by Loung Ung
“It’s not our house anymore,” Kim remembers thinking as he looked up at it.
After the Khmer Rouge abandoned Phnom Penh, there were no laws regarding ownership of properties or land. At that time, whoever arrived and settled into a house first got to claim ownership. Silently, Khouy pushed his bike onto the cracked pavement, his feet shuffling heavily to their old door.
“Who is it?” A man’s voice answered Khouy’s knock.
“Hello, my name is Khouy. My family and I used to live here.” The man who cracked open the door looked to be about forty, although already his face was deeply lined and covered with brown aging spots. “My brother Kim and I would just like to see the house.” An awkward silence fell between them as the man kept his hand on the door.
“Come in, come in,” the man said kindly and stepped aside. Khouy and Kim quickly crossed the threshold and went inside. Accompanied by the new owner, Khouy and Kim briskly walked through the apartment, each traveling backward in their own memories. Kim stopped in the kitchen and noticed that the table, teak chair, all of their old furniture was missing. Khouy stood still for a moment in the family room. Both ended their tour on the balcony, staring out at the world from Pa’s favorite spot. Another lifetime ago, Kim used to sit up here with Pa and gaze at the world below. Then, the city had pulsed with life beckoning the imagination of a ten-year-old boy. Now, across the street, black mildew covered the old movie theater. Once Kim used to look out at the world and dreamed of going to France to study, or of becoming a kung fu expert and starring in martial arts movies. Never did he dream of becoming a village peasant.
“Let’s go,” Khouy finally said. Kim did not want Khouy to see his red eyes and dared not look at him as he followed him back out.
As they were about to leave, the man stopped Khouy and handed him a few old papers. Kim’s eyes widened with gratefulness when he saw that the papers contained pictures of Ma, Pa, Keav, Geak, and all of them when they were young.
“Thank you,” Khouy replied, holding on to the pictures with both hands.
“We knew that sooner or later someone would come looking for them,” the man shared. “When the roads are safe enough, we will return to our home and hope we’ll find the same thing.”
Khouy thanked the man again and left. Behind him, Kim glanced back at their home one last time and then followed Khouy with his eyes still stinging.
When Kim gave the pictures to Chou, her hands shook at the recovery of such treasures. Even though Khouy kept many of the pictures at his home for safe keeping, he left a few with Chou.
In the hut, Chou stares at her treasure. Not wanting to dirty the photo, she traces the outlines of Ma’s delicate face with her eyes. Ma returns Chou’s love, her smile never dimming. With this picture, Chou knows that she never has to worry about forgetting Ma’s Phnom Penh face as a beautiful woman with full lips and shiny black hair. She tries hard to erase the image of that other Ma, that sad, bruised old woman who was beaten for trying to find food for her starving child.
Chou rubs her fingers on her sarong many times before lifting Ma’s photo to see Pa’s handsome young face leaping out of the paper to greet her. Young and happy, Pa’s almond eyes and big lips smile widely at Chou. Whereas Ma has lovely, wavy hair, Pa’s thick black hair is short and curly. From inside her crate, Pa’s round face fills Chou’s mind with his wondrous stories. She remembers the story of their love, and how when Ma’s parents refused to allow them to marry, Ma ran away and eloped with Pa. Wiping her hands on her sarong, Chou touches Pa’s smile and asks him to look after the family.
Next Chou moves to her last picture. In it, Keav is a pretty ten-year-old who towers over her younger sisters. Chou stares at her five-year-old self all dressed up in white, standing next to three-year-old Loung, who wears only a long-sleeved shirt and her underwear. In her flowered-print outfit, Keav stands tall and proper next to them. And like a big sister, Keav has her hand on Chou’s arm. Carefully, Chou puts her new pictures on top of the pile and refolds the cloth around it.
As she pushes her crate back under the bed, Chou hears Kim enter the hut.
“What are you still doing inside?”
“I was looking at the pictures of Ma and Pa,” Chou answers softly. A short silence falls. “Kim, when are you going to Phnom Penh with Second Brother again?”
“I don’t know. Second Brother is very busy right now,” Kim tells her.
“I would love to go with you when you two go.”
