by Loung Ung
On the third day, the captain spots another ship in the distance. He has made many trips before and knows they are pirates. On previous trips, the pirates have stolen valuables, killed people, raped and abducted girls. They know well the route of the boat people and travel the sea looking to steal their valuables. We, on the other hand, know the pirates’ intentions and have devised plans of our own. Eang’s sister made candies and hid bits of gold in them. Some families sewed gold and jewelry into the linings of their bras, the waistline of pants, in sleeves, behind buttons, or in underwear. Others wear their gold as teeth and some swallow diamonds and other jewelry, knowing they can make themselves throw up or get diarrhea and retrieve the items later.
The captain speeds up our boat and tries to outrun the pirate ship but to no avail. It is much bigger and faster than ours and rapidly gains on us. Meanwhile, the women work frantically to ugly themselves up by smearing black charcoal paste on their faces and bodies. With ashen faces, some of the younger, prettier girls reach into the bags we have vomited into and scoop out handfuls of it to smear on their hair and clothes. Following Eang’s lead, I grab the charcoal paste and cover my face and body with it. As the pirate ship comes nearer and nearer, the captain sends everyone but the crew under the deck.
Crouching between Meng and Eang, my stomach churns from fear and the putrid smell. I do not know what to expect and only know of them from the pictures in books I’ve seen. Flashes of ugly flags with skulls and bones, swords slashing at people’s throats, and long knives cutting out our hearts edge their way into my consciousness. Slowly our boat stops and my heart leaps as heavy footsteps jump aboard. Seconds later, the door to the deck flings open.
“Come on out. It’s okay,” the captain yells to us. “These are just friendly Thai fishermen.” His voice does not sound to me as if his throat has been cut. The passengers refuse to come out and stay hidden beneath the deck. “They only want to help us. They have invited us all to their ship for food and to stretch for a few minutes.” The captain assures us there is no harm in doing what they ask. Breathing a sigh of relief, I climb out with Meng and Eang. To my surprise, the pirates do not look scary at all. They have no swords, wear no eye patches, and hang no skull flags anywhere on their ship. They are dark-skinned and have facial features very much like us Cambodians.
The boat is maybe ten times the size of ours, with room enough for ninety-eight people to walk and stretch. True to their word, they give us rice with salted fish to eat and allow us to drink as much water as we want. Afterward, I walk and find a toilet. A real toilet with flushing water and seats like the ones we had in Phnom Penh. While on the boathouse, when we had to go we squatted in a hollowed-out weaving basket hovering over the water at the edge of the boat, and had to hold onto a pole so as not to fall in the sea. As soon as I begin to relax, the captain announces that we are to return to our ship. Before we can get back onboard, however, we have to file into a single line to “meet” our new friends.
From out of nowhere the pirates seem to pop up all around me, and they increase in number so that now there are many more of them. Eang quickly hands me a small matchbox. In it is a small jade Buddha pendant in a gold frame that was Pa’s. I shake as a pirate walks up to me. He bends down so his eyes meet mine. My throat swells as he looks into my eyes. I have what he wants in my pocket.
“Do you have anything for me?” he asks, smiling, in broken Khmer. Looking down, I slowly shake my head, not daring to look at his face. My heart pounds so hard that I think it will burst through my clothes. He does not believe me and reaches into my pocket, pulling out the matchbox. I hear him shake the box and the Buddha moves around inside. He slides open the box and takes out the Buddha.
“Can I have this?” he asks.
Meekly, I nod my head.
“You can go back to your boat.” He takes Pa’s Buddha and puts it in his pocket.
Fighting back tears, I walk toward the boat.
While the pirates body-search everyone onboard, other pirates ransack our small boat, taking diamond rings, sapphire necklaces, gold nuggets hidden in sacks of clothes. On the deck, people hand over their valuables without protest. Our family does not have any gold for them to take. Meng had anticipated the Thai pirates and left all of Ma’s jewelry with Khouy in Cambodia. Though they took the one thing that means the most to me, the captain tells us we should consider ourselves lucky. When we are all back on the boat, the pirates offer directions to the Thai refugee camp. Our captain thanks them politely, seemingly bearing no grudges or anger, and the pirates wish us luck and wave goodbye as we sail on.
