by Nawuth Keat
Every day seemed the same as the one before it. There was nothing to do. For a few weeks, a young Thai woman who was studying to become a teacher came to the camp and taught us English as best she could. She came every other day. English is hard to learn! I memorized vocabulary like “apple,” “pear,” “chair,” “cat,” “dog,” and “floor,” but I didn’t even learn to say a whole sentence. People with money could pay to watch TV in English, but I didn’t have any money or any way to earn it. If I had had books to read or classes to take, I could have improved.
After being sent to another camp, medical examiners tested us to see if we were healthy enough to emigrate. We were checked for TB and other contagious diseases. One of the examiners told “Mom,” “Your family cannot leave because your son is sick.” He claimed my scars from the bullet wounds were actually signs of disease.
We felt angry and frustrated, but I could do nothing about my scars. I hated to cause problems. I worried constantly. Other families left, but we were stuck there. For three more months, we waited. “Mom” and her sons were mad. “It’s because of you that we have to wait!” they said. When food was short, I was left out. They hoarded their food and ignored me. But the little sister, Kuntiya, who was about seven years old, felt sorry for me. Sometimes she shared her food as if I were her real brother.
Over the next months, my scars did not change, and finally the doctor was persuaded that my bullet wounds would not hurt anyone else. He signed our papers.
We were moved to another camp, called “Lupini.” I think the facility used to be a jail. The walls were high, there were no windows, and it was even more crowded than the camps where we had been living. We spent two weeks there. Then we got the news: “In two days, you will leave for America.” We were so excited and nervous we could barely function. When a huge vehicle barreled into camp and we were told to get on it, I didn’t know if I could make myself do it. I had never seen anything so big. The mini-vans used as buses around Battambang were tiny compared to this monster bus. But everyone leaving the camp got on it, and I did too. During the 20-minute drive to the airport, my heart raced.
At last, we were about to journey to the other side of the world.
Chapter Twelve
FLIGHT TO FREEDOM
I had seen airplanes in the sky before, but had never been close to one. That changed on a morning during the winter of 1982. I don’t even know the exact date, but I will never forget how I felt as I walked toward that plane. I thought, “This is amazingly, incredibly, impossibly huge! There’s no way this giant machine will ever fly.” Then I stepped onto the plane’s stairs, lifting myself away from the ground, away from Asia, away from everything I had ever known. I was eighteen years old.
My heart raced. I wasn’t winded from climbing the long flight of steps. I felt out of breath with the excitement of what was happening. I was released from the jail of the refugee camps. I was at last, at long last, going to be free of them. But my heart felt heavy. I was going away from my family—maybe. I didn’t know where they were, or even if they were alive. Were they still waiting in a camp? Had they made it to France? I knew I was not going to France. I didn’t care where I lived, if only I could be with them.
This plane was bound for San Francisco, California, U.S.A. I memorized the destination, but I knew nothing about it.
After the plane succeeded in taking off, I had to admit anything was possible. I looked out the window and saw dark green jungles interrupted by flat patches of rice fields. Then we were flying through clouds. My head felt cloudy, too. We were given food—lots of it. It was the first time I’d ever eaten American food. I absolutely loved it. I didn’t know the names for any of it, but I especially liked what I later learned was called canned fruit cocktail. It was delicious. “Mom” and her kids were air sick the whole flight, but I felt fine. I had no idea what lay ahead, but I knew I liked having plenty of delicious food to eat.
I did face one problem. After many hours on the flight, after I had been eating and drinking, I needed to use a bathroom. I had no idea what to do. I watched people go in and come out of a small room at the back of the plane. They probably wondered what I was staring at. I decided to investigate that room. I figured out what to do there, but I was completely amazed. Where did the water come from, and when the toilet flushed, where did the water go?
