contentions, which are based on a willful misreading of communist and socialist thought. However, Sopeap repeats this sentiment because at the time, many people believed it to be true, and not enough people argued against it. As Sopeap pointed out to Sang, words are powerful, even when they are nonsensical. These words allowed for the execution of the educated, who the regime viewed not as human beings, but as “stain[s].” These words allowed for the mistreatment of all those who could not work in the fields, as well as many more deaths.