Escaping the Khmer Rouge

by Chileng Pa

  In the fall of 1975, Mit Sean issued new orders to the New People. We’d been in Prayap three or four months, so this was probably in September or October. Who knows? We had no watches. Calendars were a thing of the past. We didn’t think about days, months, or years. We thought about minutes and hours, hoping to survive them. It was only when the cadre told us it was the New Year that I knew it’d been one year since the 1975 evacuation of Phnom Penh. But in the fall of 1975, that one year mark was still an eternity away.

  Mit Sean commanded his yothea to select a strong man from each family to form a work crew that would travel to a neighboring province to cut bamboo which the Khmer Rouge were going to use to build a communal housing center. The construction scraps were going to be made into baskets for the workers digging canals and building levees. Sean ordered me to go with the work crew, and keep their bikes in good repair.

  My family didn’t react well when I informed them of Sean’s orders. Grandmother and Devi immediately assumed the worst, that this was yet another Angkar tactic, that there was no bamboo to be cut, no communal housing center to be built, and that none of us workers would ever be seen again. So many times we had seen Angkar use similar tricks to separate families that were seldom reunited.

  On the morning of the crew’s departure, the sun crept slowly up from the eastern horizon, casting golden rays across the tops of the trees, sparkling in the tears rolling down my wife’s cheeks. Tears flowed from my grandmother and sister also, as they prayed for my safe return. Their hearts were breaking because I was leaving them, but the overriding emotion that gripped us all was fear. We thought we would soon be killed. Despite my fear, I tried to appear confident that I would return. I hurriedly hugged them and warned them to follow the Angkar rules while I was away.

  Mit Mutha, the transportation leader for Prayap, led the work crew as we left Prayap. We rode our bikes down the white sand path through various villages, back toward National Highway One. We pedaled the entire day, pausing for brief rest stops, and a mid-afternoon meal. As we traveled down National Highway One then turned onto a district street, we saw hundreds of abandoned homes. Some buildings were obviously victims of war, merely ruined and blackened shells. Others appeared abandoned and dilapidated; in fact, there was no one left to live in them.

  The afternoon sun was huge, intense heat pounding down on us. We all struggled to keep going until Mit Mutha said at last, “People! It’s almost dusk. We need to find a place to rest for the night.”

  We stopped immediately and found a large tree by the roadside, parking our bicycles around its trunk. Some of the men hurried to put up a tent while others looked for firewood which I used to cook our one hot meal of the day. A dark mass of clouds appeared, and it quickly darkened. The moonlight occasionally slipped through the clouds above us.

  We ate dinner by torchlight, the torch made of vines wrapped tightly around the end of a stick. While we ate, the sounds of fox bats in the trees began, frightening my comrades. There were hundreds of them darting from tree to tree and the high-pitched “op op op op” of their flapping wings competed with the “yip yip yip” of the crickets the bats were eating. Many of the men had never heard these sounds before but it was a familiar lullaby for me because I’d lived in the rural outskirts of Phnom Penh.

  After dinner, Mit Mutha called a meeting during which he spewed forth more Angkar rot. He reminded us that we were New People living a new life under a new regime, free from the persecution of Lon Nol and the Americans.

  I was not free. I felt nothing but disgust as Mutha closed the meeting. I was glad for the darkness because I had difficulty disguising my feelings. The fox bats apparently felt the same way because they suddenly left the tree limbs above us and fled en masse to seek solace in another location. The din left with them and everyone quickly settled in for the night, ready to sleep away the exhaustion of the day.

  As fatigued as I was, I couldn’t sleep. I found a rock beneath a tree nearby and sat leaning against the trunk. The sky had cleared and the air was warm; a soft cool breeze caressed my body. I closed my eyes and imagined it was the same gentle breeze from the Mekong River on the evening Devi and I sat on a bench in front of the king’s palace, the night I proposed to my wife in the long ago time before the Khmer Rouge. I missed her now and I missed my grandmother, sister, and my beautiful son. I knew they were back in the hut at Prayap, worried that I would never return.

