by Loung Ung
I grab the backpack, ignoring the pleas and cries for help. Looking straight ahead I jump over the dead and run to meet my brother and sister. I see them waiting for me and scream for them to run ahead. The rockets have stopped, but the Khmer Rouge soldiers are getting closer. I hear their bullets whiz past me. I dare not turn and look. I know they are there. I run for my life. In front of me, a man falls from a bullet. His body stops midstride, his chest jerking forward before he falls to the ground. Many people get hit and drop one by one to the ground all around me. Some lie still while others crawl on their elbows trying to reach safety.
After I catch up with Chou and Kim, we all run and do not look back. We see an old remnant of a cement wall. It sticks out of the ground three feet tall by four feet wide. We crouch behind it. Chou covers her ears with her hands and squeezes her eyes shut. Kim is white, leaning against the wall for support. We stay there for what seems like hours until all is quiet again. No longer deafened by the bombs, I finally notice something circling and buzzing over my head. Then I feel like many tiny pins are pricking my skin.
“Hornets!” I scream. We get up to see that we have disturbed a hornet’s nest. Big red welts cover our arms and legs. We were so scared we did not feel the pain when we got stung. When we believe it is safe, we leave to find our foster family. Finally, we spot them near the Youn camp.
“You all stay here with the women and children,” the father tells us. “Stay here until we come back for you. The men must clean the village of its dead bodies,” he says before he goes off to the village that afternoon. He tells us that the Youns have retaken our village from the Khmer Rouge a few hours ago.
“It is worse than anyone could have imagined,” the father says to the mother after returning from his village. “One couple was hiding in their dug-out bomb shelter, which is only a hole in the ground. The soldiers threw a grenade in it, killing them both. We also found many of the victims’ heads, hanging by the hair in front of their door or tossed about on the streets. The Khmer Rouge soldiers surely feel these people betrayed them by staying with the Youns.”
Stories about victims of the Khmer Rouge attack spread like fire. There were stories about a baby thrown in the air and speared with a bayonet; the body of one mutilated man lying naked on top of another; a man’s torso found in front of his house and the bottom half on someone else’s front door. There are bodies of men found with their chests cut open and their livers missing. The Khmer Rouge soldiers believe that eating the livers of their enemy will give them strength and power. These images of the massacre play themselves over and over in my head as I take tentative steps back toward the village that evening. I do not doubt the truth of the stories. I know Pol Pot’s men are capable of this. I walk behind the father and his family. Chou and Kim trudge ahead of me, their eyes focusing on the ground. There are smoldering remains of bonfires giving off the stench of burnt human flesh all through the village. Trails and puddles of blood stain the steps and posts of the huts. My eyes are on the ground wherever I go, steering clear of anything that looks like a grenade. I’m also afraid of stepping on a landmine, which the villagers say Khmer Rouge soldiers plant after an attack, maiming and killing people long after they have fled.
A few days after the attack, I happen to walk by Pithy’s brother while gathering wood. He is about Kim’s age, and like Kim, his eyes are very sad. His body is wiry and agile, allowing him to easily climb palm trees for their fruit. I stand there watching him, admiring his ability to get up and slide down the tree so fast. “Chum reap suor.” I call out. He nods at me. “Where are you off to?” I do not ask him about Pithy.
“Everyday I go fishing and pick palm fruits for Ma. She is in the hospital. I bring food for her and stay with her through the night. She is getting better.” I am surprised he is saying so much to me. He peels the fruit and hands me a slice.
“Aw koon,” I say thank you to him, but he does not hear me. He is very far away now. He picks up his fruit and heads off to the hospital.
The next day, I see him again at the same place, peeling palm fruits. I walk over and ask, “How is your mom doing today?” He looks up and I see that his eyes are red and angry.
“Leave me alone. Don’t bother me,” he yells and comes after me with a large rusty silver cleaver. With my knees shaking I run from him. “Get away from me! I hate you all!” he screams as I crouch and hide in the bushes. Suddenly, he stops coming after me and stands transfixed, dropping his cleaver. With his shoulders slumped, he stoops and slowly sits on the ground. His elbows rest on his knees, his face buried in his hands. He cries long, hollow sobs and his shoulders shake uncontrollably. My heart leaps for him. I want to reach out to him, but instead I turn and walk away. He is alone now too.
