Escaping the Khmer Rouge

by Chileng Pa

  As I looked at Sean, waiting for my answer, I thought how bizarre it was that I was trying to figure out the best way to convince him I was a moron.

  “No, Mit Bong, I went to temple school for only a couple of years. Then I had to quit to help out my parents. I couldn’t read or write well enough to get a job with the Khmer Republic. Besides, I didn’t like Lon Nol’s government. I wouldn’t work for him. I am telling Mit Bong the truth. I was a bicycle repairman.”

  “You’re sure?” he smirked. “So, you know how to repair bikes?”

  “Yes, Mit Bong, I’m good at this job.” I nodded and tried to remain calm, but I began to sweat. I had no idea how to repair a damned bicycle. I had never fixed one in my life. As many times as I had told this lie, no one had ever asked me anything about repairing bikes.

  “Something doesn’t seem right to me, Mit Thy,” he said. “I have it here that your father-in-law was a captain in Lon Nol’s army and his beautiful daughter is your wife! How did that happen?”

  I was so happy he hadn’t asked me more about bike repair that I couldn’t help breathing a sign of relief. Now, I was back on solid ground, answering questions I’d been asked many times before. But, I wasn’t given time to answer.

  Suddenly changing the subject, Mit Sean returned to the subject of bicycle repair. “Mit Thy, are you skilled only in bike repair, or also in motors and engines, and how to maintain them?”

  “Of course, Mit Bong!” I lied. “I’ve been working on bikes and small engines for many years. I have a lot of experience, and am good at it.”

  “Very good, Mit Thy. Our village needs a person like Mit to help the other mechanics. We have bicycles and motorbikes that Angkar confiscated from the old regime. They are piled up in the temple sanctuary. We need to repair them and send them out to the sectors so they can be used by our yothea. So, Mit Thy, I’m withdrawing you from the rice fields and re-assigning you to work on those bikes and motors.” I stood, stunned, because I didn’t know how to repair anything. My lies were catching up with me. He added, “One other thing. I also want Mit to convert some unused engines into pumps so they can be used to pump water into our fields. Does Mit understand?”

  “Yes, Mit Bong,” I nodded with a heavy heart.

  Mit Sean continued the interrogation until he had finished with everyone. He then stood up and said goodbye, as everyone clapped their hands. He walked toward me, and slapped me on the shoulder. I wondered how long it would take him to learn that I knew nothing about bikes or engines. If he knew I had lied to him, I would surely die.

  My wife and sister were also questioned by Sean, without any trouble. He assigned them to a group of the strongest workers whose job was to clear forest land to use as cornfields. Sean also made a decision which affected my eight month old son, ordering that all infants and toddlers too young to be separated from their mothers be placed in nurseries during the workday and with their mothers at night. Children six to ten, Mit Sean said, were to collect cattle dung to fertilize the rice paddies.

  Each day at dawn, we delivered our baby to the nursery, then picked him up at dusk when we’d finished for the day. The village chief controlled our lives in every way, as he did all the New People. My family tried to adapt as quickly as possible. My wife’s resentment toward me was long past and we were closer than we’d ever been. We were thankful to be alive, and we tried not to dwell on our sorrow. But we would never acquiesce to life in this regime.

  Sean assigned me to work with a villager mechanic called Mit Bu Ton, or Comrade Uncle Ton. From the moment I said hello, I knew he sensed my ignorance of bikes or engines. He told me that since I was new, I had to start out with the most menial of bicycle repair tasks—patching inner tubes. I gladly accepted his order and, when I asked Bu Ton to show me where to find the rubber cement, he laughed uproariously. After he managed to control his mirth, he explained to me that I had to make the glue from rubber trees located half a kilometer from his shop. I foolishly asked him why it was necessary for us to make our own glue when there was such a thing as rubber cement, and he explained that Angkar wouldn’t allow us to use any object from the old society. “Angkar hates the old imperialist regime!” he exclaimed.

