by Chileng Pa
The next morning, my wife left early for work. I stayed at the hut with my son instead of taking him to the children’s center. I fed him the fresh milk, and he quickly fell asleep. I also slept soundly. We were awakened by the sound of the bell announcing the noon meal at the communal kitchen, so I carried Sokhanarith there to get our ration. It was a great pleasure for me to be able to spend so much time with him.
As I sat feeding my son, I heard a woman call my name. I glanced up and recognized my neighbor, Kosaul. Everyone called her Miss Aul for short. She was a widow with one daughter. Her husband, a former paratrooper officer, had been sent by the village chief to be re-educated only a few days after her family came to reside in Prayap. Everyone knew he had been murdered by the guerrillas not far from the village. Miss Aul had worked for awhile with my Devi at the rice mill in the village. I got up and moved toward her.
“Mit Thy, do you have a minute to come with me?” she asked, looking anxious, glancing from side to side as if afraid someone would see her. She gave me a crust of rice to feed to my son, then speaking softly but earnestly, she said, “Mit Thy, I have something important I need to tell you.”
“Mit Neary Aul, what is it?” I asked in surprise.
“Not here, Mit Thy. We must go to your shelter or some place nobody can hear us.” We agreed to go to the rice mill. The place was deserted because all the workers were still at the communal kitchen. We sat on a pile of rice sacks, and I urged her to tell me what was so important. She was hesitant to speak.
“Mit Neary Aul, please tell me what you have to say before the workers return!” I said. She looked at me with a troubled expression.
“Mit Thy, what I have to tell you will be difficult for you to believe and may anger you. You must promise me now that you’ll control your temper for, if you don’t, we’ll both surely be killed.”
I quickly agreed. “Yes, Aul, I promise I won’t do anything rash. Just tell me, please.”
“Mit Thy, while you were gone to work on the canal, I saw Mit Sean, our village chief, and your wife together. I saw them having sex together near this rice mill. Other workers also witnessed them, and everyone knows about it.”
I shook, my heart pounding, disbelieving, wondering, breathing faster and faster. But she continued, “Mit Thy, Mit Sean then shifted your wife from grinding rice to working as his housekeeper. I’m so sorry for you. Mit Sean is a ruthless bastard. When he found out that the rice mill workers knew about his affair, he called a meeting and told us that we would die if anyone spread lies about his immoral behavior. He reminded us of the Angkar slogan, ‘Whoever’s hair it is, it belongs to that person.’
“Mit Thy, I’m so sorry this has happened, but I cannot close my eyes to it. You have a right to know. You must not blame your wife for this, Mit Thy.” Aul put her hand on my shoulder, and patted it soothingly. Then she said, “Both of us know the power the young bastards wield over us. Your wife was most certainly an unwilling partner, but Sean controls rations and supplies for all of us. I can only imagine what your wife must be suffering.”
I searched her face for some indication that she had an ulterior motive for saying these things. I found none. Still, I asked, “Mit Neary Aul, are you certain of what you have told me?” She nodded, yes, and then we were startled by the sounds of workers returning to the rice mill building. We parted quickly because we dared not get caught together or Angkar would accuse us of sexual misbehavior. I left through the rear of the building, carrying Sokhanarith in my arms, whispering “goodbye” and “thank you” to Aul. I walked back to my hut with my son, carrying a sadness like none I had ever known.
The afternoon lasted a very long time. Finally, when the sun was nearly set, the bell announced the evening meal. I carried my son to the kitchen to get our rations, and returned to our hovel. A few minutes later, my wife returned from work, exhausted. She sat down and immediately began nursing Sokhanarith. I took the gruel, mixed in the rice crust Miss Aul had given me earlier, and stirred in potato leaves I’d stolen for our meal together in the hut. I tried to hide my feelings. I knew this dinner would be our last together for some time because I had to return to the canal worksite the next morning. I needed to talk to my wife about Sean, but I didn’t know how to begin.
