Escaping the Khmer Rouge

by Chileng Pa

  “I am just fine, thank you!” I answered, smiling broadly. I surveyed her from head to toe. She was beautiful in every way. Then, I realized I was making her uncomfortable. She was also waiting for me to answer her second question. “I was making a quick trip to the supermarket,” I said, as I stepped off the Honda.

  She continued, “What do you do now, Monsieur Pa Chileng?”

  “I’m a policeman,” I told her. “In a few days, I have to leave Phnom Penh for Battambang, where I will be stationed for a few months.”

  She looked disappointed. I tried to change the subject. “Mademoiselle, you look beautiful. This is the first time I’ve seen you since your return to Phnom Penh. You’re more beautiful than when you left. We haven’t seen each other in several years, have we?” I was babbling words at her.

  Without hesitating, she replied, “Don’t admire me too much, Chileng. I may get angry with you, and stop speaking to you. I may just walk away right now.”

  I continued to flatter her. “Not only are you more beautiful, you’re more charming, too!” Then I added, “When you get angry, you become even more lovable.”

  Chan stared at me for a few seconds with a flush on her face, then a slight smile flitted across her face.

  I continued. “Since we were in high school, and you went to Takeo Province with your parents, I have thought about you all the time. Each day when I went to class, I asked your friend, Mari, if she’d heard from you. If you don’t believe me, you can ask her.”

  Chan didn’t answer me. She looked down, then smiled, and looked back at me. At that moment, I knew she was the girl I wanted for my wife. “Mademoiselle, will you have breakfast with me at this restaurant?” I asked her.

  Chan politely replied, “Thank you very much for the offer, Monsieur, but I’m not hungry. I’ve already eaten this morning.” Even before I asked her, I knew she would politely refuse. No respectable young Khmer woman could accept such an offer from a young man. She continued, “So, Pa Chileng, you’re being deployed to Battambang Province? Is that right?”

  “Yes, Chan, that’s right,” I told her. “My chief chose my squad for the deployment because we did such a good job catching criminals here in Phnom Penh. He gave us several days off so we can attend to personal matters.”

  “Could you ask your chief to change the mission so you don’t have to go?” Chan suggested.

  “No, Chan, I’m sorry. Seeing you again makes me sad to be leaving, and I will miss my family, too. But my orders have already been given. I must complete this mission. However, I should be back in a few months. When I return, I’ll bring you a souvenir. Would you like that?” I asked her.

  “No, thank you, Pa Chileng,” she replied. “I don’t want you to bring me anything.”

  We had been chatting for quite awhile, and I could tell Chan was growing uncomfortable. Our culture does not permit a proper young woman to stand on a street corner and converse with a young man. I knew she was worried about what people who knew us would say if they saw us together.

  “Mr. Chileng, have a good mission,” she said formally.

  I didn’t want to leave her, so I respectfully asked, “Mademoiselle, if you wouldn’t mind, can I give you a ride home?”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Chileng, I’m all right. I have someone coming to pick me up soon,” she said.

  When I heard that, I was disappointed and jealous. Could it be her brother, her cousin, certainly not her boyfriend? I knew better than to ask her who she was waiting for. We talked for awhile longer, but I wasn’t listening. I had been in love with her for a long time, I wanted to marry her, but I was too shy to tell her. I began to think of the future and of being her husband. Should I wait a little longer and save more money? Should I immediately ask my parents when to propose, and how?

  I decided I would follow Khmer tradition. My greatest fear was that her parents wouldn’t approve of our engagement. Then, I suddenly realized, “Maybe Chan doesn’t love me. Maybe I should try to spend more time with her before asking my parents to talk to her parents. I didn’t want my parents to be embarrassed on my account! Then, I thought about being away in Battambang Province for my mission the next several months, and that really depressed me.

  Finally, I said to her regretfully, “Farewell, Mademoiselle, and thank you. I’ll be seeing you soon.”

