by Chileng Pa
My thoughts, as I finished eating and left the restaurant were that people were becoming too paranoid, maybe because the war had gone on too long. As I drove my motorcycle up Preah Monivong Boulevard toward my office located near the southern boundary of the city, I was thinking that perhaps people were hearing too much enemy propaganda. My concentration was broken by the familiar sound of exploding artillery shells. The sky began to fill with black smoke. The streets filled as people fled toward the center of the city, away from the fighting, among them refugees who’d taken refuge on the Phnom Penh outskirts in the previous years as the Khmer Rouge overran their villages.
Many of the people I saw were clearly ready to welcome the Khmer Rouge. The rest, running scared, had been staying with relatives in the city, and suspected the terror the Khmer communists would bring. They knew they would be lucky to stay alive.
I arrived at military headquarters a little after eight, and went directly to my office to begin work on my reports. After a few minutes, Captain Eng dashed in and excitedly blurted out, “Lieutenant, we should leave immediately! It’s too dangerous for us to stay here with all the gunfire.” He quickly left. Despite all the warnings and signs of trouble, I couldn’t believe the Khmer Rouge could come into the country’s main military headquarters at will. Our military compound was gigantic, housing numerous buildings for offices, barracks for hundreds of men, and innumerable tanks, vehicles, and weapons. There was no way the Khmer Rouge could just walk in.
Nonetheless, I decided to leave as soon as I finished the report I was writing, a report that was, of course, never going to be read by our military staff. Meanwhile, the compound had become quiet and peaceful, indicating that my superiors might have been negotiating with the enemy. A few minutes after the captain left, I again heard gunfire close at hand. Suddenly, the sentry who guarded the compound gate burst into my office, and saluted me. Using the term the Khmer Rouge used for soldier, he fervently stammered, “Sir, the Khmer Rouge yothea have surrounded the compound! They’re coming to search each room. Sir, we must escape now!” He left my office on the run.
I looked out the window and saw several Khmer Rouge, and heard voices from down the hallway near the captain’s office. It was obvious the Khmer Rouge were there to search offices and seize military officers. I heard someone shout, “Stop, or you’ll be shot!” followed immediately by the sound of running footsteps and several loud gun reports.
I was frightened, filled with hopelessness, sure it was my turn to die. I began to pray. I thought of my family and worried that they would be harmed. I just had to survive; I had to see them and keep them safe. I was desperate for a plan, but could think of nothing. I peered through the crack in the window blinds. The Khmer Rouge were running around the compound, yelling as they seized soldiers and officers. The sound of gunfire was constant. As I peered out the window, I heard the door next to mine being kicked in.
Suddenly, I had an idea. I quickly stripped off my uniform, leaving on only my T-shirt and boxer shorts. I stuffed my shoes, socks, and uniform into the back of a filing cabinet and climbed out the window, as quietly as possible. I carefully made my way to the tool shed at the edge of the compound, my heart pounding in my chest. I could hear the Khmer Rouge shouting instructions to our soldiers in the compound: “All Lon Nol traitors hiding in this compound, give yourselves up, and cooperate with Angkar immediately.”
What on earth was Angkar? Soon we would know a new fact, that Angkar was now ruling our lives. Angkar means “organization” in Khmer and the Khmer Rouge were using it to mean the Communist Party of Kampuchea. Democratic Kampuchea would be the new name of our country, another “fact” we Cambodians didn’t yet know.
The shouting and the sporadic gunfire continued. “Angkar will not harm you. We have this compound and the entire city surrounded!”
I grabbed a broom and grass cutters from the tool shed and started walking toward the back gate of the compound. I resisted running for I knew that would draw attention to me and, if they saw me, I would die. So, posing as a gardener, I began clipping and sweeping the grass at the edge of the walkway leading to the gate, hoping I wouldn’t see anyone who knew I was an officer. As I inched my way to the gate, I noticed beyond it a mob of Khmer Rouge yothea, my first close-up glimpse of this elusive enemy. They were young, dressed in loose black pants and shirts, a karma scarf looped loosely around their necks, Chinese caps on their heads, and sandals made of tires on their feet. Each carried an AK-47. What could I do?