“Land! Land!” someone yells many hours later. I am bolt upright in no time. After being on the ocean for three days, I am at last staring at the glorious sight. Real land with green trees and grass. We have heard that many boats get lost coming to Thailand and end up in the Philippines or Singapore with the refugees onboard starving to death before they are picked up the by the ocean police.
“Not just land but the Lam Sing Refugee Camp,” the captain says confidently. A crowd of people are gathered at the port waiting to see if their relatives or friends are onboard. Everyone rushes up on the deck at once, causing the boat to sway and dip heavily to one side. The boat passengers wave wildly, laughing and yelling the names of friends and family. The captain screams for everyone to stay calm or the boat will tip over, but I do not pay attention to him.
“We made it!” I holler, my arms flapping up and down like wings.
lam sing refugee camp
February 1980
Surrounded by a large crowd of refugees, we line up on the pier in single file waiting to be registered. Around me the newly arrived boat people talk excitedly to their friends and family, and deliver them news of relatives in Vietnam. They are happy to be reunited. “Five years,” I say to myself.
It takes us many hours before we reach the registration table and give the workers all the necessary information. While Meng talks and answers questions, I become conscious of the charcoal on my face, the knots in my oily hair, and my flaky skin. The refugee workers have Meng fill out many papers before sending us off to the camp’s church, where we are given clean clothes, bedsheets, and food. Newcomers without friends or family spend their first night in Thailand in the hollow, wooden church.
That night our family and Eang’s sister with another friend remove the gold nuggets from their bras, waistlines, and the hems of their shirts and pants. They pool the gold together to buy a bamboo hut from another refugee who is leaving for America in the next week. With what little money we have left, we buy pots, pans, a few utensils, and bowls, and set ourselves up for a long stay. The refugee workers tell us it can take a long time to find a sponsor. They say a sponsor can be a person, a group of people, an organization, or a church group who will take responsibility to help us settle in our new home in America. The sponsors will help us find a place to live and schools to teach us English, and they will help us adapt to life in America. Our sponsors will also show us how to buy food from grocery stores, visit doctors and dentists, buy clothes, go to the bank, learn to drive, and find a job. They caution us that while waiting for sponsors many refugees get married and have children, and each time that happens new paperwork must be drawn up, which prolongs their stay. We’re told we can do nothing to bring us closer to America other than to wait. Meng says there are approximately three or four thousand refugees in Lam Sing, so our wait will not be too long. He tells me in some camps, there are more than a hundred thousand refugees living there, so the wait is much longer.
Every morning a row of trucks carrying bags of rice, fish, and tanks of fresh water comes blaring into Lam Sing. The refugee officials then divide and ration us salt, water, rice, fish, and sometimes chicken. All other supplies—including soap, shampoo, detergent, and clothes—we have to find for ourselves. When the food ration is reduced, we supplement it by buying food from the Thai market at the edge of the camp. Otherwise, routine life in the camp consists of standi
ng in one line after another for our food and water rations.
One day I watch as a long line of people edge toward the ocean. The hot February sun beats down on them, causing beads of sweat to collect on their upper lips. From the shade of a tree, I laugh as one by one they walk into the water to face “the Father.” I stare at the Father with fascination, and wonder at how he could stay so white under our hot sun. The Father’s eyes are blue like the sky, his nose long, his hair brown and curly. He looms big and tall above the men and women standing before him. One hand slowly makes some crosses while the other gently guides the heads of his subject backward into the sea. My eyes open wide when I see Meng standing in a group at the side dripping wet.
“Eldest brother!” I call, running up to him. “Did you also get dunked in the water by the Father?”
“Yes, he has made me a Christian.” Meng chuckles with his friends.