  I walked back to my Honda feeling hopeless. I pulled the cycle key from my pocket, remembering all of the good times I’d had while Chan and I were growing up. It took all my concentration to get the key into the ignition. I felt dizzy, and I couldn’t seem to catch my breath. Now, I understood the meaning of the words, “mixed emotions.”

  As I drove down Mao Tse Tung Boulevard, I kept looking back at my lovely Chan. I was so thrilled that I had seen her again, and despondent that I had to be away for so long. I tried to clear my mind, but I couldn’t stop replaying our conversation. I knew these memories would continue to torment me. Traffic was so thick, it was like driving a chisel through the throng, and I steered my motorcycle toward the New Supermarket with cars loudly blaring their horns.

  At nine o’clock in the morning not many days later, my squad assembled at Pochentong International Airport in Phnom Penh to make the flight to Battambang on Khmer Hansha Airline. We departed Phnom Penh at nine-thirty sharp, and arrived in Battambang at ten forty-five. Conversation during the flight was impossible because the noise of the engines was deafening. My thoughts were only of Chan.

  But, after we landed, there was considerable activity to keep me distracted. We left the plane, lugging our duffel bags, and boarded a military truck which took us to our final destination, Pailin, near the western-most border of Cambodia with Thailand. On the journey, which took a few hours, my companions chit-chatted, joked, and laughed with one another. I ignored the conversation, and focused on the landscape, some places ruined by bombs.

  We arrived in Pailin District at five in the evening. We stretched after the long trip, gathered our belongings, and were led to the reception center. We were then shown to our quarters, and ordered to take a few days to relax and get settled before beginning our assignments. I was assigned to work as an officer with the Pailin sheriff’s department, with the rank of sergeant. Since I was still young and inexperienced, I considered this an honor, and was excited and anxious to get started. Captain Narin Lorn assigned me to be the partner of Sergeant Sokhom, a veteran officer.

  We were given orders to patrol along the border with Thailand, watching for smugglers. Each morning at sunup, Sergeant Sokhom and I climbed into a department jeep and headed for the police sentry station located near the border to search for smugglers. The area to which we were posted was called “smuggler territory.” These clever criminals crossed the border to purchase drugs and contraband of all types in Thailand, and return with their bounty to Cambodia. The trail they used was called “deep stream,” and our patrols were merely a minor inconvenience for them. There were only a few of our patrols, and hundreds of them, and hundreds of paths through the forest.

  The smugglers established an alert system that warned them when one of them sighted our jeep. They then hastily concealed their contraband and hid in the bushes or retreated into Thailand until we were gone. The only smugglers we caught were those who were set-up by their competitors to thin out the competition.

  For the next several months, I was deployed on a wide variety of missions that took me deep into the countryside. I learned a great deal about how to deal with people and their problems. This experience would prove valuable to me in the future although at the time, I had no idea the uses to which my experiences would be put. Although I enjoyed the mission to Pailin, I was greatly disappointed to find that some of my fellow officers had become corrupt. They couldn’t resist the temptation to make money in exchange for overlooking a few illegalities and providing a tip here and there. I did nothing when I suspected an officer of being paid off, because I didn’t know whom to trust.

  In August 1973, my mission ended, an
d I returned to the Phnom Penh Police Department. I was twenty-two years old. Despite my youth, I was promoted to lieutenant, and reassigned to the secret police team to once again do undercover work. I was the youngest lieutenant in the department. With that rank, I also received more power and responsibility but, because of the secret nature of my assignment, I wasn’t allowed to wear a uniform or otherwise display my rank in public.

  I didn’t forget Chan, but I couldn’t find her. I’d only known her at school, so I didn’t know her address or the full names of any of her family or neighbors. By early October of 1973, after many weeks of searching, I was discouraged. The chief of police asked me one day, “Lieutenant Chileng, what’s wrong?” I told him I must still be a little tired from my mission, so he ordered me to take a few days off, and rest. I was living with my father and grandmother at the time, and I willingly obeyed the chief’s order because I could spend the time with my family and continue to search for my love, Chan.