All I could think was to continue playing the role of gardener. I heard the sound of breaking office windows and furniture being smashed and the clamber of Khmer Rouge shouting, arresting our soldiers and hustling them off to nearby trucks. As I continued cutting and sweeping, two Khmer Rouge yothea approached me, one with a revolver on his belt. The second was armed with an AK-47, with ammunition belts strapped vertically on his chest. The yothea with the pistol also had pens stuck in his breast pocket, a sign of prestige among these uneducated youth. He glared at me, and said, “And, you, Mit, what are you doing?”
This was the first time I heard the new meaning of this word that traditionally meant “friend” or “comrade” in our language. Now, we would become achingly familiar with its Khmer Rouge use, meant to indicate that we were a country of equals. In fact, of course, this was not at all the case, but I didn’t yet know how much this would be true. He continued shouting at me. “Why are you still here? What are you, stupid? Or are you Lon Nol’s soldier?”
They were both so young, not more than sixteen or eighteen years old. I immediately rose from my pretended work and bowed my head several times to show him respect. “No, sir. I am not a soldier,” I said, trying to act even more frightened than I already was.
Trying without success to act mean and tough, he said, “Maybe you’re not a soldier. Maybe you’re a soldier whose duty is to care for this compound, right, Mit?” He was extremely rude, but I remained calm. Continuing to feign ignorance and fright, I answered, “No, sir, I really am a gardener. I don’t know anything about being a soldier.”
The other yothea interrupted, saying, “Why are you so stupid, Mit? Didn’t you hear the announcement by our Angkar ordering people to evacuate the city?”
“Pens in the pocket,” annoyed with his fellow soldier for butting into the conversation, said, “Okay, Mit. If you’re not a soldier or officer, get the hell out of here immediately. Go get your family and leave Phnom Penh at once!”
I replied, “Excuse me, sir, how long must we be away from our homes?”
“Pens in the pocket” grew angrier and shouted at me, “Eh, Mit! Don’t use that word “sir” ever again with us. That word belongs to Lon Nol’s regime. We hate his regime, and everything about it. You call me and the other revolutionaries Mit Bong. Do you understand?” I cowered in front of them and bowed my head several times, trying to convince these two idiots that I was frightened of them and respected them.
If you remember, bong was the term my wife used to address me, as her husband. But bong in the Cambodian language has many meanings. It means “elder,” as in “older brother.” It means “respected,” as in “respected friend.” With the Khmer Rouge, it was a requisite sign of respect, no matter the age of the person we were addressing or one’s former standing in life. So, this soldier had just insisted that I call him “respected comrade.” I didn’t respect him or his colleagues on this or any day of the years I lived under their tyranny, but I never lapsed in my use of bong when talking with them.
“Pens in the pocket’s” voice changed, and he stopped shouting. “This was just a warning, Mit. Don’t worry. Our Angkar wants to prevent any harm to people while they are leaving their homes for this short time, three days at the most. We just need time to clear out all the Lon Nol soldiers, reactionaries, and American imperialists. As soon as we’re finished, we’ll let people come back to their homes to live in peace under Angkar’s protection.”
I was a bird evading the hunter. When
they let me go, I moved quickly out the back gate of the compound and walked south down Preah Monivong Boulevard. People filled the streets. There were hundreds of motorcycles, taxis, pedicabs, cars, trucks, and bicycles. Some of the vehicles, crammed with personal belongings, headed into the city, others headed out. The Khmer Rouge were questioning people and moving abandoned vehicles to the sides of the streets. Everywhere was panic and chaos. The capital city of Phnom Penh was an anthill on fire.
Because the Khmer Rouge were executing anyone they caught in the uniform of the Lon Nol army, many soldiers were stripping off their uniforms, as I had done, dropping their weapons in great piles on the sidewalks, then scrambling off to hide themselves in the crowds. The majority of them were able to confuse the Khmer Rouge in this way, and thus elude immediate capture.