It is April 1979. Our future looks bleaker every day. I dread the idea of going to live with another family, but I know it will happen soon. Kim is still hoping our brothers Khouy and Meng are alive somewhere and that soon they will come for us. We don’t know how to go about searching for either them or our uncles in Bat Deng.
After completing his chores each evening, Kim sets off to the Youn camp. There is an area there where the newly arriving displaced people stay, and where people congregate to try and find each other. Every time someone new arrives at the base, Kim asks if they know or have ever heard of our brothers. Always, they give him the same sad answer. Each night, he drags himself back to give us the news, but my heart always sinks before he has had a chance to say anything. My world darkens when the thought that they might be dead enters my mind. I force it to go away. Khouy and Meng have to be alive somewhere out there.
I am feeding the baby when one of the kids runs over and tells me Kim is coming with some man. I cannot dare to hope. Chou and I look at each other, our eyes full of fear, praying the man is our brother. I see Kim’s figure as he approaches us. Meng walks beside Kim. I do not know whether to cry or run to him. I am filled with so much happiness. He is alive. We are a family. I find myself feeling shy, and I stand stiff and awkward. Meng smiles and musses my hair. My heart soars quickly at the touch of his hand. He is real—not a figment of my imagination!
“You’re coming with us,” Meng says and goes to talk to the father. When Meng comes back out, Chou, Kim, and I leave with him. While Kim and Meng talk, Chou and I are quiet. Looking at my oldest brother, my heart is heavy with the memories of Ma. He has her almond-shaped eyes, long face, high cheekbones, and thin lips. In Phnom Penh, he wore blue bell-bottom pants, jean jackets, and thin sideburns that were trendy at the time. He “was nice to everyone. Girls thought him handsome. Now he is twenty-two and already an old man. Yet even in his tattered black pajama shirt and pants, with his weathered face and sad eyes, I still see the brother I knew in Phnom Penh.
Meng takes us to the area where all the new arrivals live. Their dark green tents are set up in the middle of a group of trees. Around the front, there are two black cloth hammocks between tree trunks tied low to the ground. The tents and the hammocks look soiled, but they feel more like a home to me than the biggest hut here. He tells us he and Khouy are living with three women friends in two tents. He says Khouy’s wife somehow escaped the labor camp when the Youns invaded. He believes she returned to her family’s village to search for surviving family members. The women whom they are living with are friends. It is dangerous for women to be on their own so they asked if they could live with my brothers.
Shortly after we arrive at their tents, Khouy returns too. I watch as he saunters slowly toward us. He moves gracefully, his steps firm and steady. He always reminds me of a tiger—strong, fast, agile, and mean when he bares his teeth. The sleeves of his fading black shirt and pants are rolled up, showing us muscular calves and forearms. His eyes are dark, his face is bony, his jaws are squared, and his ears stand straight. At only twenty years old, already everything about Khouy gives you the impression of hardness. When he sees us, his face softens and he smiles broadly. Walking over, he greets Kim, Chou, and me. While talking
to Meng, he leaves his hand resting on my head—the way Pa used to do.
Our family sits near the fire that night listening to Meng tell their story. Khouy and he were together in a labor camp when the Youn invaded Kampuchea at the end of December. One night, rockets landed near their camp, and in the confusion, many people escaped and ran away, including Khouy’s wife. But Meng and Khouy were unlucky and they found themselves confronted by Khmer Rouge soldiers just outside their hut. The soldiers did not kill them because they needed them as porters. As the Youns moved closer and closer, Khmer Rouge soldiers pushed them farther into the jungle. When the Khmer soldiers stopped each night to rest, Khouy cut firewood while Meng cooked meals for them all. One night, Khouy told Meng they had to make their escape. The soldiers were moving them up the mountain “where they would be under total Khmer Rouge control, isolated from the world and cut off from all the escape routes. If they did not make their break now, the chance might never come again.
