by Loung Ung
“What?” Mark bursts out laughing so hard, his blue eyes squint and disappear just like an Asian’s.
“Yeah, he was getting jealous, seeing you in my room all the time, so I told him you like only boys. And he believed me.” Because Mark is so pretty, stylish, and nice, it’s easy to convince people he’s gay.
“That’s why I like you. You’re never boring.” Mark wipes his eyes. “Pick you up at ten-thirty for the party?”
“Sure. Don’t be late!” I holler as the jeep takes off, knowing it’s no use.
Back in my dorm room, I quickly glance at my calendar for the week. In between classes on the Old Testament and Luke, Matthew, and Paul, I have feminist theology, Hinduism, and witchcraft. Then there are meetings with the students’ Hunger Program, Diversity Club, and International Student Association. On my desk, the piles of homework and study sheets await my attention.
“It’s Saturday night. I have Sunday to study,” I tell myself and leave the room. I walk down the hall to Suzy, Janey, and Amy’s door, but no one’s in. Briefly, the insecure high school girl resurfaces as I wonder if all the girls went to some cool party and didn’t tell me about it. I shake off the old feeling and knock on Hailey’s door.
“Come in,” Hailey answers.
“Hi, Hailey. What ya up to?” I ask and plop myself on her bed.
“I’m making a birthday card for a friend.” Hailey looks up from her colored papers, scissors, and glue bottles.
I met Hailey on the very first day of our freshman year. We were both assigned to paint a file cabinet in the work-study program. In between sanding off the old paint and splattering on a new red coat, we talked about her year off living in Denmark and my years growing up in Cambodia. After our first day, Hailey researched and read up on Cambodia and the Khmer Rouge. This touched me in such a profound way that my eyes became red when she told me. For once, someone actually took the initiative to read about Cambodia and come to me with facts about the war and the Khmer Rouge’s politics that even I didn’t knew. For the next weeks, while we painted our one cabinet, Hailey became the very the first person I ever talked with at length about the Khmer Rouge genocide.
And now she’s writing a paper on me and my experience in Cambodia for her English literature class.
“Hey, do you have time to finish the interview now?” Hailey asks while peeling bits of tissue off her hands.
“Sure.”
“Hold on. Let me get my notes.” As Hailey gathers her questions, I stare at the photos taped to her walls. Like Beth, who is at another college, Hailey is blond, blue-eyed, and beautiful. On her desk, pictures of her mom, dad, sisters, and brother line up neatly, forming their perfect family.
“Okay, I’m ready.” She sits herself next to me on the bed.
For the next hour, I share the details of how my family and I fled the city to live in overcrowded villages, where we learned to live by a new set of rules. I tell her about the Khmer Rouge’s ban on religion, school, music, clocks, radio, movies, TV, and machinery and how the soldiers controlled our travel, friendships, and relationships. I shocked her with facts that during the Khmer Rouge time, there was no dating and no falling in love without the Khmer Rouge’s permission, especially if you were from different classes. And if you had sex without permission from the Khmer Rouge government, you could be killed for it. I describe the way we dressed, spoke, worked, and lived. I describe how my stomach ballooned from hunger, and how to survive I ate anything that was edible… including many things that should never have been eaten. I give her the details about the taste of rotten leaves, turtles, snakes, and rats. Hailey’s eyes glisten when I tell her about eating the animals’ brains, tails, hides, and blood, and roaming the fields for grasshoppers, beetles, crickets, and other bugs to help me stay alive another day.
In her warm room, with the heater whistling off as if it had someplace to be, I narrate my story to Hailey as if it all happened to another girl, in another time, but whose memory I possess. Until she asks me about Ma.
“In our conversations, you said you were angry at your ma for forcing you to leave her after the soldiers came for your pa…” Hailey’s voice trails off as she realizes the implications of her question. “I’m sorry if this is too hard. We don’t have to do this.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m ready to do this.” I place my hands on my lap and breathe. “I thought she was weak for kicking me out and not finding a way to keep us together. I thought she didn’t love me enough to keep me with her. I hated her weakness. When the soldiers came for her three months before the war ended, I wondered how she had let herself be caught. I blamed her for being dead. I was angry at her for leaving me. I wanted only to be strong because the weak do not survive. For years, I did not want to be my mother’s daughter.”