  5

  Hope and Heartbreak

  One day, I discovered a new family had moved into a house nearby. I walked over and introduced myself to a man who was about the age of my father. His name was Mr. Ong, and his wife, Kim, was from South Vietnam. They had five children still living with them, including an eldest daughter who was married to an army captain in Phnom Penh, named Thanh. Mr. Ong and I chatted for awhile in the shaded area beneath their house built on stilts. As I was about to leave, a fine looking girl of seventeen walked directly up to us with a radiant smile.

  Mr. Ong beamed at her, and said, “Nephew Chileng, I’m pleased to introduce you to my daughter, Devi.” Devi and I exchanged greetings, then she immediately excused herself and climbed the steps to the house. My heart was pounding, and my head was spinning. I thought I had been hit with a love hammer. When Mr. Ong asked me if I was all right, I tried to regain my composure. After talking to Mr. Ong and his wife a bit more, I said goodbye and returned home. From then on, I visited the Ong family often.

  One night when no one was around except my grandmother and father, I told them I was in love with Devi, the girl next door. My father burst out laughing, and told me not to be ridiculous, saying he had already made tentative arrangements for me to marry a proper Chinese girl. When he told me who he had chosen for me to marry, I tried to hide my disappointment and frustration. After all, Cambodian tradition required that I receive his approval and the approval of my desired bride’s parents before a marriage could take place. But I didn’t love the girl he had chosen. She was definitely not my type. I wanted a girl who was smart, pretty, and feminine in manner. The girl my father had in mind was fresh-off-the-rack, with little education, little intelligence, and considerable fat. But, out of respect for my father’s wishes, I did nothing to indicate that I was going to pursue Devi as my girlfriend. Instead, I smiled, and went off to do as I pleased.

  My quest for Devi began with getting to know her parents. Before I could see her alone, I needed their permission. I spent as much time as I could spare socializing with her father and mother and soon developed a good relationship with them. Mr. Ong was pleased that I was a police officer and already a lieutenant at such a young age. He had served in the military since the 1940s, when France ruled Cambodia. I learned that Devi was the second oldest child in the family, still in high school and, at seventeen, certainly old enough in Cambodia for marriage. It wasn’t long before I earned the trust of her parents, and their permission to be seen with her in public without a chaperone. I asked Devi out as often as my schedule allowed. The more time I spent with her, the more deeply I fell in love. In keeping with custom, Devi revealed little about what she felt for me.

  One Saturday evening in the fall of 1973, we went for a walk along the Tonle Sap River in front of the Royal Palace which was splendid in its yellow, orange, white, and pinkish red colors. We watched the light fading on the surface of the water. As the sun set, a wonderfully cooling breeze sent waves ruffling across the darkening river to beat against the green cliff banks opposite. As darkness fell, the lights in the park along the riverfront were lit, spotlighting patches of path, trees, and people. We found a white concrete bench in one of the gardens, and sat down among flowers lit by the dim light of the walkway lamps. Young couples strolled along the riverbank. Night vendors set up their booths, showcasing their wares.

  As Devi and I sat chatting about the day’s events and the beauty of the evening in this romantic setting, I impulsively decided to propose to her. “Miss,” I said. “I fell in love with you the moment I first saw you. I’ve been afraid to tell you until now. I love you. Will you marry me?”

  “Please call me Devi,” she told me. Then, true to Cambodian tradition, she shyly responded. “Oh mister, I don’t know about this. It depends on my parents. Maybe I shouldn’t get married right now. I should finish school first.”

  “Please call me Chileng,” I told her. I thought there might be another man with whom Devi was really in love. Maybe she was only going out with me to please her parents. I extended my arm and pulled her close to me. I planted a chaste kiss on her forehead, and said, “Devi, I have other things to ask you.”

  “Of course,” she replied. “What?” I could tell from the look on her face that she was anxious to change the subject. “What other things do you want to ask me?”