  Occasionally, I heard dogs barking in the distance. I peered deeper into the night and discovered clusters of lights, most likely the lanterns in houses of a small village a few kilometers away. As I watched them shimmer in the distance, I thought of better times in the past, when our beautiful country was free from the terrors of war. Cambodia had been decimated by so many years of violence, and the people now were faced with a seemingly endless life of hard labor at the hands of the Khmer Rouge. How inhumane and unjust it was that these murderers could plunder a country, stealing the good life from innocent and peace-loving people.

  My thoughts again focused on my wife and on my adorable son. I couldn’t bear the thought of his growing up in this regime. I continued sitting with my back against the tree for some time. Occasionally, I wiped the tears from my face and vented my anger by viciously swatting at the mosquitoes buzzing around my head. My feelings of melancholy diminished a bit when I looked up to find that a brilliant half moon had risen, bringing light to the dark night. I was suddenly startled by a voice behind me.

  “Mit Thy, what are you doing, pondering the meaning of life?” It was my friend, Sovong. “That’s enough, eh? You’d better go to sleep now. It’s almost midnight. If you stay awake like this, you’ll never have the strength for tomorrow’s journey. The place we are going to cut bamboo is still far from here.” My friend spoke kindly to me.

  “Sovong, you go ahead,” I told him, with a short quiet laugh. “I’ll be sleeping in a minute.”

  And so it was. I said a quick prayer for my family back in the village, lay on the ground and the next thing I knew I was being roused by Mit Mutha. It was nearly dawn and he was waking everyone in the tent. As I stood up, stretching and yawning, I asked him if something was wrong. He said it would be easier to travel when the sun was not blazing over our heads, so we should be on our way. Mit Mutha’s words were quickly heeded. While the others took down our shelter and packed up the camp, I checked the bicycles to make sure they were roadworthy.

  We were shortly on the road again, pedaling our way northwest. Again, we traveled the entire day, with only brief rest stops and a short meal. It took us two more days to reach our destination at dusk on the fourth day, arriving at Khsach Sar Village in Prey Veng Province. This village was situated on the bank of a small river in a beautiful valley. There, we were housed in an abandoned travelers’ shelter near the local temple. Upstream from the village was the forest where Angkar was ordering us to cut bamboo. I prepared a quick meal, after which we all slept soundly, too exhausted from pedaling to have meetings or conversation.

  The next morning, Mit Mutha assembled us to assign tasks. I was fortunately assigned to care for the quarters, prepare meals, and keep the bikes in good condition. Mit Mutha cancelled the morning meal, ordering the bamboo cutters to report to the worksite before sunup each day. I was to deliver the noon meal to the worksite, with the workers not eating their evening meal until their return to camp, after sundown. Each day, after Mit Mutha led the workers into the bamboo jungle, I left the shelter in search of firewood to fuel my cooking stove. I roamed widely, tromping through the bush looking for dead tree branches.

  One morning on one of my firewood expeditions, I came to the top of a hill from which I could see a great distance. I spotted the village temple shining through gaps in the sugar palm trees with their distinctive straight trucks and round bushy tops. The temple was beautiful and I decided to get a closer look. As I made my way down the hill, I dropped the hooked knife I was carrying. When I bent down to pick it up, I spotted blood drops. I made my
way along the rough path which led to a large pile of dead bushes. The smell of blood told me what to expect next, but I pressed forward because I was curious about what the Khmer Rouge were doing. The bush pile concealed a large pit that contained dozens of corpses of emaciated men, women, and children, some newly dead. Some had ropes binding their hands, others had plastic bags covering their heads. My discovery was too horrific to describe.

  I suddenly heard a twig snap and, whirling around, saw through the tree branches three Khmer Rouge guerrillas approaching the pit. In a panic, I scrambled to find a place to hide. I ducked through the cluster of trees and bushes surrounding the murder pit, found a large termite hill, and jumped behind it just as the three yothea approached the hole. I was afraid they would walk right by me but they stopped about ten meters away. They lit cigarettes and sat down beneath a large tree to talk. Through gaps in the brush, I could see that one carried a hoe and another a large hooked knife like the one I had. The third soldier, the oldest and apparently the leader, carried a AK-47 assault rifle and wore several cartridge rolls strapped to his chest. The man with the hoe began complaining about his duty assignment.