“You know now that she was an incredibly strong woman,” Hailey states gently. “She did what she could to save you.”
“I’m beginning to realize it now. My sister Chou is like my mother in that way. They both possess a quiet strength that I don’t understand.” At the memory of Chou, the room suddenly grows cold. Hailey reaches out for my hand.
I try to laugh. “I better go back to my room and try to make myself beautiful for a party.”
Hailey stands up and pulls me into a hug. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” she whispers into my hair. I bite my lip and hold back my emotions. “Thanks again for sharing with me.”
“Sure,” I answer her, now embarrassed.
“I changed your name to Serene in the paper, so no one will know it’s you.”
“That should do it.” I smile. Since I’m the only Cambodian girl at the school, I’m not sure how much anonymity that’ll give me.
By the time Mark’s jeep beeps at my door at eleven-fifteen P.M., my eyelids have been drawn on and darkened, my face powdered, and my lips painted red. In tight black jeans and a purple mock-turtleneck sweater, I am ready to leave Cambodia and party like it’s 1999 in America. But when I open the car door, my smile freeze at the sight of Tiffany sitting in the backseat.
“Hi, Loung,” she gushes. “Let’s party!”
“Hi,” I reply coldly. I can’t stand that girl and all her fakeness. I loath her big breasts, fake tan, and chic clothes. And she flirts with Mark. As I strap myself in the front seat, a big smile creeps onto my face as I visualize ramming my body into Tiffany’s and knocking her to the ground. I bet Tiffany is like one of the pretty girls in those slasher movies—the kind who stupidly prances around in barely there tank tops and miniskirts, running in their high heels from a masked killer wielding a gleaming knife. They inevitably veer off a busy street and into a dark alley where the killer corners them. If these girls attempt to fight back at all, they slap their predator with open palms as if he’s a fly, and not a knife-wielding mass murderer.
I know I’m very different—I’m no fly-swatting girl. When Hailey and I attended a women’s self-defense course together a while back, we were taught to jab our fingers into our attacker’s eyes. While the other women squirmed and shook their heads, I envisioned two wet and bloody eyeballs dangling off my fingers. If it’s between me and my attacker, I will take him or her down. Sometimes I really miss fighting and the feeling of balling my hands into tight fists and punching somebody. Unlike Mark and Hailey, who are two of the nicest and gentlest people I know, the path of nonviolence and peace is not an automatic thing with me. If the three of us were to meet someone who was being an ass, Mark would wonder if something was physically wrong, Hailey would question his family history, and I would be ready to kick him in the head. Although I think this way, I don’t fight anymore—except with words. Being a peaceful person is not an automatic thing with me—I have to consciously choose it every day.
At the party, Mark circles the crowded room to say hi to everybody while Tiffany stands surrounded by a group of boys. In my corner on the couch, I listen as a student named Mike goes on and on about why beer out of a keg is better than bottles. As he blubbers on, his eyes
become small, and his drunken skin pulls his face down like melted Play-Doh. All the while, my feet tap with annoyance at the shallowness of it all.
“So,” I pipe in when Mike stops long enough to take a breath. “What do you think about the United States invading Iraq?”
“Whaat?” Mike protests, confused.
“January fifteenth, the deadline President Bush gave the Iraqis to pull out of Kuwait. You know Saddam’s going to ignore the deadline. The United States will go in with guns and bombs, and it will mean thousands of innocent civilians dead. Whatever the political agendas, we must not forget about the innocent civilians.”
“Man, you’re a total party pooper,” Mike announces. “Whatever happens over there, that’s their world, not my world, man.”
“There’s no ‘their world’ and ‘your world,’ Mike. There’s only our world. I hope you’re just too drunk to get this and that it’s not your actual belief.” I look down at Mike like a child, sick of playing up to him because of his good looks.
“See ya, party pooper.” Mike takes his beer and leaves.