Darkness seemed to descend on the village in an instant. I lit the torch with the lighter I had managed to keep. We were alone, my wife and I, our baby sleeping quietly next to us. We embraced, knowing my visit was nearly over. We talked about how fragile our lives had become since the beginning of the Angkar regime. At precisely the moment I started to ask her about what Aul had told me, our conversation was rudely interrupted by the raspy voice of Mit Sean. He and two of his guerrillas had stopped by to discuss how things were going at the canal worksite.
He began by crudely teasing my wife. “Mit Neary Devi, I hope you are treating Mit Thy right, eh?” Not waiting for an answer, Mit Sean turned to me and said, “Mit Thy, is everything all right with you? If you need help with anything, I will be happy to give it to you on behalf of the Angkar revolution.”
Were it not for his armed guerrillas, I would have killed the bastard with my bare hands. Trying to ignore his crass innuendos, I told him tersely, “Everything is fine, Mit Bong. Thank you.” My son awakened, crying. Devi picked him up, and began nursing him. She didn’t want to have any part of our conversation.
Mit Sean continued, “Mit Thy, don’t worry. I’ll ask the supreme Angkar to keep you in the village to continue repairing bicycles and then you’ll have a chance to stay with Devi and your son.” I stared blankly into his eyes and, in a moment, he lost his enthusiasm for further conversation. He turned and left, muttering a goodbye to my wife and me as he walked out. I said nothing. I returned to bed, and Devi put Sokhanarith to sleep and joined me. My heart was pounding in my chest, and I’m sure she could sense my rage. She felt so fragile and soft on my breast, I couldn’t bring myself to discuss anything with her. I blew out the torch flame, and everything in the hut went dark. I fell asleep quickly, dreaming of better times.
My visit was over. Two days had passed so quickly. I awoke, determined to avoid the issue of Mit Sean because I didn’t want to leave with this between us. “Wife,” I said to the young woman I loved. “It’s time for me to return to the worksite because my pass expires today. I must be back by noon.”
I picked up my son as my wife said, “Yes, bong. Go ahead and get started. I don’t want you to get in any trouble. They might not allow you another visit. Then, you couldn’t see me and our son again.”
“Wife, I hope you’re right. I wish it could be different for us. We’re living like chickens in a cage. Any day, we could be slaughtered. In this evil regime, we risk death everyday. If we don’t die from punishment or starvation or overwork, we’ll die at the hands of the damned guerrillas accusing us of being lazy or of not following their directions. They look for any excuse to kill us.”
I looked down, then continued. “When we face these conditions, we are forced to do many horrible things just to stay alive. Wife, I’m so sorry we must live like this, but we must do whatever it takes to stay alive, no matter how hard it gets.”
We stared into one another’s eyes for a long moment, close to each other and close to tears. We both felt that our luck was about to run out, that we would never be together again. I held my son close to me, then handed him to Devi. He grabbed my shirt, crying, as if telling me to take him with me, not leave him behind.
I left my shelter with a heavy heart, full of sadness and regret. When I turned back, I saw Sokhanarith waving and crying as my wife left to take him to the children’s center before leaving for another hard day’s work. My thoughts stagnated. All I could think of was my wife with the devil Sean. What really happened? Why did Sean do this terrible thing? Why did my wife betray me? The guilt she carried with her must be unbearable. The disgusting humiliation we had to suffer to survive this regime with our lives would eventually be the death of us all. These are the thoughts
I carried with me as I walked.
The distance between Prayap and my worksite was about twenty kilometers so I had no time to waste. If I failed to reach the worksite by noon, I’d be subjected to the rules governing unauthorized absences, which were always strictly observed. Shortly before the sun was directly over my head, I arrived at the canal and levee worksite. I went immediately to the house of the worksite chief to report my return, and saw a group of guerrillas sitting on the wooden platform beneath the red clay roof, eating a lunch of good rice with boiled chicken soup. They ate apart from the people, who received only bowls of gruel at both lunch and dinner.
I reported to the group leader and went immediately to the canal to begin work. Sovong was already there, but we had no time to discuss our visits. The sun burned down on our heads and, with the hard labor, caused everyone to sweat profusely. The red flag of Democratic Kampuchea flew from the top of a bamboo pole on top of the levee.