“Why? I thought we were Buddhists.”
“We are, but being a Christian will help us get sponsors faster. Many refugees are sponsored by church groups. Christians like to help other Christians.” I do not understand, but Meng has already turned his back on me.
Day after day, with nothing to do, the cousins and I walk to the beach. In my shorts and T-shirt, I run to the water for a cool swim. From the water, I catch sight of something red from the corner of my eye. I turn and gasp with horror, not believing my eyes. A young woman walks into the water wearing nothing but a small bright red bathing suit! The stretchy material clings tightly to her body, allowing everyone to see her voluptuous figure. The suit has no pant legs or skirt, leaving her white thighs uncovered. The V-neck top exposes her cleavage, which bounces as she runs into the water. I know she has to be one of “those” Vietnamese girls everyone always gossips about, because no Khmer or Chinese girl would wear such a thing. Khmer girls swim either with their long sarong wrapped tightly around their chest or are fully clothed.
A few weeks later, I am awakened by a loud scream in the middle of the night. There are a lot of angry noises coming from the hut of one of our neighbors. After an hour, all is quiet again and I fall back asleep. The next day the whole camp is talking about it. We are told that while we were sleeping, one of the Vietnamese girls woke to some guy sitting on her stomach. He held a knife up to her and told her not to scream, but she did anyway and he ran off. Waiting in lines for their ration of food, the women prattle about how the girl brought it upon herself. “After all,” they say, “she is Vietnamese. These Vietnamese girls are always laughing loudly, talking, and flirting with men. They wear sexy clothes with long slits up their skirts and swimming suits. They bring bad attention to themselves.” My face burns with rage; I run away from the gossips. Are they right? Those people who are always so quick to blame the girls.
Days turn into weeks, weeks into months. Soon it is May and still we have no sponsor. Many more people have arrived by the boatload to our camp while others leave for other countries. It has been eight months since we left Cambodia. We have no way of reaching Chou and our family to let them know we are well. For all they know, we could be missing at sea or dead. My heart weighs heavily at the thought of our family worrying. Though many of the refugees are poor, we are by far among the poorest. Day by day, Meng and Eang have to borrow money from her sister and friends to supplement the low food ration we are given. While the other girls wear pretty dresses and eat delicious food from the Thai market, I eat rice gruel, and fish when we can afford it. As a result of continuing malnutrition, my stomach stays swollen while the rest of my body is small and thin.
Then on June 5, 1980, Meng returns from the camp officials’ office with his face flushed with excitement. He announces that we have found a sponsor. “We’re going to America!” Eang and I scream and cry with happiness.
“We still have to be here for another week but we’re going!” Meng tells us.
“We’re going to America! We don’t have to save money anymore!” Eang stops her screaming and stares at me. “We must buy some cloth and make you a dress to wear in America!” She takes me to the Thai market the next day to shop for material. I walk around the store looking at the pretty rainbow colors of cloth laid out on top of each one of the tables. I wipe my fingers on my pants, making sure they are clean of dust and grime before lightly touching the cloth. The silk shimmers in my hand, soft and cool. It is so pretty, but I know we cannot afford it. “Come look at this,” Eang calls out to me. In her hands, she holds up orange, red, and blue checkered cloth. “Isn’t this pretty? I think it will look nice on you.” I nod, my eyes fixed on the red squares.
The next day, in our happy mood, Meng, Eang, and I walk to an open field to watch the movie that the camp officials are showing that night. The film is supposed to give refugees going to America an idea of what our new home is like. The movie is projected outdoors on a large white sheet in the middle of the camp. At twilight, the refugees gather with their blankets, rice pots, plates of fish, thermoses of tea, and eat noisily as the movie begins. Lying on my stomach on our blanket next to Meng and Eang, I hold my breath as moving pictures of America flash on the makeshift screen. The buildings are made of green marble, white granite, or red bricks with tall glass windows. In the silver mirror-like walls, people of different height weave through the streets in high heels and black leather boots. The people have all different color hair: black and frizzy, orange curls, red straight strands, blond waves, or black straight bobs. They get in and out of cars, whistle at friends, and glide along the sidewalk on shoes with heels as loud fast music blares from speakers.
