It all started with a group chat. 'Yo, Seila, you down to see VannDa tonight?'

Seila stared at the message. She was only two weeks into her Cambodia trip, still getting used to the heat, traffic, and fast Khmer her cousins spoke.

'Who's VannDa?' she typed. Seconds later, five excited voice notes landed in the chat—all in Khmer.

One cousin sent a link. The beat dropped hard. Her chest vibrated with the bass. Khmer words. English lines. It felt powerful.

That night, they took tuk tuks to the concert. Lights flashed on Seila's sunglasses as the city sped by. Her cousins joked in Khmer. She laughed too—even if she didn't understand everything.

When they arrived, the crowd was huge. Teens wore streetwear, dyed hair, and shirts that said 'BATBANG'. Khmer was everywhere. Seila felt like an outsider.

A girl bumped into her and said, 'សុំទោសអូន!' Seila froze. She didn't know how to respond.

Her cousin whispered, 'Say អីបា៎ – it means like, don't worry.' Seila tried. 'Ey ba...' Her cousin laughed and high-fived her.

Suddenly the lights dimmed. The crowd screamed. VannDa stepped on stage—shirtless, gold chain, glowing hair. The beat dropped.

He didn't speak. He lifted the mic. Boom. Boom. Boom. Then came the words—rapid Khmer, bursts of English.The crowd knew every line.

Seila didn't know all the lyrics, but she knew the hook: 'Time to Rise!' She shouted it with the others.

Her voice cracked. She didn't care. She was in it—with them. With Cambodia. With herself.

After the show, they sat on the sidewalk eating grilled corn. 'You rapped in Khmer!' her cousin said.

Seila laughed. 'I've been practicing.' They clinked soda cans. For the first time, she didn't feel like a visitor.

The next morning, Seila opened her journal and wrote: 'I rapped in Khmer. I wasn't perfect. But I was there. That means something.'