Sovong and I concentrated on the task before us. We were chopping through red pebble soil, full of clay, and very hard. Other workers put the soil in baskets and carried it up to fill in the levee from the top. We knew we would need to work twice as hard to meet our daily quota. No matter how hard the ground was, we were expected to dig as much as the other workers who were lucky enough to work in soft soil. All around us, the guerrilla guards were watching and listening, eager to catch us speaking against the Angkar revolution.
We didn’t speak. We just chopped at the hard ground like robots in the heat of the midday sun. We soon grew exhausted and thirsty but had only stale water to drink.
In mid-afternoon, the lunch bell sounded. We immediately stopped working, stored our tools in a safe place, and went for our rations. While Sovong and I waited in the shade of a large tree at the end of the ration line, I looked at the workers ahead of us. Their feet were thin, their faces hollow, their bodies emaciated, and they wore clothes that were little more than rags. A few workers appeared ill, their skin drawn tight over their ribs. But we weren’t allowed sick days. These were bodies wasted by work and starvation by day, exhausted by uncomfortable sleep and nightmares at night.
The deaths of many workers at the canal and levee site scared me. Sovong and I had been large men, strong, with considerable energy in the old society. Now, we were weak, starving men in this new regime, especially at this worksite. As I waited for our sparse lunch, stuck in the present, daydreaming about the past, I saw two armed guerrilla escort two workers up from the bottom of the canal, their elbows bound tightly behind their backs, krama scarves blindfolding them.
Sovong glanced toward the two workers, and said, “Mit Thy, I know one of them. He’s a sweet man. I’ve often spoken with him.” We wouldn’t see the men again until after lunch.
The meal ended, as always, when the foreman called a quick meeting of the workers. The guerrillas brought the two men to the front of our group and forced them to kneel down. With that, we all knew what to expect. We were about to witness an execution. The two workers were frightened to the point of panic. Both had wet themselves and their faces were pallid for they knew they were going to die. We watched in silence, each of us realizing that we would likely be in their shoes one day.
With the two workers kneeling, Mit Huot, the chief of the worksite, proclaimed, “Everyone, listen! These are two Lon Nol soldiers who have been concealing their true identities. Our mit overheard them talking about the old regime, discussing the medicine they used with wounded soldiers on the military base. They were enemies of the revolution before the great liberation, and now, Angkar will provide all of you mit here at the worksite with an example of what happens to those who try to fool Angkar’s yothea.”
Then, Mit Huot read out his verdict. “In the name of the supreme Angkar, I hereby sentence these two Lon Nol soldiers to death. The sentence shall be carried out here, immediately!”
No one moved or spoke, but I could feel everyone praying that he wouldn’t be the next one to die. Mit Huot gave a signal to the two executioners and I heard the order ring out from one of them. “Stay still, Lon Nol enemy! Don’t move your damned head!” A guerrilla immediately struck his victim in the skull with a heavy bamboo club. The first man slumped to the ground as the guerrilla then struck the second man. He fell over amidst the blood and brains splattered in front of the watching workers.
Still, no one dared to move or speak. Mit Huot glared at us for a moment, then darkly thundered, “Now, all of you, get back to work! Work like your lives depend on it!”
We worked harder than ever because we knew our lives did depend on it. Nonetheless, more innocent men were slaughtered in the weeks that followed. Some were killed because they failed to follow orders, others merely because they were suspected of disloyalty to Angkar. I prayed to Buddha to let me survive so I could tell people of the persecution suffered by Cambodians under these barbarians.
A couple of days later during the afternoon rest break, I saw two armed female guerrilla escort two workers whose hands were tied behind their backs in the manner that had become familiar to us all. The workers were brought to the front of the workers gathered near the base of the levee.
Mit Thol, the work foreman, announced, “You mit, don’t be surprised. These two are lazy. They pretend to be ill, yet our mit neary yothea found them walking into the bushes to forage for leaves, roots, and insects to eat while the rest of you are hard at work. And, when the bell rings for you to go to the communal kitchen to receive your rations, they are first in line. So, for the good of all of you and in the name of Angkar, we must get rid of them.”
