by Chileng Pa
As I returned the greeting to her, I thought of the respect I had for her. I felt blessed to be marrying a girl who had been born into a family rich in Cambodian traditions. My thoughts were interrupted when Chan removed my shoes from my feet as custom required. She knelt before me while a bridesmaid brought a silver bowl of water and held it beside her. The bowl is traditionally filled with the juice of a young coconut. For this ceremony, perfumed water with floating flower petals provided a lovely substitute.
Chan took a new white handkerchief, dipped it into the bowl, and wiped my feet three times in the traditional way. She then stood and performed another sampeah. At that point in the ceremony, tradition calls for the groom to give a ring to the bride as a symbol of prosperity. Sadly, as refugees with few belongings living under the care of the United Nations in Thailand, there were no rings to buy or borrow. Instead, I gave Chan Thai currency and she returned to her room. My heart pounded in my chest as we waited for the ceremony to proceed.
The ceremony continued with beautiful music and was conducted by an elder knowledgeable about Khmer traditions. The first song named “Raise the Curtain” was sung three times. It called the bride to come out from behind the curtain covering the door to her room and join in the wedding ceremony. When I and my fellow Cambodians hear this music, our emotions are stirred.
The curtain was finally pulled aside and Chan came out to join me on a straw mat placed before the elder. Chan’s sisters and all our friends were at our sides lighting the candles and incense. The elders instructed us to sit on the mat close to one another. A pillow was placed before us. We saluted the elder with the sampeah and, leaning forward with our pressed palms side by side on the pillow, we prayed for the blessings of our ancestors. We prayed for the spirits of our parents to accept and recognize us as a couple, bless our marriage, and wish us happiness in the future. And, before the spirits of our ancestors and our living family and friends, Chan and I made our wedding vows.
With the guidance of the elder, we completed each portion of the wedding prayers successfully. Several camp officials in attendance congratulated us and, with the others present, welcomed us into Khmer society as man and wife. A number of children watched our ceremony with interest because during the Khmer Rouge time traditional marriage traditions had virtually disappeared. I felt privileged to be part of a ceremony in which Cambodian traditions are passed from one generation to the next. As I was preoccupied with these thoughts, I became aware that Chan was furtively glancing at me.
When I returned her gaze she gave me a half smile. I was thinking how beautiful she was when we were both startled by the band playing a lively tune called “Bind the Wrists with Cotton Thread.” Tradition dictated that tying the wrists together bound a husband and wife until the end of life. This was our “Binding Day.” As the music played, the elder gave a final blessing for our future prosperity, instructing us to be faithful and loyal to one another. He then pronounced us husband and wife.
Our family and friends took pieces of white thread from a silver bowl and tied them around our wrists while they each wished us a happy life together. We both had tears of happiness for our marriage and sadness that our parents couldn’t be present, especially for the last stage of the wedding. But our feelings of grief passed as everyone around us was so happy for us. Our wedding concluded with a dinner feast held in the afternoon with friends, neighbors, and officials. As bride and groom, Chan and I sat on chairs greeting our guests.
After our greeting, Chan’s sisters and my friends escorted our guests to their tables. With the tables filled, we served Khmer cuisine as a tape recorder played traditional music. Our friends and guests enjoyed the food, Thai cocktails, and beverages, and we were all joined in happiness and pleasantries. Toward the end of the feast, Chan and I circulated among the tables, exchanging gifts and receiving blessings from our family, friends, and neighbors.
By sunset, our guests were gone and Chan and I walked to our new hut. We were deeply content because we each knew what it was to be intensely unhappy. We had fresh water to drink and to use for washing, enough food to eat, medical care, and clothing. More than anything, we were together.
In the days following, Chan’s family became my family. Her eldest sister, Chandy, had been married to a director at the Ministry of Information, a translator and frequent advisor to Prince Sihanouk. Chandy married in 1962 at the age of fourteen, and she had loved her husband very much. Now, in the refugee camp, she was broken-hearted, having watched her husband taken away to be killed and her four children starve to death. Chan’s second sister, Chanthol, was unmarried and was the unofficial head of the family. With them was their youngest brother, a boy of ten.