The next week, I watch the TV news about the invasion. As I flip from channel to channel, a bomber pilot’s likening of the bombings to Christmas lights is repeated by many journalists. Upon hearing this, I want to crawl back into bed, curl into a fetal position, and cry until I am all dried up. For I know that when each one of those lights hits the earth, somebody’s mother will lose a child, somebody’s son will no longer have a father, and some daughter will be orphaned. Suddenly I get up, throw on my clothes, and rush to the student resource center to find a way to help. And at that moment, I decide to become a party pooper from now on.
24 eldest brother returns
June 1991
“Second Brother is here!” Pheng calls out. Chou hurriedly takes off Chang’s soiled cloth diaper and comes out of the hut in time to see Khouy parking his motorcycle at Uncle Leang’s hut. The sun is barely up in the sky, but already Khouy’s green military police uniform is red from the blowing dust.
“Second Brother, everything is well?” Chou asks. It is not normal for Khouy to travel to the village so early.
“We have another letter from Eldest Brother. We need to show this to Uncle Leang as well. Come quickly.” Khouy’s voice is full of urgency as he walks into Uncle Leang’s hut. His strides are wide and confident, each step fully connecting on the ground before the other takes off.
“Second Brother, is anything wrong?” Chou wrings her hands in her krama as Pheng follows with their three children.
“Don’t worry. If it’s true, it’s the greatest news!” Khouy laughs as Uncle Leang, Aunt Keang, Amah, and the rest of the family gather around him. “Last evening, a man arrived on a motorbike from Phnom Penh. He works for a hotel and said a man staying there paid him to deliver this letter. Since the road isn’t safe in the dark, he quickly returned to Phnom Penh after he gave me the letter. I’ve waited all night to deliver this.” Khouy pulls the letter from his shirt pocket and hands it to Uncle Leang, who reads it out loud.
“‘Greetings to young brother Khouy, sister Chou, Uncle Leang, Aunt Keang, the young cousins, and all the family. This is…’” Uncle Leang blinks his eyes rapidly and tries to steady his voice. “This can’t be true!”
“Uncle, just read it!” Chou demands, a bit too harshly.
“‘This is your brother Meng. I am in Phnom Penh.’”
“Not true!” Chou gasps, and sits down on the bed. The rest of the family yells their disbelief as Pheng comes over and rests a hand on her arm. “What a terrible joke someone is playing on us!”
“The letter continues,” says Uncle Leang. “‘This is your brother Meng. I am in Phnom Penh. I am staying at the Phnom Penh hotel. I am waiting to see you all very soon. I will not leave my hotel room until you come. Come very soon to this address. Your brother, Meng.’” Chou stares at Uncle Leang, her head light, but her nose floods with water.
“Chou, this is an old letter from Eldest Brother,” Khouy says, and hands it to her. “Look at the writing of the two letters. They match.”
Chou grabs the new letter from Uncle Leang and compares the intricate curves and strokes of the handwriting. Then she drops the letters on her lap and covers her mouth.
“It’s Eldest Brother,” she says in disbelief. “It’s really him. He’s here.” Chang sees her mother anxious and reaches out to her from her father’s arms. Chou gathers all three of her children in her arms and smiles through her red eyes. “You’re going to meet your Eldest Uncle!” She turns to Khouy suddenly. “When do we leave?”
“Pack quickly. We’re leaving now,” Khouy announces. “I’ll meet you all in Ou-dong. I’ve arranged for two motorbikes to take us from there to Phnom Penh.” With a wave, Khouy takes off.
For the next thirty minutes, Chou showers and brushes her hair, being careful to smooth out the knots. Then she puts on her best blue sarong and pink shirt before dressing her children. While Chou packs her family’s clothes, Aunt Keang quickly makes rice balls and wraps pieces of cooked dried fish in a banana leaf for their journey. Outside, Uncle Leang hitches their wagon to the cows as Pheng pours drinking water into plastic petrol containers. When Chou is ready, she and the three children climb into the wagon and are followed by Uncle Leang and Aunt Keang. With a light whip to their behinds, Pheng drives the cows forward as Amah and the other family members see them off.