When we landed, I did not know what to expect. What would it be like in San Francisco, California, U.S.A.? When the plane came to a standstill, the passengers squeezed into the plane’s aisle, practically pushing against the door to get off. The pilot stood by the cockpit and smiled at us as we filed out. I smiled back at him. But when he looked at me, he acted like he was shivering and held his arms around himself as if he were cold. I wondered why. Then I found out. I was wearing the only clothes I owned, a pair of shorts and a shirt. I did not realize how incredibly cold it would be outside. When I got off the plane, I nearly froze! I had never experienced such cold before.
I don’t think any of the refugees who got off that plane knew what to do. I was too polite to ask “Mom” what was happening, and I suspect she wouldn’t have known anyway. I simply followed her into the terminal. It was the tallest, widest, brightest building I had ever seen. Where should we go? None of us could understand English. Some people smiled at us and gave us each a ham sandwich. Mine was wonderful! Everybody else in “Mom’s” family still felt sick from the plane ride. They didn’t want their sandwiches, so I ate them. I would have been happy to eat ham sandwiches for a year.
Folding chairs had been set up for us inside the terminal. Nobody used them. Most of the people who had been on our plane lay down on the floor to sleep. “Mom” saw a large, beautiful sculpture, and we decided it might be safe to sleep next to it. We did. Now I know what the “sculpture” was. It was a garbage container.
“Mom” had told me that our sponsor lived in Salem, Oregon—wherever that was. He was a Cambodian doctor whose family had all died. He tried to help other people. How would we get to Salem? I felt a new kind of fear. I was used to the guns and cruelty of the Khmer Rouge. I was used to hunger. I was used to missing my family. But now I was in a completely foreign place packed with people who did not look like me and whose language I did not understand. I felt completely lost.
Finally, a man who spoke Cambodian talked to our group of refugees. He said, “Welcome to America! I am sorry you have been without a guide, but I am here now. Together we will take a bus to your temporary housing. You’ll be there for two or three days, and then you will go to your final destinations.”
He escorted our group to the most colorful bus I’d ever seen. It was silver, with blue and red stars and lettering painted on it. We climbed aboard and rode through the city streets. They were crowded with cars and trucks of all shapes and sizes. The people on the sidewalks looked tall and healthy. They walked briskly, alone or in pairs. Many of them carried leather or plastic bags. They wore coats, and a few wore hats. I marveled at their hair—blond, brown, black, and gray—sometimes straight, sometimes curly. I’d never seen such variety. We weren’t on the bus long, but I felt like I’d taken in a month’s worth of new sights. Then the bus stopped, and our guide told us to get off at our dormitory. It was really nice.
Like the other refugees, on the first day in the dormitory I was handed a thick parka and a pair of brown leather shoes. They were used, but I didn’t care. For all of us, these were wonderful gifts. We really needed those clothes, especially at night. They kept us warm. Nobody explained to us that if we were cold in our rooms, we could turn a heater on. In Cambodia, it is never cold, so we had never seen a heater. We did not know the purpose of the dials and boxes on the wall of our room. We were afraid to touch them.
One of the boys in the family took a shower. He said to me, “It was cold! I almost froze to death!” I went to investigate. When I turned the knob, I almost got burned to death. But I figured out the trick. We had to turn on both faucets to balance the hot and cold.
When it was time to eat—to get free food—I was usually first in line. I would pick up a tray and then select from a long counter packed full of foods. They looked like nothing I had eaten before. I tried something different for each meal. On the last morning, I saw something familiar—a bunch of bananas. We had bananas in Cambodia. “They must have everything here,” I thought.
On the third day, we were loaded onto the fanciest bus I had ever seen. I laughed at myself for having thought the bus that took us from the camp to the airport in Thailand was deluxe with its padded seats, matching upholstery, and bright paint. I was impressed by this bus, but I was amazed by the driver. It was a woman! I had never seen a woman drive a car, much less a bus. My brain was whirling.
More surprises awaited me. We approached the biggest bridge I had ever seen. Someone told me it was called the Golden Gate, but it wasn’t gold. It was dark red. No matter what its name was, how could a bridge be so long? We got closer and closer to it, and I realized we were going to drive onto that bridge. I couldn’t believe it. We crossed that enormous span, riding in a huge bus, driven by a woman. “This country is amazing!” I said. I had never seen, experienced, or even imagined anything like it.