Kim tells Chou that it’s not safe for the family to go too often to the city because the Vietnamese run it and they don’t like the Chinese. After all, the Chinese gave money and guns to the Khmer Rouge and supported the regime’s fight against the Vietnamese. And when the Vietnamese invaded Cambodia, the Chinese sent its large army across the northernmost border to help the Khmer Rouge fight. Chou starts to tune out as Kim lectures about how for seventeen days, the Chinese fought the Vietnamese troops in a battle that left many dead on both sides before the Chinese finally withdrew. Now the Vietnamese ruling the Cambodian government often target the Khmer-Chinese living in the city for the smallest infraction of the law, and there have even been rumors that the Khmer-Chinese will be deported back to China.
At this, Chou starts paying close attention to Kim. Nobody in the village knows how true this rumor is but still, the Chinese Cambodians live in fear. For Chou, the possibility of being forced to go to China leaves her shaking. She has never been to China, but sees herself as both a Cambodian and a Chinese. She speaks both Khmer and Chinese but is more fluent in Khmer. When she eats her meals, Chou uses a spoon and plate like a Cambodian, not chopsticks and bowls like the Chinese. When January or February comes around, she celebrates the Chinese lunar New Year, and also the Cambodian New Year in April. During the harvest seasons, she prays to all Buddhist gods and goddesses in both languages. Chou loves both cultures but wants to stay in Cambodia.
Even with all the rumors about the Vietnamese and the Chinese, Chou knows that one day soon she will go back to Phnom Penh with her brothers. Her stomach churns knowing that Pa, Ma, Keav, and Geak will not be in their old house to greet her. When Chou thinks about them, her body becomes weak with sadness and pain. Sometimes she misses them so much, the tears flood the passages in her nose and face. The next day, she wakes up with swollen eyes and a stuffed-up nose and for the rest of the day feels slow and lethargic. Chou doesn’t talk about missing Ma and Pa with Kim much, because she can see the pain in his dark eyes and long face when he watches Uncle Leang and Aunt Keang with their children. When this happens, she pulls out her crate of pictures and together they gaze at Ma, Pa, and their family together.
14 the killing fields in my living room
June 1984
It’s been two weeks since school let out. For me this means two weeks of having my days free to play kickball with Li and her nephews in her backyard, visit Beth to eat her Mom’s delicious cookies, practice my wheelies on my new twelve-speed bike Meng bought me last month, and ride it to the pool to go swimming when the weather is hot. And today is such a hot day! In the blue sky the sun’s bright rays reflect off the water and shoot into my eyes, temporarily making the world go dark. When the glare is out of my eyes, I see that the pool is filled with kids kicking loudly and splashing water at each other.
“Come on, Loung!” Li calls me, her head bobbing above the water. “You can do it!”
I’m standing in line, waiting my turn to make my first dive ever off the board! My hands shiver with nerves as the sun warms my skin, burning off water droplets on my exposed arms and legs. In the pool, Li and her nephews wait to see me walk the plank. My eyes follow a ten-year-old kid in front of me as he climbs the ladder. His father stands beside him, a big hand spread on the boy’s back like a safety net. As the boy walks to the edge of the plank, his father yells out instructions and encouragement. The boy presses his lips together in concentration and leaps off the plank to cheers and applause.
When it is my turn,
I rush up the steps and run to the end of the plank. Then I wait. No voices call out instructions as I watch the father pull his son out of the water. Together they walk away, their arms around each other in a congratulatory embrace. I stand silently on the plank five feet above the shimmering blue water. Raising one arm above my head, I jump in, landing squarely on my stomach. The water slaps my body in painful admonition and pushes chlorine into my mouth and nose. I kick myself out of the water, gasping for air as I reach the surface. Embarrassed, I ignore Li calling my name and instead hurriedly climb the steps out of the pool.