Chan and I were grateful for our lives, able to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner together and to spend every evening and night together. The past began to be something I considered the worst of my life. I hoped the future would be the best.
In January, 1980, the same month as my new life with Chan began, the United Nations negotiated agreements with Thailand to enlarge the refugee camps and greatly improve living conditions for the refugees. But a few months after we were married, the camp began to suffer from the same problems plaguing other camps. There were few police for security and Thai officials threatened the refugees on a daily basis, treating them like they were animals. Anyone standing by the fence was beaten with rifle butts, sometimes even to death. This was a daily occurrence. Thai workers took advantage of the refugees in a number of ways, extorting money and requiring sexual favors in exchange for the basic services refugees received. In addition, the crimes perpetrated on refugees increased in brutality.
The Thai weren’t able to control the refugees, either, and those able to resist the Thai did so. Violence grew, and the camp increasingly attracted criminals of all types who entered and exited the camp without fear of being caught. Social anarchy increased at Khao-I-Dang, and robbery, kidnapping, rape, and even murder became common, committed every night of every week. Life was also difficult because we didn’t have relatives or friends in another country to help support us. After much discussion with our family, Chan and I decided we would do everything possible to leave the camp.
In March, 1980, I was at a vendor’s stand having breakfast when, suddenly, I heard someone shouting my name. When I turned around, I saw my brother, Meng, eagerly pushing his way through the crowd toward me. With heavy sobs and open arms he grabbed me and held me tight. For several moments, we were unable to speak, so overcome with surprise and delight.
Finally, my brother spoke. “Oh Brother Leng! Are you real, my brother Leng?”
I paused to examine him from head to toe. I was laughing and weeping as I told him, “Yes, Meng, I’m your older brother!” We launched into a quick review of the events that had taken place since we’d been separated by the Khmer Rouge’s “liberation” of our country. He told me that my stepmother had been executed by the guerrillas, leaving him and our two younger brothers, Mhang and Leang, alone to fend for themselves. When I asked about Mhang and Leang, he told me they were here at the camp orphanage. They were now thirteen and eleven years old. At seventeen, Cheng was old enough to work, so he’d been taken in by another refugee family.
I was stunned. The news that all three of my brothers were here in the camp was overwhelming. Tears streamed down my cheeks as Meng related to me the horrors they’d had to face and how lucky they were to be alive. He was saddened but not shocked when I told them about the horrible deaths of my beloved Devi and little son.
Being reunited with my brothers was only one of the wonderful events that occurred to me at Khao-I-Dang. Seven months later, I was urgently summoned home from work to find my beautiful and very pregnant wife going into labor. Twenty-four hours later, on October 22, 1980, with the able assistance of a Thai midwife, Chan delivered a healthy baby girl with black hair, bright eyes, and a round face.
Sokhary immediately became the little princess of the family. Her needs ruled our lives and t
he lives of Chan’s sisters, who fought over baby-sitting her. Chan and I worked as much as we could and the days passed quickly. Our family had now expanded to include Chan’s sisters and brother, and my brothers, and our baby. We were grateful to have survived Pol Pot’s regime and we were happy together but we wanted more out of life. We wanted to be free. Finally, after many months, we were placed on a waiting list for emigration to the United States.
My wife and I often hiked to the top of the ridge overlooking Khao-I-Dang to watch the beautiful sunsets. My thoughts were always about our future. I prayed that we would all travel on a great wave of destiny that would carry our lives to freedom and paradise in America, which our countrymen spoke of as the land of freedom and peace. I was ever hopeful, and my longing for freedom grew stronger with each passing day.
As time passed and in contrast to my dream of freedom and heaven, the daily routine at the clinic became tedious. Opening and closing the clinic each day, keeping it clean, and stocking supplies for the doctors and nurses became repetitive and boring.