Eventually we boarded a plane to Portland, Oregon. From there, we got on another flight to Salem. I had survived the Khmer Rouge and the camps in Thailand. I had flown over the Pacific Ocean. I had crossed the Golden Gate Bridge in a bus driven by a woman. But I thought I would be killed on the tiny plane from Portland to Salem. It held only about twelve people. It flew really low, and the ride was very bumpy. On that flight, for the first time in my life I saw a fat person. Nobody in Cambodia was fat. He took up two seats. I thought his weight would make the plane crash.
To my great relief, in spite of that oversized man, we landed safely. The flight attendant opened the door, and I got in line to exit the plane. As soon as I stepped outside, I inhaled the crisp air, tinged with the smell of jet fuel. I saw people busy at work around me. Some of them wore bright orange uniforms. They were unloading baggage from the plane. Others were driving trucks that pulled trailers filled with suitcases. Everyone looked big, strong, and energetic. I thought, “These people eat three meals a day. This is a land of prosperity and opportunity. And I am here.”
I climbed down the airplane’s stairs and stepped onto the ground. At that moment, I knew that I was truly beginning my new life in the United States of America. I felt scared, but excited. For the first time, I looked forward to making my own future.
AFTERWORD
Nawuth wasted no time in building a life of his own in the United States. At first he lived with “Mom” and her children. He was given a monthly welfare check of $300, and he got a job working as a dishwasher for $3.17 an hour. He gave “Mom” all his money. At home he worked, too, cleaning up the house and doing the dishes while the other kids had fun. He felt like the family’s servant.
When he learned that Chantha, Van Lan, Vibol, and Bunna were living in a refugee camp in Indonesia, he asked “Mom” for ten dollars of his earnings to send to them. But “Mom” refused. Enraged, he left “Mom” and moved in with his great aunt, whom he had discovered lived not too far away, in Oregon City.
In 1983 he wanted to enroll in the local community college to improve his English, but the counselor advised him to go to high school instead. He felt like an orphan with no identity, so he created his own. He enrolled using a name he chose for himself, Nawuth (NA-wooth.) In Cambodia he had attended school for only a few years. In spite of his lack of formal preparation, he graduated from Oregon City High School with an “A” average in only three years.
He married his high school sweetheart Rany Prak, also a Cambodian immigrant. They moved from Oregon to San Jose, California, to be near her mother. At San Jose City College, Nawuth completed a certificate program as a machinist. He found employment as a machinist during the day, and he worked the night shift at a donut shop, too.
Nawuth and Rany (who now goes by “Kelly”) have three children—Brian, Anthony, and Stephanie. Nawuth tells them, “Nobody loves you like your parents do. I know because I’ve lived in situations where I never got the love that you know you can count on.”
Chantha, Van Lan, Vibol, and Bunna made it to France. They settled in the city of Lyons. So did Van Lan’s nephew, Ang. Since then, the family has stayed in close touch, and they have visited each other’s homes on opposite sides of the globe.
Still in Cambodia, Nawuth’s oldest sister Chanya remarried and had three children, now grown. Her husband left her and then died in an accident. Chanya works in a military hospital in Pursat.
Chanty, Nawuth’s youngest brother, went to France to live with Van Lan and Chantha but then returned to Cambodia. He got married, and he and his bride moved to Stockton, California, about an hour away from Nawuth. They have one son.
Van Lan told Nawuth that he heard from friends in Salatrave that Zhen and his son built a house on the spot where Nawuth’s family used to live. Zhen’s son lives there now.
In 2004, Nawuth bought a ticket to America for Hackly, who suffers from chronic medical problems. In Cambodia he got very sick from eating pork that was not properly cooked. The disease affected his brain, and he suffers from seizures. Now he’s living with Nawuth and getting treatment. To simplify his name, people call him Lee.