People were coming out of their homes to stand at the side of the boulevard and cheer the Khmer Rouge troops. The atmosphere was parade-like, with many people not yet realizing they would shortly be forced to leave their homes. As I made my way along Preah Monivong Boulevard, the cheers of the people were suddenly overpowered by the sound of high turbine gas engines. I looked back and saw dozens of tanks lumbering down the street, flying the red Khmer Rouge flag and loaded with yothea, grinding up the asphalt. The Khmer Rouge in their black clothing and Chinese caps were shouting of their victory over the Lon Nol government. Some Cambodians were waving pieces of white cloth to celebrate the peace they had awaited so long.
Sadly, I had to admit that the Cambodian army had been defeated. As I watched my fellow countrymen and women celebrating the Khmer Rouge victory, I could hardly blame them for being happy. They had grown weary of waiting so long for peace. They were tired of the constant noise of exploding artillery and rocket shells, and the fear that grenades would be tossed into theaters, markets, or crowds of people. They were tired of waiting for food and other supplies to be dropped from airplanes by the Americans through the months when the capital was encircled by the Khmer Rouge. They were tired of the corrupt government, the enforced draft, and flight from their villages in the countryside to the sidewalks on the outskirts of Phnom Penh. They saw the war as constant rain and now, it appeared, the skies had cleared.
I saw Cambodians offer flowers and food to the Khmer Rouge, proclaiming their delight in finally being liberated from the war. Most of the young Khmer Rouge yothea ignored the gifts being offered, but some accepted the flowers and food, flashing half smiles as they ran back to their tanks and clambered aboard. I noticed that it was the older Khmer Rouge yothea and those with rank who rode in the jeeps. The yothea were mostly teenagers. They wore their black peasant pants and shirtsleeves rolled up in the casual country way and their sandals were caked with dried mud, but they were armed with AK-47 assault rifles, bazookas, with grenades hanging from their waists.
I saw a female soldier standing on top of a tank fire her pistol into the air to get people’s attention, then announce through her bullhorn, “All you people, hurry! Get out of your houses and go at least fifty kilometers from the city! American planes are coming to drop their bombs on us. Hurry! It isn’t safe here! Leave your property and your belongings; Angkar will guard them for you. Don’t worry. Just get to safety!”
Another tank rumbled behind, carrying Khmer Rouge who were ordering people to surrender their weapons. “The war is over! All weapons are now Angkar’s property!” they shouted.
I saw many people I recognized as government officials and Khmer Republic Army soldiers who had already taken off their uniforms hurrying to deposit their pistols and other weapons in large stacks. A pedicab driver picked up one of the discarded uniforms, examined it closely, then tried it on to see if it fit him. I shouted at him to take it off, but the noise of the street drowned me out. Just then, a Khmer Rouge soldier yelled at him, “Hey, Mit! You are a soldier in the Lon Nol army and an imperialist. You are an enemy of the Angkar revolution!”
As the driver turned toward the soldier, the Khmer Rouge lowered his AK-47 and sprayed bullets into his chest. He fell to the asphalt in convulsions, and died in a pool of his own blood. The yothea looked down at him, and solemnly said, “Our Angkar hates the Lon Nol regime.”
He brushed past the spectators, bumped my shoulder with his rifle butt, and walked away without looking back. It was such a cruel act that I closed my eyes, shaken by the sight of the poor dead pedicab driver, dressed in the best clothes he’d ever worn in his life and dead because of it, his blood trickling down the gutter. I took a deep breath to fight back the nausea I was feeling. Now I understood the true nature of Angkar, the revolutionary organization of the Khmer Rouge. The Khmer Rouge soldier executed the pedicab driver to set an example, to show the people the consequences of resisting the new regime in any way.
As I walked along the boulevard, I grew more agitated. I came across many Lon Nol officers lying dead on the streets, just like the pedicab driver. In the next block, I recognized one of them, my friend Lieutenant Thom, from the 69th Military Supply Brigade of the First Division. The sight of my friend made me realize how lucky I was to be alive. I began to move faster. I had to get home to make sure my family was all right.