One morning, on my way to open the clinic, a neighbor yelled at me that he had good news: he’d seen my wife’s name listed among those scheduled for departure to the United States. I hurried to open the clinic and make sure all was in order, and then ran to the camp bulletin board where the names were posted. As I scanned the list my heart began to race, hoping that the neighbor had not been joking with me. Near the middle of the list I saw it.
There was Chan’s name and the rest of our names, including my brothers. By the time I ran to my hut, I was so out of breath I could hardly speak. Chan couldn’t make out what I was saying, whether I was bringing good news or bad. When I finally blurted out the words everyone in the family had gathered. All of us started jumping up and down, shouting with joy, “We’re going to America! We’re going to freedom! We’re going to paradise!”
My wife hugged me so hard I thought she would crush me. Everyone was happy, but Chan was the happiest. She had good reason to be excited. Her efforts on behalf of our family enabled us to emigrate to America. She was the one who had painstakingly helped everyone in the family complete the application process, detailing how our families had been decimated by the regime of the black clothed demons. She had personally contacted the American ambassador, imploring him to expedite our application. She had taken responsibility for finding a sponsor for our family in the United States.
As my wife and I broke our embrace and watched our happy family’s excitement grow our eyes met, both of us thinking of the loss of so many members of our families and fellow countrymen and women. The instant passed and we were hugging and kissing again. It was one of the happiest moments of my life. The day passed in a blur as clinic staff rejoiced with me and friends and neighbors dropped by to give their congratulations. We’d won the lottery!
After a great deal of celebrating with our family and friends, Chan and I stayed up late that night, too excited to sleep, discussing our past and planning our future.
At one point my wife said to me, “Bong, this is such an achievement for us all! I’m thrilled that my work has been rewarded. Our parents would be so happy if they were alive to see this day. Now, we will no longer have to suffer as refugees. We will no longer be threatened every night by the Thai sentries and the gangs of bandits. We won’t have to worry that we’ll be the next family victimized after the United Nations workers leave every afternoon. And we won’t have to worry about Thai workers taking advantage of us.”
Her face was shining. “I’m so tired of having to buy food that’s supposed to be given to us and then to find that it’s spoiled. I’m happy for us that we’re leaving here but, Bong, I’m unhappy for our friends who must remain until they find their names on the list.”
As she spoke, she nursed our little Sokhary. She was a beautiful young woman and I truly loved her but I couldn’t escape memories of watching Devi nurse Sokhanarith. I felt so guilty for being alive when they were dead. I don’t know if I was trying to assuage my guilt or if Devi’s spirit was actually speaking to me, but I heard her whisper, “Love her, love her, Bong, love. Enjoy your new life, and be free. Tell the world about your life and what has happened to all of us.”
“Why are you crying, Bong?” said Chan.
“I’m crying tears of happiness, sweet love, because I have you as my wife, and because our beautiful daughter will grow up in freedom,” I told her.
May 18, 1981 was the lucky day our family was to depart from Khao-I-Dang camp for Chonburi Transit Center, sixty miles west. All together, we were ten: my wife and daughter, her two older sisters and younger brother, my three brothers, an older man we called “uncle,” and myself. “Uncle” had been alone in the refugee camp and asked if we would include him in our family. We did so gladly, happy for the presence of another adult man in such a large group of women and children.
We were so anxious to leave that we were up and packed by the time the sun rose in the east, oblivious to us and our concerns. When the first light hit the treetops, we carried our possessions to the bus stop where we waited with our fellow travelers. Before the buses arrived, United Nations and Thai agency officials began processing each family’s paperwork for leaving the camp, then calling for the head of each family and assigning seats on the bus. Since Chan had completed our family’s paperwork, she was considered the head of our family.
I stood behind my wife, my heart beating hard against my chest as I anticipated my wife’s name being called. I prayed that no one had bribed the corrupt Thai officials to replace our names on the departure list. Several of my fellow travelers had been confronted by Thai officials demanding money to keep their names on the list. Those who couldn’t afford the extortion were replaced by those who could.