  I wanted to scream at him, “What about the piles of bikes, motors, cars, and all the rest in the temple? These things all belonged to the old society, and now Angkar wants us to fix them for the Angkar yothea!” I said nothing to indicate my outrage and, instead, went to the rubber trees, collected the milky sap, and returned with it. Then, Bu Ton taught me how to make the glue.

  The temple sanctuary became my workshop. There I was, fixing bicycles in front of a large statue of the Buddha. Although I was in a temple in front of the Buddha, I never prayed. I was far too scared. Instead, I worked hard to follow Bu Ton’s orders and to obey the rules of the village chief. I was determined to save my life and the lives of my family. I watched Bu Ton constantly and quickly learned from him. He was a competent village mechanic, and he truly loved to teach. He may have realized that I was not as skilled as I claimed but he never betrayed me, and for that I was grateful.

  Occasionally, Mit Sean called a revolutionary meeting the purpose of which, I quickly discerned, was to intimidate the New People and spread Angkar propaganda. Sean’s most recent acts toward the New People made me realize more than ever that if my family and I were to survive the Angkar regime, we would need to escape it. At yet another meeting, Sean made the following announcement.

  Attention, everyone under the rule of Democratic Kampuchea! All of your personal belongings are now Angkar communal property. From now on, there are no individual owners. That means you have no right to keep anything of your own. Everything belongs to Angkar and will be controlled by the yothea.

  You will each be allowed to keep only one small bundle. But remember, my guerrillas will be around to search your huts and, if they find anything you are keeping which can be linked to the old regime, you’ll be sent to re-education camp!

  Next, from now on, everyone must wear the black clothing of Angkar peasant workers. If any of you are still wearing clothes of color, you’d better hurry and dye them the color of Angkar black. If you don’t have proper clothing, it will be issued to you.

  Sean was not finished.

  Angkar alone makes all the rules and has the power to keep people alive. No one will be wealthy, poor, or a servant. Angkar will allow only one class, that of workers and farmers.

  Angkar’s orders must be strictly obeyed. From this day on, any member of Angkar’s troops may choose any girl to be his wife. This applies to all single women. There will no argument about this whatsoever.

  Sean searched our faces. We dared not look at him for fear he would know, instantly, that he would have to kill all of us. Sensing there was a feeling of unrest, Sean became angry.

  What’s wrong? Do you think the imperialist Americans would give you a better way of life? You should know by now that our revolution is unafraid of the Americans. Our revolutionary troops struggled and bled for Angkar to liberate you, so you must follow Angkar’s rules. If Angkar orders you to break rocks, you must break them without groaning. Regardless of whether Angkar orders you to build bridges, reservoirs, canals, or travel to remote locations which results in difficulties or death, you will do it with a smile and without argument!

  I’d come to trust another in the village by the name of Sovong. He was about my age and, although we never asked others about personal matters, the way he talked, walked, and acted indicated to me that we were similar in background and attitude. Now I elbowed him as he sat next to me, and whispered, “Can you believe this bullshit? Where did this crap come from about wanting our women?”

  “The power he holds has made him go mad,” Sovong said wryly.

  Sean’s ranting continued.

  And another thing, don’t start hoping for a return to the old ways. The big city officials with all their fancy education and degrees will never again hold power. You city dwellers who considere
d yourselves better than the peasants who labored in the rice fields will now be made to understand that there are no diplomas in the countryside, and certificates of achievement are worthless in the eyes of Angkar.

  You become valuable to Angkar when you learn that land is the paper and the hoe is the pen. When you can dig dirt, build canals, and work in the rice fields, you earn the only certificate you’ll need.”

  Sean went on and on, until we were weary of listening to his theories. He spoke nothing of substance. When at last he stopped, there was enthusiastic applause, not in appreciation for his speech but in gratitude that it was over.

  Since I was traveling to different places to deliver and repair bicycles, the cadre allowed me to wear sandals I made myself. When we evacuated Phnom Penh, we wore our regular city clothes. For educated men, this was long trousers, with a short- or long-sleeved western-style shirt. Women wore traditional clothing: a short-waisted blouse with a wrap-around samput. Children usually wore shorts and short-sleeved shirts. By this time, however, six months after the evacuation and three months since we’d come to Prayap, all our clothes had been dyed black. The only variety came from the clothes’ original pattern; a shirt that was formerly striped often retained the stripe pattern, even through the black.