Suddenly, over in the shallow end of the pool, a woman screams. The lifeguard blows his whistle and leaps off his chair, a father stops his conversation with his friends, and all three jump into the water. Together they run in the knee-deep water, their legs and arms slashing through the currents like hard, robotic limbs. When they get to the little boy who’s excited them so much, three pairs of hands pull him up. The boy looks confused and starts to sputter words only a mother can understand. The mother cries and hugs him to her chest. The father rests his hand on her shoulder and assures her the boy is all right. Next to them, the lifeguard says that the boy was under water for only a few seconds. Safe in his mother’s arms, the boy repeats that he’s okay. The mother’s friends console her with understanding words and commend her quick actions and vigilant eyes. They tell her she’s a great mother.
A few feet away, I watch the mother’s shoulders heave up and down, her arms clutching her child even tighter. I stare at all of them, and out of nowhere my anger rises like a hurricane, the wind picking up my breath, pricking my skin, and spinning me around in a chaotic whirl. From some sad deep place in my mind, I scream at the top of my lungs.
The boy was in the water for seconds. There was no real pain or danger. Yet you all reached out to him. I was drowning for years and where were you?!! Don’t you all get it? Don’t you know what real suffering is?!! My rant is growing faster now but no one can hear. If they looked at me they’d see that I am frozen with my fists clenched. But no one looks my way.
You all think your show of love and support here means something, but it means nothing. It means nothing until you have to watch the boy die. I’ve watched my mother die in my mind and I’ve followed my father into his mass grave hundreds of times and now I’m stuck there. I’ve died with my sisters, and yet have to live to miss my parents!
Exhausted, I quickly jump into the pool and submerge myself in the water. In the pool, my hair fans out to form sea snakes around my head, and the water cools my skin and forgives my hate.
Don’t you see? I want someone’s hands to reach out to me too, I plead and close my eyes.
“Wheee!” My legs push the roller skates faster and faster in the empty parking lot outside our apartment.
As I twirl, the leaves rustle in the trees as if they’re applauding my performance. I look up at the bright sky and am reminded of the many reasons why I love summer in Vermont. I stop and stretch my arms tall, pretending to reach the wispy clouds floating above. I imagine holding on and having the clouds carry me all over the state before dropping me back to earth. The summer rays seep into my body, growing my hair thick and wavy, my skin soft and tan. From June to August, the birds sing sweetly in the full green trees; the mountain winds blow gently all over the state. In the fields next to our house, the bubbling brook invites me to explore its nooks and crevices.
“Whee!” I yell again, and spin on my skates. On the gravel lot, my shadow is long and lean. I pump my legs harder, steady my arms, and squat down on the ground, continuing to roll until the wheels come to a halt.
“Go, Kgo!” Maria calls me Auntie in Chinese and cheers me on from the sidelines. I stand up and push myself forward again before abruptly turning around to skate backward. Looking over my shoulder, I skate faster as the wind blows my hair in my face. Faster and faster I go; strands of hair fly into my open mouth, forcing me to spit them out in an unladylike manner.
“Yay! Kgo!” Maria claps her hands and reaches her arms to me, her little fingers wriggling as if to pull me in with her energy. “Pick me up, pick me up!” At four, Maria possesses a face like a fresh ripe apple and a smile like a split moon. I zoom over, grab hold of her arms, and spin her around in a circle.
“Faster, faster!” Maria calls out to me, spitting her laughter into the air, her small feet whirling in midair. But the world is becoming unfocused, and my feet are weak and unbalanced, so I put her down.
“I’m tired, sweetie.”
“One more time! Please,” Maria pleads.
“Sweetie, if you go pick the dandelions for a while I’ll spin you again later, okay?” I rasp to her.
“Okay, Kgo!” And off she goes, bouncing and skipping away with joy. Watching her go, my eyes darken with envy. Her delicate little body dances with the freedom of a child who has never starved or been hurt. Sensing my stare, Maria turns and smiles. Something inside me snaps and I can hardly breathe for the rage.
I close my eyes and think about one of my favorite, calming places, the crab apple tree near the stream by our house. Often, when I’ve had a particularly bad day at school, I lean back against this special tree and lift my chin to the warmth of the sun. I imagine that the tree is a mythical creature, a comforting old soul with green moss for hair and branches that sway like arms. Closing my eyes, I sit quietly and imagine that her rustling leaves are whispering words of wisdom I cannot understand. When the breeze bends her branch fingers to caress my head, the touch reminds me of Pa.