While the soldiers were sleeping, Khouy and Meng pretended to go relieve themselves. Each stole a twenty-pound bag of rice, and they met in the woods. At first they proceeded down the trail, but fearing the soldiers’ ability to track them, they took off back into the woods. There they followed the sound of rushing water to a stream and, once there, tied a few logs together to make a raft. With the rice bags on the raft, they floated downstream. The water was cold and rough, threatening many times to tear the raft apart, but with teeth chattering and bodies shivering, they managed to stay afloat all night. In the morning they arrived at the base camp of Pursat City, where we are now.
We are together again. Seeing my eyes slowly closing, Meng takes me to his cloth hammock. I climb in and suddenly feel very tired. Chou comes over and climbs in next to me. Our bodies press against each other as the hammock folds over us like a pod protecting its peas. Drifting off, I think of Pa and Ma; I miss them so much. By the fire, I hear Kim’s voice quivering as he tells them about Pa, Ma, and Geak. They whisper to each other, as if trying to shield Chou and me from news we already knew. I shut my eyes, not wanting to see Meng and Khouy’s faces as they receive the news. The remainder of our family is together again. With my brothers around me, I feel safe and relaxed. As I drift off to sleep, I hear Meng announce that our next step is to return to Bat Deng to search for our aunts and uncles. Bat Deng is Ma’s hometown and where we left Uncle Leang and eldest Uncle Heang. We will go there and wait for other surviving family members to return. Since Bat Deng is many miles away, we have to stay here a while longer and gather supplies. Though risky because the Khmer Rouge may still control sections of the route, we will travel by foot again and hope to be reunited with our relatives.
the execution
March 1979
A few days later, Meng arrives at the tent site all flushed and out of breath, telling us he has just returned from the Youn jail. He says somehow the Youns have captured a Khmer Rouge soldier and are holding him there. He reports that when the villagers heard about this, hundreds of them rushed to the jail and demanded that the Khmer Rouge soldier be released to them. Men, women, and children blocked the entrance to the jail, threatening to riot if their demands were not met. They carried steel bars, axes, knives, wooden stakes, and hammers—all the weapons used by the Khmer Rouge soldiers to kill their victims.
Meng says the villagers at the jail have only one thing in mind: blood for blood, life for life. They want a public execution of the prisoner. They screamed threats to the Youn soldiers and questioned why the prisoner should be protected. They are ready to break down the jail if they must to get to the prisoner. In the end, the Youns opened the door and handed the prisoner over to the people. The crowd raised their weapons in the air and cheered with satisfaction. Finally, they have the power to seek revenge for their suffering.
He describes how two Khmer men in their early thirties stepped forward and took the prisoner from the Youns as the crowd cheered again. The men dragged the prisoner away while people were pushing and shoving around them. They took him to the middle of a field on the edge of town. Someone brought forth a chair and put it in the middle of the crowd. The two men thrust the prisoner into the chair, and tied his hands behind his back and his legs together.
Hearing this, my heart races with excitement. Finally, a chance to kill for Pa, Ma, Keav, and Geak. “Come, Chou! Let us go and watch!” I plead with her.
“No. Please don’t go,” Chou pleads with me.
“I have to go. We get to kill one of them for once.”
“Meng and Khouy won’t like it when they hear about this.”
“Don’t you tell them then. Don’t you want to see the execution yourself?”
“No.” When Chou makes up her mind, there is no changing it.
Failing to convince her, I head off on my own. To get to the field, I have to wade across the river, climb a tall hill, cross a broken bridge, and walk thirty minutes in the scorching sun. When I arrive hundreds of people are already there, standing around the prisoner. Their bodies block my view. I shift, trying to find an open space between them, but I cannot. Frustrated, I wedge my small body between theirs and push my way through, calling out loudly, “Sorry, I cannot see.” The tall bodies snort and huff in annoyance but let me through anyway. I am in the middle of the crowd, totally surrounded by people. I cannot see anything. I look up to the faces of the adults who are all looking in the same direction. Breathing a sigh of relief, I follow their gaze. Sorry, I cannot see.” I repeat my pleas as I nudge and step on their toes trying to get to the front. Finally, I see a clearing between people’s legs. I try to push my way through, but they are so engrossed in what’s going on that they do not move. Determined, I get on my hands and knees, and crawl through the brown forest of legs up to the front.