As I approached an intersection, I noticed a group of men trying to force open the door of a jewelry store. My first thought was to arrest them but, in the same moment, felt both stupid and helpless. I was angered and sickened by what the Khmer Rouge were doing to my people, and what my people were doing to one another. When the men finally got the door to the jewelry shop open, they looked around to see if anyone was watching. They saw me glaring at them, and they stared back at me, then asked if I’d like to join them. I ignored them and hurried past, pausing once to look back as they ran out of the store with their hands full of gold chains and other jewelry. They disappeared quickly into the mob of people who were shouting, “We must be rid of capitalism and imperialism.” I saw looters ransacking one shop after another.
I left Preah Monivong Boulevard and turned west onto Dam Beung Chopun Street. Now, at eleven o’clock in the morning, more than two hours after reaching the street, I approached Lon Nol’s presidential villa. The bodies of the soldiers who normally guarded the palace were scattered around the compound and on the streets and sidewalks surrounding it, scattered amongst their abandoned tanks, vehicles, and miscellaneous equipment. The Khmer Rouge had strung barbed wire across the entrance to the villa, and were carefully watching everyone who passed by, urging them to hurry along. I obeyed them gladly.
By that time, the sun was climbing high in the cloudless skies, and the heat began to radiate up from the payment. There was no wind to relieve the oppressive heat and humidity. All I could think about was getting home. All the residences and shops on the streets were closed up tight in hopes of preventing looting. I came across one door that had been left open, the entrance to a motorcycle repair shop called “Mittapheap Motor Repair.” I looked through the open door and spotted a bicycle. Seeing no one inside, I decided to use the bicycle to speed my trip home. Just as I was about to take it, I heard a faint voice from a back room.
“Who’s there? Who are you? Please give me some water. I’m thirsty,” the voice called out. I went through another doorway and found an old woman lying on a bed, very ill. She told me she was the mother of the shop owner who’d been so frightened that he fled and left her to die. I poured a glass of water for her, and lifted her head up slightly to help her drink. As I lowered her head to the pillow, she began saying a prayer to the Buddha, thanking Him for sending me. I thought about the bicycle in the next room, and how desperately I wanted to reach my family. I felt so sorry for the old woman: sorry that her son left her behind, sorry I couldn’t be more help to her. In Cambodian culture, children honor and respect their parents and elders. It was the greatest of all sins for the motor shop owner to leave his mother. But he had to choose between saving his own life and those of his wife and children or risking all of their lives trying to save his mother. I prayed that I would never have to make suc
h a choice.
“Grandmother,” I said softly. “Could I please use the bicycle in your shop to help me reach my family? Could I, Grandmother?”
She looked up at me, and forced a smile, quickly replying, “Of course you can. You are a kind and respectful young man. You can have anything from the shop that you need.”
She must have known how difficult it was for me to leave her. She said, “I’m fine, young man. I’m an old and very sick woman. I am going to die soon. Please do not wait for me. Go, save your family from the Khmer Rouge soldiers.”
I knelt down and whispered, “Thank you, Grandmother.” I stroked her arm and caressed her softly on the forehead, then moved quickly back into the shop.
I glanced out of the doorway and saw yothea breaking down doors, searching every residence. They were barking orders for everyone to leave their homes immediately, saying that those who refused would be shot, and they were rapidly approaching the motor shop. I spotted a toolbox and quickly tied it to the back of the bicycle, then hurried to make it out of the shop with the bicycle before the soldiers saw me. I tried to ride the bicycle, but it was impossible because of the number of people now crowding into the street. All I could do was push it.
Fifteen minutes later, I had made it as far as the Russian Hospital, so-named because it was financed by the Russian government as a token of friendship with the Cambodian people. The street in front of the hospital was mobbed with people, and the Khmer Rouge were now inside the hospital, ordering everyone to leave: doctors, nurses, and patients included. They were firing their weapons into the air to make people move faster. They executed the patients who were Lon Nol soldiers, causing a panic throughout the hospital. Medical personnel and patients began pouring out of every exit, trampling one another as if the building was on fire. Every face was terror-stricken, each person just struggling to survive.