  “Are you in love with someone else?” I asked. She gave me a stern look and playfully pushed me away. Halfway laughing, I said, “Devi, one day I saw you riding on the back of a military policeman’s motorcycle, your arms were locked around his waist, and your body was pressed solidly against his back. You were talking and laughing, and you seemed to be having a good time. Were you going to the movies with him? Is he your boyfriend?”

  Now, Devi became angry. “No! The man you saw with me was my cousin. I asked him to give me a ride that day because my motorcycle was broken. How dare you ask me that question? Do you think I’m a whore, the kind of girl who messes around with men? Well, I’m not. I obey my parents and follow our traditions!” She was nearly in tears. She rose to her feet, determined to walk away. But I pulled her even closer so I could kiss her fully on the cheek, and moved one arm around her shoulder to caress her hair. She was sobbing as she laid her head on my chest.

  “I’m sorry, Devi,” I murmured to her. “I don’t want to upset you. Please forgive me. I was only kidding you.” As I held Devi, I explained, “I really don’t have any right to expect you not to have other boyfriends. After all, we aren’t engaged. And you have the right to choose the man you want to fall in love with, the man who will be your husband.”

  Suddenly, Devi shouted, “Stop it!” She sat up, faced me, and spoke in a low, tense voice. “Mr. Chileng, I don’t have any boyfriend but you. I never want to hear you speak to me this way again. Please do not ever again question my virtue!”

  I looked into her eyes, but didn’t speak. I felt shamed by this beautiful young girl who had spoken to me as if she were much older. I was more certain than ever that she would be my wife. As we sat together, she reached up and put a hand on my shoulder, patted it, and turned her face to me again. We held each other close as the night air became cooler. It was so quiet, we could hear the waves splashing against the bank nearby. Looking across the river, we saw the warm yellow twinkle of hundreds of kerosene lamps in a small village on the opposite bank. From time to time, we could hear music and the laughter of people dining in a floating restaurant. It was a wondrous evening for our new love.

  When it grew late, neither of us wanted the evening to end. But we had to return, so she climbed on my motorcycle behind me. Her arms went around me, and she pressed herself against my back. I could feel her trembling. When we arrived home, Devi jumped off the Honda and walked quickly toward the gate of her yard. I called good night to her and she paused, turned, waved to me, and smiled. Then she disappeared into her house.

  After that night, Devi and I continued to see one another often. We were not formally engaged because my father would not permit i
t, but I gained the favor of her parents and vowed to keep working on my father until he changed his mind.

  Meanwhile, besides trying to spend as much time as possible with Devi and her parents, I performed my duties as a police officer. Having been assigned to undercover duty again, I found one of the difficult parts of the job was to remain silent or simply nod in agreement in a number of situations. I knew that the perception of the public that all policemen were “on the take” was justified, and I often felt embarrassed to be a policeman. But police corruption was an epidemic I could do nothing to stop because some of the corruption was among the higher-ranking officers.

  In fact, the higher-ranking, the more corrupt. The population was being cheated, left unprotected, and most citizens believed the only way to obtain justice was to buy it. In 1973, as the war became worse, corruption became worse, spreading like a virus among government officials and the military. These top officials and officers were systematically diverting to their own gain the flow of American support to Cambodia, stealing and selling medicine, canned foods, hammocks, rice, and arms. Many of these supplies ended up in enemy hands. Soldiers who complained or tried to make any effort to stop the corruption were arrested and punished for being insubordinate. If civilians did the same, they were accused of being Cambodian communists. Both offending troops and civilians were sent to the military penitentiary at Prey Sar.

  The widespread corruption had a devastating effect on the Cambodian economy. Many of the legitimate businesses in Phnom Penh failed because owners could not afford the cost of buying police protection, and they couldn’t compete with black market prices on stolen American supplies. My father’s family business was one of the victims of the corruption. I believe the loss of his business broke my father’s will to live. Shortly after the business closed, in mid-1973, he became ill. We were able to afford surgery for his kidney problems, but he didn’t improve and died five months later.