  “Mit, I’m tired of this task. You know what? Every day and every night I come here to kill these damned New People. Why are there so many of them? They come in all ages. We work them until they are almost dead and then we kill them. During the day, I have to lead them to their worksites and make sure they don’t eat more than we provide them. Digging the pits, leading them around, killing them, burying them! Where do we get the strength to do all these tasks? I’m sick and tired of digging pits! I think I’ll just ask the supreme Angkar for a change in my duty schedule.”

  Hooked Knife said, “Mit Pong, don’t even joke about it. We must perform every duty assigned by our Angkar without question or complaint. Don’t you remember how hard we struggled to overturn the imperialists? You don’t want to go back to that, do you? Besides, if we are true revolutionaries, loyal to the Angkar revolution, we must not dream of an easier schedule! Hey, Mit, I’m bored and tired with this, too. I wish we could figure out how to make all these New People die quicker. Then our job would be over sooner.”

  Now the older man with the AK-47 spoke up, referring to New People who’d been “liberated” on April 17, 1975. “Both of you should stop moaning like two old women. You know I don’t like your complaining all the time! What’s wrong with you, anyway? You think these April 17 People are stupid? They won’t die without a fight. They know how to find food. They’ve been taught by their elders how to forage in the forests for grasshoppers, lizards, and root plants and leaves to supplement their diets. With dysentery and malaria, decreased rations, and harder and harder work, sooner or later they’ll die. And, if you two do your job right, you’ll get them near a pit before they are dead so you don’t have to carry them so far.”

  The guerrillas finished their cigarettes and their conversation and passed by me on their way to the temple compound. If I’d had the means, I would have killed all three of the murdering bastards.

  As the sun rose higher above the trees, I resumed my hunt for firewood. I collected a large bundle and hefted it onto my shoulders. I hurried back to our shelter, worried that I wouldn’t have time to cook a meal and get it to the bamboo cutters’ worksite on time. I dared not be late, but I found it hard to concentrate on cooking after what I had seen and heard. Now, more than ever, I knew the only possible way to survive the Angkar regime was to escape it. My family and I were New People so we were all destined to die. We were disposable, like animals. I couldn’t accept this fate. I finished cooking the meal and hurried to deliver it.

  A few days later, I was returning to our quarters after delivering the noon meal, and I decided to swing by a small pond near the temple and take a bath. The sun was very hot, and my shirt was wet with perspiration. If I hurried, I could make it back to the shelter in time to begin preparing the evening meal.

  I made my way to the pond, suddenly startled by the sound of someone crying, the weeping coming from a thicket of bamboo. For a moment, I considered it might be a ghost, haunting me in the mid-afternoon. I approached the thicket and saw a haggard young woman in her mid-twenties standing alone in her bare feet. Despite her condition, her movements were dignified. When she saw me coming toward her, dressed in black, she panicked and tried to run from me, but I was able to catch her easily and restrain her. After a few moments, I managed to convince her that I was not a Khmer Rouge guerrilla but she continued to sob uncontrollably, shaking with fear. I took a chance and left her for a moment to conceal my bike. When I returned, she was still standing there, terrified.

  “Mit Neary, what’s wrong? Please, may I help you?” I asked her.

  She tried to respond but she could not. The tears rolled from her eyes. She was wringing her hands, her face bathed in grief. I held her by the shoulders and tried to comfort her. Gradually, she composed herself and, after one last sob, raised her face to me, her grief painfully obvious.

  “Yes, Mit Bong,” she said, her voice full of sadness. “My parents, my two older brothers, and my younger sister are dead. The village Angkar authorities ordered them to be taken away for re-education but the neighbors told me they were killed by the guerrillas and dumped in a pit near this bamboo thicket. The vile Angkar accused my father of being a former military officer in the Lon Nol army, but my parents were merchants in the city. My father was never a soldier. Now, I have come to find the pit where they were killed and dumped.”

  “Mit Neary, I’m so sorry for you. How did you manage to escape the fate suffered by your family?” I asked her.