He wasn’t finished. “They eat Angkar’s food but they don’t do Angkar’s work. We cannot have people like this at this worksite.”
One of the condemned workers began to cry like a child. “Mit Brother, I haven’t done anything wrong! Why are you going to kill me? I have a wife and children who will suffer without me. Please don’t kill me!”
Mit Thol didn’t pay much mind, instead shouting to his executioner, “Chop down these enemies of Angkar!”
We all recognized the guerrilla who stepped toward the two helpless workers. We’d seen him kill countless times before. He took a club to the back of the workers’ knees, forcing them to kneel. My fellow workers were biting their lips to keep from screaming at these devils in their black clothes.
A few moments later, Mit Thol yelled, “Kill them both!” The guerrilla wasted no time. We saw the excitement in his eyes, and knew he was enjoying his job. He walked up to the victims and with the same large bamboo club, deftly struck the head of the first, then the second worker. They both cried out as they fell to the ground. The two militia women dragged them away by their lifeless legs and dumped them into the large canal pit in front of us.
Every time an event like this happened, each of us was forced to consider our individual vulnerability. Each of our lives hung by a thread in Pol Pot’s regime, and there was nothing we could do in the face of the power of these ruthless people. As I walked past the two most recent victims in the pit, I heard the voices of other workers. “Where is justice?”
“Why must we die in such a savage manner?”
“Where is the Buddha? Where is He?”
I walked to the shelter wondering how many more killings I would witness at the April 17 canal and levee worksite before experiencing my own.
The next morning, Sovong and I were back hard at work by sunrise. We worked without conversation until the bell sounded for the afternoon meal. Everyone raced to secure their tools and head for their rations. I was finally able to relax for awhile in the shade and eat my meager fare. Sovong came over from the kitchen to sit beside me. He was badly sunburned and very tired. As he sat down, he looked from side to side at the food being eaten by the other workers. He whispered to me, “Mit Thy, have you noticed that this gruel we’ve been given today has only a few grains of rice? And look at the stew. Not one piece of fish. It’s just water, banana stalks, and salt! It’s like eating mud. It gets worse
every day. I’m always hungry so I eat it, but how am I going to have strength to dig?”
“Mit Sovong, stop complaining!” I snapped back at him. “If the guerrillas hear you we’ll both be killed.”
“You’re right, Mit Thy. We must be careful. There are two of the awful guerrillas coming toward us right now,” he said quietly.
After they passed by us, I told my friend, “Mit Sovong, while we’re still alive, we can’t lose hope. We have to have patience and hope this regime will soon go to hell.”
We finished the noon meal and the group leader called for a meeting before we returned to work. He spoke in a loud voice. “I want to remind you all that you must work hard to dig the canal and levee. I mean really, really hard, and then, even harder, because the supreme Angkar wants to see this canal finished as soon as possible! Remember, it was Angkar who liberated you from the claws of capitalism!” He always spoke in exclamations.
After the meeting, we had little choice but to work harder. Sovong and I were digging at the bottom of the canal where the heat was the most oppressive. As the time dragged on, our agony grew. At last, the group leader called a rest break. Some of the workers were too tired to leave the bottom of the canal. Other workers climbed to the top of the levee in hopes of finding a little breeze. Sovong and I followed them up, headed for a shade tree, and sat down to relax.
“Mit Thy, do you have some tobacco? Could I have one of your cigarettes?” Sovong asked.
I pulled out a small tobacco box made from palm leaves, and handed it to Sovong. He opened it and removed a thin leaf used as paper to roll a cigarette. There was no tobacco, only dried corn silk which Sovong patiently rolled up in the leaf. Cigarette lighters were among the many items Angkar had forbidden because they represented, in Angkar’s wisdom, the decadence of the former society. Being forbidden meant that Angkar’s soldiers were free to confiscate these items. As a substitute for a lighter, Sovong took out a small clay plate, a piece of flint, and a tiny container of charred wood. He struck the clay plate with the flint, sparking the charred wood. He then blew into the tiny box to make the coals inside glow, and used the flame to light his cigarette.