  In general, though, we all looked the same. Our black clothes became saggy, torn, and thin as paper. We often rolled up our pants and sleeves while working, as relief from the heat. My wife sometimes tied vines around the bottom of her pants when she stood in the water of the rice fields to protect her legs from blood-sucking leeches. The leeches were disgusting but not too repulsive to eat. Unfortunately, if anyone was caught putting one in his or her mouth, the punishment was torture or death.

  Each day, we were forced to work harder. The first time anyone failed to report to the worksite at dawn, he or she was given smaller food rations. The Khmer Rouge rewarded subsequent offenses by sending offenders for re-education. We worked the entire day, from sunup to sundown. The rules were pervasive and ridiculous. No one but Khmer Rouge yothea were allowed to wear watches because, we were told, the regime of the revolution didn’t trust pieces of metal, and watching time was a waste of time.

  “Bullshit, they’re damned liars,” I murmured to Sovong. “The damned yothea are wearing our watches.”

  We worked until dusk every day, then returned to our huts to sleep and begin the cycle again. Sometimes, workers, foremen, and group leaders were called to meetings to give individual reports about the work being accomplished on their worksites. At first, I thought these meetings were called to spread the Angkar program of fear and intimidation. Later, I realized that the yothea leading the meetings were actually interested in the information workers provided.

  As I stood trying to feign interest at one of the meetings, it dawned on me that I hadn’t once seen any of the yothea taking notes or in any way documenting the information they received. In fact, I’d not seen pens or paper at any of the meetings. I quickly understood the reason: the verbal reports were necessary because few, if any, of the yothea could read or write. Angkar relied on keeping their people illiterate, so these meetings were the only way worksite leaders could monitor what was happening. At one of the meetings ordered by Mit Ath, the economic chief of Prayap village, my group leader, Mit Visal, said to me, “Mit Thy, could you please give a report on the tasks you have accomplished for our village cooperative, so that all our mit will know of your work?”

  I rose slowly and pretended to be afraid or ignorant, stammering as I spoke. “First, I would like to say hello and express my respect to Mit Bong as the worksite leader, and then to my fellow workers in the Prayap cooperative. My name is Thy. I am a bicycle repairman in the cooperative. I would like to describe my daily routine to the Mit Bong and my fellow workers of Angkar, and tell how many bikes I’ve repaired.” I apologized for my poor speech, saying it was my first time speaking the language of the new regime.

  “Mit Thy,” Visal interrupted. “Why are you stammering? You have been with the new administration in Prayap for many months. Why are you still frightened?” Then he added, “Mit Thy, maybe your worries can be cured by sending you to the supreme Angkar for re-education!” If it was Visal’s intention to heal my stammering, he certainly succeeded.

  “Mit Bong Visal, my dear respected Angkar,” I replied automatically. “I’m sorry. I’ve been working in Prayap for awhile now. I’ve done my best to repair and recondition bicycles and motorbikes. That is my obligation to the supreme Angkar, because it’s what I have been ordered to do. I’m trying hard to follow all of Angkar’s rules. I will always inform Angkar of any mistake I or my fellow workers make.”

  I went on. “I’m very determined to follow the marvelous Angkar, and I’m forever grateful to Angkar for liberating me from the claws of the Lon Nol regime. I know Angkar has a good heart and will take care of all of us.” Then, I turned to my fellow workers, and said, “I’m sure you all agree with me!” The group applauded, and now it was Visal’s turn to comment.

  “Yes, Mit Thy! That’s right. On behalf of the supreme Angkar, let me say that we’re pleased with the progress you are making, and we admire your good sense.” Mit Visal then applauded and the other yothea joined in. Visal opened the meeting to anyone else wishing to comment on the progress report I’d made. Not only was he interested in criticism, he was interested in finding out if anyone disputed what I’d reported. He reminded everyone that they were the eyes and ears of Angkar. He then asked if any of us had any ideas about changes that would increase progress at the Prayap cooperative. He said he wanted to raise the level of production for the “glory of the revolution.”