“America,” I whisper. Meng smiles and musses my hair.
“California,” he tells me.
“Is that where we’re going?”
“No, we’re going to a state called Vermont,” he says, and focuses his eyes back on the screen.
“Is it like California?” I ask.
Meng tells me he doesn’t know. It seems not many people are going to Vermont and many have never heard of it. But he assures me it is in America and therefore, it must be a little bit like California.
At home, Eang and her friend measure me up and down to make the dress. For a week, they sew my dress furiously, pinning and unpinning the hem, the sleeves, the collar. They even make little ruffles for the neckline. The night before we leave the refugee camp, I pack my clothes slowly. Laying my finished dress and new sandals aside, I put a small writing book that Meng bought for me, two pencils, and a few sheets of looseleaf drawing paper in my shoulder bag. Then I lift and smooth my dress once again before laying it down carefully, making sure it will not be wrinkled tomorrow. I am sad thinking I have finally replaced the other red dress that the soldier burned. This is my first dress in five years, and tomorrow I will wear it and show off to everyone. Before the giggles can escape my lips, a feeling of sadness pushes them down. Staring at the dress I realize it will never be the dress Ma made for me. They are both gone.
That night the air is hot and humid, as it always is in June in Thailand. Lightning and thunderstorms accompany the moist air. I shiver hearing the storm clouds rumble in the distance. I hate electrical storms; they sound as if the sky is at war with itself. The explosions make me feel like death is chasing after me again. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to be afraid. Beside me, Meng and Eang sleep quietly, their backs to each other. I envy them their adult status and fearlessness of dark stormy nights. After what feels like an eternity, the thunder finally moved on and rain came in its place. The soft pattering of raindrops against our straw hut makes my eyelids heavy. As I drift to sleep, I think of Pa. I know his spirit can travel over land to be with me but worry if he can cross the ocean to America. Then in my dream, Pa is sitting next to me, his fingers caress my cheeks and face. The light touch tickles and makes me smile.
“Pa, I miss you,” I whisper.
Pa grins at me, his round face wrinkles around his mouth and eyes.
“Pa, I’m leaving for America tomorrow. Eldest brother said America is very far f
rom Cambodia, very far from you …” The words linger in the air. So afraid of what his answer may be that even in my dream I cannot tell Pa my fear.
“Don’t worry. Wherever you go, I will find you,” he tells me as his fingers gently brush strands of hair out of my face. When I open my eyes in the morning, the rain has stopped and the sun is peaking out behind the clouds. The cool breeze blows my hair across my cheeks, tickling them.
A few hours later, Meng, Eang, and I hold hands as we enter Bangkok International Airport. Our plane, a giant silver bullet with wings awaits us at the gate. My heart thunders loudly in my ears, my palms cold and sweaty. Heartened by my dream of Pa, I walk onto the aircraft.
epilogue
I’m almost home. After a thirty-one-hour plane ride across the Pacific, I am in my last hour of the trip from Bangkok to Phnom Penh. Below me is Cambodia—my land, my history. With my forehead resting on the window, I see that it is the rainy season and most of Cambodia is submerged in silver, shimmering water. I think of Pa, Ma, Keav, and Geak. Swallowing tears that drip down my throat, I reflect on how I left my family behind.
When Meng and I came to America, I did everything I could to not think about them. In my new country, I immersed myself in American culture during the day, but at night the war haunted me with nightmares. On occasion, the war crossed over from my dreamworld to reality, as it did in 1984 when the drought in Ethiopia brought daily images of children dying from starvation. On the television screen, children with bellies too big for their bodies and skin hanging loosely on their protruding bones begged for food. Their faces were hollow, their lips dry, their eyes sunken and glazed over with hunger. In those eyes, I saw Geak, and I remembered how all she wanted was to eat.