  She began to cry again as she answered, “My husband and I lived in another village. The village head assigned us to dig canals. Because we had no children, Angkar considered we were both strong workers. One night, the Angkar bastards tricked my husband and a few other workers into leaving the worksite to help carry food supplies. But they never returned. I know he was killed. I was eventually told to marry one of the filthy guerrillas so, to escape that fate, I came here to the village where my parents were living. I knew I would die anyway because I had refused to be forcibly married to a Khmer Rouge. When I arrived at the edge of my parents’ village, my parents’ neighbors stopped me and told me that my family had been taken to this bamboo thicket to be killed. Now, I must find their bodies. Do you know where the corpses are?”

  I listened to her in silence. I also hated Angkar but I had no intention of answering her question. “Mit Neary,” I told her. “I’m not an inhabitant of this district. I came here with a bamboo cutting crew. Let’s walk to my bike. I have some rice and other food left over from my group. You must eat to keep up your strength.”

  I cautioned her. “You must leave this place quickly and escape to another village if you want to save your life. You may be one of many people who hate this regime but you are powerless, and now is not the time to fight. Now is the time to stay alive. You must pretend to be deaf and dumb. You’ll have a better chance of surviving if you can convince them you’re an imbecile. If you reveal to them that you have an education, they’ll kill you.”

  We reached my bike, and she ate eagerly from the leftover food. Between mouthfuls, she said, “Thanks for your advice, Mit Bong, but I’m not afraid to die. Sooner or later, Angkar will kill me. I am the last survivor of my family and when I die at the hands of this black clothes regime, I am determined to have my vengeance. At least my spirit can rest in peace with my loved ones.” She no longer cried as she spoke.

  “Mit Neary, I’m sorry, but I don’t have much more time to talk with you. I must prepare the evening meal for my group before they return from their worksite. Besides, it is unsafe for us to be sitting here talking to one another. If the guerrillas see us, they can charge us with licentious behavior. If that happens, the Angkar village leader could have us killed, even without the intervention of the supreme Angkar.”

  “It makes no difference, Mit Bong. From the lowest Khmer Rouge yothea
to the supreme Angkar, they do to us whatever they wish. They are all the same. There is no judge and no justice.” As she said this, she took as much food as she could carry and walked away.

  “I know, Mit Neary, I know,” I said, as I watched her disappear into the forest. I got on my bike and started pedaling. I realized we had not even asked one another our names.

  The cutters chopped bamboo and I cooked and delivered food. I worked hard everyday, from sunrise to sunset, under the heat of the sun. Sometimes it rained while I cooked, and it often stormed while I was delivering meals to the worksite. After a month, Mit Mutha gathered us together. “All you Mit, listen! You’ve completed the work ordered by Angkar and now it’s time to return to the village.” He continued, “Mit Thy, you’re responsible for the bicycles. So, you need to check that they’re in good condition. Make sure the tubes are not leaking. Do you have anything to ask?” He looked at me.

  “Yes, Mit Bong,” I answered. “I have some inner tubes that need to be fixed. But I need Mit Bong to write a note allowing me to enter the village to collect glue from the rubber trees near the temple. Otherwise, the village sentries won’t allow me to enter.”

  Mit Mutha agreed. He wrote me an authorization that stated, “Dear Mit Village Security Leader, please allow Mit Thy to travel from my location to your village to collect rubber to fix tire tubes for Angkar’s benefit.” I waited half an hour for him to hand me the letter, amused, because I knew he could barely write. As he gave it to me, he said, “Mit Thy, read this for me and make sure that the letter makes sense.”

  “I’m sorry, Mit Bong, I can’t read this letter,” I said, not falling for his trick to prove me literate.

  After lunch, I hurried to gather the bike tubes and pedaled to the village, riding my bicycle through puddles and white dust under a fierce sun. I arrived at the village about thirty minutes later, but encountered no guards. I slowly pushed my bike through the village until I located the rubber trees. They were older, set on the edge of a ditch, surrounded by bushes, dead branches, and fallen trees. I immediately parked my bike beneath a kapok tree, and cleared an area to work on the tubes. I couldn’t believe the quiet. The air was clear and serene and birds sang overhead, flitting from tree to tree. Around me, unseen insects chirped their strident sounds. Occasional blasts of heat came and went.