  I felt like telling him, “Try learning to read and write, you stupid bastard!” As these thoughts went through my mind, I looked at my fellow workers. I saw only frightened faces. Nobody wanted to raise a hand to speak. They merely waited for Visal to continue.

  “Very good. No one has a comment. Mit Thy, on behalf of the supreme Angkar, let me say again that we are very pleased with you. You have been efficient and responsible in doing your job and have persevered in breaking your ties with the old society and government. You are a good example to your fellow workers.” Again, Visal and his yothea applauded. “Mit Thy, do you have any more ideas to share with Angkar this evening?” Visal asked eagerly.

  Tonelessly, politely, I replied, “I’m sorry, Mit Bong. I don’t have any more ideas to share at this moment, but before this meeting ends, I’d like to thank you and the other yothea present and all my fellow workers for your support.”

  There was more applause, and Visal ended the meeting. As I was leaving, he pulled me aside. “Mit Thy, I was satisfied with your report tonight, but if the supreme Angkar had heard you, how would I have explained it? How would I have explained that you are still reluctant to banish all thoughts of the old regime from your mind? Angkar would surely have ordered you to re-education camp.” I didn’t know what to say, thinking only that my days were surely numbered. I had no idea what I’d said wrong, what made him unhappy with my report. We continued on to the communal kitchen for late rations. Visal couldn’t resist the urge to continue spouting his Angkar garbage to us.

  “Everyone in the Prayap cooperative must cooperate with Angkar and be loyal to the supreme Angkar’s plan. We must watch one another closely, and report people who still refuse to abandon the old ways and accept the fall of the old society and regime. I assure you all; Angkar will reward you for identifying the enemies of Angkar. Anyone who dares oppose Angkar’s ideas will be crushed.”

  My buddy, Sovong, whispered to me, “What do you think of that, Mit Thy?”

  In a low voice I replied, “I’m sick and tired of hearing the same bullshit. They don’t have anything worthwhile to say and they have no thoughts of their own, so all they can do is spit out the Angkar line they have memorized. But, one thing is certain, we must all by wary of one another. In this cooperative, there are bound to be a lot of Angkar spies.”

 
Sovong whispered back to me, “So, meanwhile, we have to act like we’re deaf and dumb and blind, and be led around by these morons. It’s either that or go underground, which is like dying.” Well, acting deaf and dumb and blind itself felt like death.

  Mit Neary Bopha had overheard our conversation. She turned to us, and said, “Mit Thy and Sovong, not only must we appear stupid, we must also appear unattractive. Do you remember a few days ago during a meeting when former soldiers were whispering to one another that they wanted to confess their backgrounds to the village chief? Remember, Sean’s guerrilla guards took them away. One of them was Lim’s husband and, when she realized they were taking him away, she wanted to follow her husband. But the guerrillas made her turn back. One guerrilla told her, ‘Mit Neary, Angkar just wants to send your husband to re-education camp for a short time. After that, Angkar will release him.’ The guerrillas then led him away, the wife still clutching after her husband with trembling hands.”

  Our co-worker continued. “The next day, the female yothea searched her hut and found cosmetics and novels. They accused her of being a Lon Nol teacher. When night fell, the guerrillas came and took Lim and her two children away. They have never returned. The yothea then warned us that no one could have any amusements or adornments because they were evidence of loving the old regime. So, my friends, not only must we appear stupid, we must be ugly and stupid!”

  As I waited in line to receive my ration of rice soup, a small piece of dried fish, and a pinch of salt, I began to regret speaking my mind to Sovong and listening to him and Bopha complain about the Democratic Kampuchean government. Although I trusted Sovong, I was increasingly worried about trusting anyone even the slightest. I was not following the advice I had given them about being careful of Angkar spies. At the same time, I was encouraged that there were people like Sovong and Bopha who were not buying the Angkar propaganda. I suspected there were many more.