As they follow the one road to Ou-dong, the sun climbs higher and higher in the sky. The birds leave their tree nests to search for food in the rice paddies. The farmers plow their fields, their calves bulging with muscles as strong as their cows’. Behind the farmers, the birds swoop down and pull earthworms and other bugs out of the overturned earth. As Pheng drives, Chou sits with her back leaning against the wagon. In her arms, Chang sleeps soundly while Hourt huddles in Chou’s lap. Next to Chou, Aunt Keang rests her chin on her chest and holds on to Eng while Uncle Leang sleeps sitting straight up with his legs splayed out all over the wagon.
When they arrive in Ou-dong two hours later, Uncle Leang and Aunt Keang hop on a rented motorbike with Khouy’s oldest daughter while Khouy piles on his bike with his wife, Morm, and their other three children. Behind them Chou straddles two of her children behind Pheng and balances Chang on her lap on their bike. As they push off, Chou looks back at the village and realizes that this will be the first time she’s returned to the city of her childhood home. As if traveling back in time, Chou glances at the open fields they pass and sees herself as a child, sleeping under the stars with Loung. When their bikes pass farmers walking on the roadside, images of Keav holding Geak in her arms as the family marched out of the city sting her eyes.
By midafternoon the city looms in front of her, its tall seven-story buildings pushed into the cloudless skyline like mountains. Chou hugs Chang and holds on to her family as the bike takes her into Phnom Penh. In the city, four-story concrete houses replace thatched-roof huts, and dusty narrow roads widen into gray asphalt boulevards crowded with motorbikes, cyclos, and, to the delight of Chou’s son, cars.
“Ma, look!” three-year-old Hourt points excitedly. “Wagon has big eyes! Haha! Big eyes!”
“Cars,” Chou corrects him.
“Ma, so many people!” five-year-old Eng screeches. “Where they from?”
“They live here,” Chou says.
“Your ma used to live in the city,” Pheng tells his daughter.
“Ma, you lived in the city?” Eng asks with awe.
“A long time ago when I was small like you,” Chou replies, and her voice lifts with happier memories of movie theaters, pink dolls, swimming pools, and school uniforms.
In the traffic, their bikes slow as traffic zooms in and out around their traveling party. Right next to them, Chou counts three adults and three children piled on top of one another on one cyclo. The scene reminds her of trips to the market with Ma, when all the sisters would sit on one another. Pheng drives them past the loaded cyclo and past rows of sho
ps selling car tires, mechanical nuts and bolts, woven baskets, shiny golden altars, colorful dresses, and plastic flowers. Chou turns her head here and there and takes in all the details of Phnom Penh. It seems to her that little has changed from her childhood memories of the hustling and bustling city. The only difference now is that she no longer feels that she belongs here.
“Phnom Penh Hotel,” Pheng announces after many stops for directions and wrong turns. They pull up in front of an old off-white four-story plain-looking concrete building. Chou stares up at the glass windows wrapping around the walls like little square boxes and wonders if Eldest Brother is somewhere inside.
“Second brother, this is the correct address?” Pheng asks, and parks his bike next to Khouy.
“Ummm,” Khouy acknowledges with a nod of his head.
Chou’s cheeks twitch lightly as the family meekly follows Khouy into their first hotel. Morm comes up behind her and squeezes her arm.
“I’m so nervous!” she whispers to Chou. “This is so exciting!”
Chou can only nod and will herself to stop shaking.
“Can I help you?” a male desk attendant asks.
“Yes, I’m looking for Meng Ung. He’s staying in room 210.” Khouy answers casually while Chou stares at the riches of the linoleum floor, the glass windows, the worn couches, ceramic flower vase, electric power lightbulbs, and whirling overhead fans.
“Certainly. Please go up.”
Without thanking him, Khouy lights a cigarette and climbs up the stairs. Behind him, Chou takes a deep breath and follows with Chang on her hip. As they ascend the steps, the usually talkative family is quiet; the only sounds coming from them are the coughs of the children trying to spit the dust out of their lungs.
“Room 210.” Khouy stares at the number. Slowly, he curls his right hand into hammers and pounds on the door.