There he is. I stand and find myself almost face-to-face with him, separated by only fifteen feet. Automatically, I raise my scarf to cover my head and face. My heart beats wildly. Fear seeps into my body. He is looking at me. He can see me. What if he escapes and kills me? I take a step back, leaning into the crowd for protection. The crowd vibrates with anticipation and energy, closing in around the prisoner, glaring at him. I have never seen an execution before. Rage heats up my body, seeing only one of them killed is not enough!
His face reveals nothing. His lips do not beg for mercy. He sits propped up on a highback chair on a gravel hill that serves as a stage. He is dark and wears the black clothes of the Khmer Rouge—the black clothes I still wear. His matted hair is sweaty and he hangs his head to focus on his feet. The rough hemp rope that binds his feet together is so tightly tied that it draws blood. More rope straps him to the back of the chair, it coils around him from the chest down to the stomach.
“Murderer! You deserve to die a slow, painful death!” someone yells.
That is what we have planned for him. I hope he knows his life is about to end. I hope he knows we are here because we want his blood and will soon rip him apart for it. People talk loudly about the best way to kill him. They argue about how to make the execution as drawn out and painful as possible. They discuss which tools to use to crack his skull, to slice his throat. Someone says we should let him sit in the sun, shave his skin open little by little, and rub salt into the wounds. Someone else wants to strangle him bare-handed. The discussion continues for a long time, but the people cannot agree on what to do.
Finally, two middle-aged men step up in front. The crowd hushes. The prisoner glances up. He looks scared now. His eyes are squinting and his lips move as if to mutter something, but he decides against it and purses his lips shut. Sweat pours from his face, slides over his Adam’s apple, and soaks his shirt. He bends his head, looks down at his feet again, knowing there is no way out. His government has created a vengeful, bloodthirsty people. Pol Pot has turned me into someone who wants to kill.
“Brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts,” one of the two men yell. “We have decided that this Khmer Rouge will be executed for his crimes. His blood will avenge the in
nocent people he has slaughtered. We are asking for volunteers to be the executioners.” The crowd roars. They look about, wondering who will be the first to volunteer. At first, no one raises his hand. For all the big talk, everyone stays silent. Then a few hands go up and the crowd comes to life again.
A woman, crying loudly, pushes her way to the front of the crowd. She is young, maybe in her midtwenties. Her straight black hair is tied back, giving us a view of her angular, thin face. Like me, she wears the Khmer Rouge clothes. Though tears fall from her eyes, her face is dark and angry.
“I know this Khmer Rouge soldier!” she screams. In her left hand she holds a nine-inch knife. It is copper brown, rusty, and dull. “He was the Khmer Rouge soldier in my village. He killed my husband and baby! I will avenge them!”
Another woman then pushes her way out of the crowd. “I also know him. He killed my children and grandchildren. Now I am alone in this world.” The second woman is older, perhaps sixty or seventy. She is thin and wears black clothes. In her hand she holds a hammer, its wooden handle worn and splintered. One man takes the women aside while the others continue to speak to the audience. I am no longer listening. I am fixated on the prisoner. He looked up briefly when the two women came forth, but now he is back in position, head down, eyes to the ground.
I watch without emotion as the old woman walks slowly up to him, her hammer in hand. Above us the black clouds move with her, shadowing where she goes. She stands in front of him, staring at the top of his head. I want to shield my eyes from what’s about to happen, but I cannot. The old woman’s hands shake as she raises the hammer high above her head and brings it crashing down into the prisoner’s skull. He screams a loud, shrill cry, that pierces my heart like a stake, and I imagine that this, maybe, is how Pa died. The soldier’s head hangs, bobbing up and down like a chicken’s. Blood gushes out of his wound, flowing down his forehead, ears, and dripping from his chin. The woman raises her hammer again. I almost feel pity for him. But it is too late to let him go, it is too late to go back. It is too late for my parents and my country.