But this hadn’t happened to us, possibly because of the higher level jobs Chan and I had in the camp. Whatever the reason, I was glad, and also relieved to finally hear Chan’s name called. The buses were just arriving as we got our seat assignments, and we eagerly climbed aboard.
After the buses were full, a last minute roll call was taken and we were off to the Chantabury Transit Center. We slept much of the trip but were jolted awake when the caravan came to a halt at the Center in the late afternoon. Final processing continued for three days while we waited for our flight to the United States of America. It was a time of excitement and trepidation for all of us.
On May 21, 1981, the wave of destiny moved my family forward another step. That morning, we again stood in line to be identified, then boarded a bus bound for Bangkok, the capital city of Thailand. We encountered increasing traffic, the morning commuters slowing our progress to a crawl. As we inched along with cars honking their horns all around us, we peered through the windows of the bus, amazed to see so many prosperous people in one place. For so long, we’d seen only starkness and starvation.
We arrived at the airport at ten in the morning and were met by bilingual Thai workers. They guided our busload of refugees to the Northwest Airlines terminal. We waited anxiously for our flight number to be called, worried because we didn’t have any idea what to expect on our journey to the United States, nor did any of us speak English beyond a few words like “yes” and “no.”
My wife kept asking me when we’d be riding the huge airplane and I kept saying, “Soon, honey, very soon. Just be patient.” I paced back and forth in front of my wife and the family, making them more nervous. In the waiting area, businessmen and tourists familiar with air travel stood patiently and confidently, while those of us unfamiliar with international travel waited apprehensively.
In about half an hour, our flight was announced over the loudspeakers. We didn’t understand but we followed the others as they formed a line. The first class passengers were called first, then they began calling for the refugee passengers. In a few minutes, they called our section. My wife and I slowly led our family toward the door that would lead us to America, Chan holding our daughter, and me the bag of paperwork.
; After they checked our documentation, we stepped out of the terminal. I was stunned. The airplane was the biggest I had ever seen and I was about to ride on it. It was so tall, the wings so long, and the engines as big as smaller planes. The line moved slowly forward, passengers climbing up the steep, tall stairs leading to the airplane. Slowly we climbed, my wife and I, holding hands. She didn’t say anything to me, just as I didn’t say anything to her. We simply glanced at one another. As we entered the plane, I felt the air-conditioned breeze and a smell different from anything that I’d ever smelled before, like a clean house or orchids in an open field.
The flight attendant greeted us with a nod of her head and said something. I didn’t understand. She pointed to our places in the middle of the plane and we nervously headed there. I couldn’t believe how nice the seats were. We put our things into the overhead bins and, finally, sat down. Sinking into the soft, comfortable chair, I thought about how long it had been since I sat in a nice seat, not since before the Khmer Rouge regime.
My wife breastfed our daughter, then handed her to my older sister-in-law sitting behind us. I fastened my seat belt, checked my wife’s, and told everyone in my family to relax. We’d be fine when this big airplane took off. But I was still worried, afraid that my family would—even at this last moment—be taken off the airplane and replaced by another family able to bribe the Thai officials. We’d heard that refugees who protested were taken to Phnom Dong Rek, where they were forced across land filled with landmines back toward the border with Cambodia.
So, nervously, we sat inside the airplane like sitting inside a house, waiting for everyone to board. There were announcements we didn’t comprehend. Then, I heard a loud “thump” and noticed they’d closed the door of the airplane. I felt pressure building in my ears as more incomprehensible announcements came over the speakers.
The plane began moving slowing away from the terminal. There was a slow buildup of noise as the engines warmed up. A few minutes later we were on the runway, ready to take off. Then, the plane’s engines revved up, the plane began to move slowly, and then rapidly sped up. The sound of the engines grew louder and louder. I held my wife’s hand tightly and my little girl began to cry. Suddenly, the plane was airborne. I could hear the engines laboring as the airplane continued up though the white banks of clouds, climbing into the blue sky.