“Oh, Pa,” I whisper to him, still standing in my roller skates with my eyes closed, “where are you?” I try to remember the last time Pa visited me in a dream. I have been in America for four years and he hasn’t followed me. I lay my hand on my head, and for a moment I feel Pa’s touch. When I open my eyes, Maria is back, sitting on my stomach and pulling at my arms.
“Kgo, Kgo! Come look at this red bug!” she yells, and runs away. Slowly I go after her, my skates stomping heavily on the ground, and by the time I reach Maria, the world is no longer so dark and angry.
“Loung! Maria! Nham-bay-e!” “Eat rice,” Eang calls out of the window in Khmer. In Khmer, there are no separate words for separate mealtimes. All you need to do is to add the word morning, day, or evening next to the word eat, and you have breakfast, lunch, and dinner. But all Eang needs to yell is ““Nham-bay-e” and we come running.
“Wash your hands first,” Eang tells us as Maria and I head into the bathroom. When we return, our meal of stir-fried chicken with ginger and turnips boiled in pork broth is already on the table.
“The movie The Killing Fields is still playing at all the movie theaters,” Meng comments between slurps of soup. “The theaters are now advertising that all Khmer people can go see the film for free!” Meng laughs.
“Why see it? It’s a movie about life under the Khmer Rouge. We lived it.” Eang’s face frowns as her words rush out. “I wouldn’t pay to see it. I wouldn’t see it if they paid me.”
“I wouldn’t see it either, no way, no how,” I pipe in, hoping our unanimous agreement on this will put an end to the conversation because it’s making the chicken in my mouth taste rancid.
“Well, we can go see Ghostbusters instead,” Meng says, and smiles. Because Eang doesn’t like to waste money on English-speaking movies she can’t understand, Meng and I often go together.
I love going to the movies because it reminds me of Pa. One of my fondest memories of Cambodia was of sitting on Pa’s lap in the dark theater. I would squirm and move around, one hand holding my soybean drink and the other a bag of fried crickets. The crickets were crunchier than popcorn and didn’t get stuck in your teeth. When I didn’t want to hold my own food anymore, I would tap Pa’s hands and, without saying a word, his palms would turn upward and I would put my food and drink in them. Back then we didn’t have cup holders in Cambodia. Pa’s lap was my chair, his arms my armrest, his palms my cup holders. Pa was everything to me.
In Vermont, going to the movies with Meng was fun when I was younger, and I would still get scared by movies like Clash of the Titans and The Beast Master. Back then I didn’t care that Meng stubbornly refused to speak to me in English in public, even when we saw people I knew. Now, I care. It’s bad enough that I know I’m different. I can’t do much about my skin color and the fact I wasn’t born in America, but at least I can try to pass with new clothes, fluent English, and the latest hairstyle. But Meng doesn’t seem to care that he isn’t like everyone else, and he proudly announces his foreignness everywhere he goes. At fourteen, I’ve decided that I don’t want to be seen with my embarrassing brother in public anymore. But I don’t know how to tell him that, so I pretend to always have too much homework to leave the house.
After dinner, we all move to the living room. Meng and Eang sit on the couch while Maria plays with a doll between them. I’m lying on my side on the floor, when the trailer for The Killing Fields splashes across our TV screen. The commercial begins with a group of helicopters flying into view like a swarm of dragonflies, then cuts to scenes of bombs dropping onto Cambodia, and the Khmer Rouge soldiers storming into Phnom Penh. On the screen, as the soldiers raise their guns and fists to the sky in victory, Haing Ngor, the actor playing Dith Pran, stands alone in a flooded rice field. Dressed in a wet black tattered shirt and pants that cling to his thin frame, his face contorts as he realizes he has stepped into one of Cambodia’s many mass graves. As the camera pulls away, we see skulls, bones, and black shredded clothing floating in the murky, brown water.
From somewhere inside my brain, the smell of putrid flesh leaps off the television and fills my nostril. I blink but the smell remains and attacks my eyes, making them water. My scalp starts to sweat, while my heart squeezes into a tight fist. Lightly, I scratch my feet and crack my toes to distract myself from the smell.