In 2007, Nawuth and Kelly moved to Hollister, about 25 miles (40 km) south of San Jose, where they bought a bagel shop. Lee helps them as much as he can. Nawuth has kept his machinist job, too, about an hour and a half away. With the long commutes and the two jobs, most nights all he can get is five hours of sleep. “I work seven days a week,” he says, “but I have no complaints.”
When Nawuth bought a new car not long ago, he said a friend complimented him on it and asked, “Did you always dream of coming to America and driving a new car?” Nawuth chuckled and explained, “When I lived in Cambodia, nobody in my village dreamed of having any car at all. At one point, my dream was to have three meals a day, and then to have even one solid meal a day. I had no idea I would come to the United States. I never could have predicted all the things that would happen to me.” Then he added, “or all the things that I would be able to make happen.”
Nawuth knows what freedom means.
Time Line of Khmer Rouge Occupation and More
1962
Pol Pot becomes Secretary General of Cambodian Communist Party.
1964
Nawuth Keat is born in the small village of Salatrave, Cambodia. He is the fifth of Seang and Thy Keat’s eight children.
1965
Cambodian King Norodom Sihanouk breaks off relations with the United States because he fears he will be removed from power. He allows North Vietnamese rebels to set up bases in Cambodia to fight the U.S.-backed government in South Vietnam.
1968
Pol Pot becomes the leader of a rebel group. He is forced to flee into the Cambodian jungle to escape King Sihanouk. While living in the jungle, Pol Pot forms a movement that becomes the Khmer Rouge. They wage a rebel war against the Cambodian government.
1970
King Sihanouk is removed from power by a U. S.-backed military coup. The Khmer Rouge republic is created. The Cambodian Prime Minister, General Lon Nol, takes power.
EARLY 1970S
The Cambodian army begins losing territory to the Khmer Rouge and Northern Vietnamese.
1973
The Khmer Rouge attacked Salatrave, Nawuth’s hometown. Nawuth and his family try to flee, but are caught. Five members of his family are killed. Nawuth is shot three times, but he survives.
1975
Prime Minister Lon Nol is overthrown and the Communist Khmer Rouge, led by Pol Pot, take over Cambodia’s capital, Phnom Penh. They immediately begin evacuating people from towns and cities to create a society based on farming. City residents are forced to the countryside to work the land. Former King Sihanouk briefly becomes head of state again.
1976
Cambodia is r
enamed Democratic Kampuchea. King Sihanouk resigns and Khieu Samphan becomes head of state with Pol Pot as Prime Minister.
1977
Nawuth is living in a group hut and working in the rice fields of Salatrave with his younger brothers. Sometimes his sister Chantha and her husband Van Lan work nearby.
DECEMBER 1978
Vietnam invades Cambodia after Khmer Rouge rebels continually cross the border. The Cambodia-Vietnam War begins and the Vietnamese remove the Khmer Rouge from power, driving them into the countryside.
JANUARY 1979
Vietnamese troops take over Phnom Penh, drive Pol Pot to the border of Thailand, and begin their ten-year occupation of Cambodia. The People’s Republic of Kampuchea is created.
1979
Escaping the Khmer Rouge who still control the countryside, Nawuth and his family flee to Battambang.
SUMMER 1980
Chantha, Van Lan, Vibol, Bunna, and Nawuth walk to Thailand.
WINTER 1982
Nawuth boards his flight to the U.S. and to long-awaited freedom.
1989
The last Vietnamese troops withdraw. The country is renamed Cambodia.
1993
Free elections are held in Cambodia. The Khmer Rouge boycotts them. King Norodom Sihanouk returns to the throne after a new constitution brings back the monarchy.
1996
The Khmer Rouge movement is weakened when high-level Khmer Rouge begin breaking their allegiance to the party.
1997
The Cambodian government asks the United Nations to put Khmer Rouge leaders on trial for their crimes. Pol Pot is ousted as Khmer Rouge leader.
1998
Pol Pot dies. His death signals the end of the Khmer Rouge.