This herd of half-dressed and naked children, ages two to nine, are unlike anything I have ever seen. The poorest of the poor. Their clothes are ragged, beyond old, the color faded beyond recognition. So many patches have been sewn haphazardly atop each other that their garments are thick and bulky. These are not typical country children but a postrevolutionary product. Dirt is a uniform, and everyone seems to need a bath. The youngest ones approach with noses encrusted with soot and snot.
As filthy and disadvantaged as they seem, their fascination with the tires strikes me as weirdly out of place. It irritates me, at first, to watch them act so silly over something as basic as a scooter tire. I am repulsed, recoiling from these children, some even my own age, as they continue to chase us. It never occurs to me that for many this might be the first time they’ve ever seen a motorized vehicle.
5
There Are No Good-byes
The New York Times
May 2, 1977
“Refugees Depict Grim Cambodia Beset by Hunger”
BY DAVID A. ANDELMAN
The purges that took hundreds of thousands of lives in the aftermath of the Communist capture of Phnom Penh on April 17, 1975, have apparently ended for the most part, according to the informants. But the new system is said to function largely through fear, with the leadership making itself felt at local levels through what is described as “the organization.”
We’re met by the familiar smells of the country, and I’m cast back into the past. I breathe deeply, taking in the sweet stench of urine, animal dung, and hay—a powerful formula that reminds me of the times when Pa brought me to visit Kong (Grandpa) Houng, Yiey (Grandma) Khmeng, and Yiey Tot (Great-grandmother). I glance down and realize how far I am from Phnom Penh.
Along the path lie flat pools and small hills of verdant, runny dung left by cows, water buffalo, and oxen. I stare at the random drops as Pa maneuvers the motorbike around them. It is a crude landscape, where mud and dirt and dung are a fact of life. Houses are built on stilts. Children play not in the dusty road but in the field. Roads are where they go to collect dung for the rice fields.
Pa and I arrive at Kong Houng’s house before sunset. The hum of the scooter announces our approach. Waiting to greet us is Aunt Cheng, along with other local people I don’t recognize. As she carefully makes her way down the steep oaken stairs, Aunt Cheng smiles her familiar, ever-present smile, almost a trademark. Her thick black hair is shorter than the last time I saw her—it’s been snipped from waist length to her chin. As in Phnom Penh, she wears a white blouse with a flowered sarong.* She smiles brightly at me, then asks, “Athy, where is everybody, your mother?”
“Mak’s at Yiey Narg’s house. Everybody will come here tomorrow.”
I quickly survey my new surroundings. A barn is used as storage for generous mountains of unhusked rice; bundles of hay are stacked near it, and among the fruit trees nearby, a large, branched tamarind tree stretches to the heavens, almost as tall as the barn.
I stand in front of the stairs, looking at a place that was once familiar but now seems strange, for I haven’t seen it for five years, half of my life. The house is built on large pilings. Compared with the homes of other country people, my grandfather’s house is big; the wooden stairs and a banister skim down the left side. My grandparents are relatively well-to-do people by local standards. They own many cattle and much of the farmland around Year Piar and other villages as well. On earlier visits, I can remember my grandmother explaining how Kong Houng would have to go away to collect “rent” from farmland in remote villages. Often the payment came in the form of rice. His success was achieved through hard work, a family tradition. His parents before him had farmed, acquiring property with time and patience.
When the Khmer Rouge came, they ordered him as well as his younger brother, Kong Lorng, to give up their property. When they refused, both were tied up and sentenced to be executed. In any society, whether it’s capitalist, socialist, or communist, connections do pay off—they were saved by a relative who knew someone who knew Ta Mok, the infamous one-legged man who is one of the Khmer Rouge highest-ranking military officials, overseeing executions.
“Athy, Athy.”
I look for the eager voice calling my name, only to find a familiar face smiling at me.
“Than!” I croon. I didn’t know how much I loved my brother until we were separated.
He looks different than the last time I saw him in Phnom Penh, only two weeks ago. My last image of Than was of him leaving with Uncle Surg to retrieve my aunts, grandmother, and cousins during the chaotic days before evacuation.
I study him. His hair is shorter, and he is darker, the pigment drawn from walking in the sun many days. A peasant color, I think, like that of the local farmers.
Than makes his way downstairs as he holds the railing, watching his step and smiling brightly. I walk toward the stairs, elated to see my old sparring partner, despite the way we used to constantly fight. I’ve missed him, and the thought surprises me. I realize that I once thought I would never see him again, and my honest acceptance of this shocks me.
If it was permitted within our culture to embrace, I would have thrown my arms around him. But that’s only appropriate for someone older who comforts someone younger. Instead, Than tells me to hold on to the stair railing, his own shyness eliciting affection as we both climb into the house. In two large spherical bamboo baskets are different Cambodian desserts wrapped in banana leaves. Also, in colorful steel platters are pieces of dark, sweet glutinous rice with fresh grated coconut and sesame seeds scattered on top. After Yiey Narg’s modest fare, this is sumptuous. This is Cambodian tradition, greeting guests with a sprawling bounty. With Than around, my appetite seems to kick in. He’s good medicine.
“Thy, you can eat as much as you want. They made all of these desserts for our family. They made a lot when I came with Poo Surg.”
Than’s voice energizes me, like sugar on my tongue.
“Let’s go see the banana trees. Hurry, pick something, let’s go!” he urges me.
Than’s separation from us seems to have had no effect on him whatsoever; or maybe he’s just happy that it is over. Than persists, “Athy, do you want to see pineapples and bananas?” His eyes are wide. “There are a lot in the orchard. I’ll take you there. And there’s also a well, and it’s deep. You want to go now?”
Before I answer, Than helps me grab some dessert. We hurry to the orchard.
I’m in awe of the lush green pineapples that flourish everywhere in the shade of fruit trees and along the path to the well. Pineapple plants grow bigger than a child, and rising among the long, thorny leaves are the pineapple buds. Some are about the size of a fist, while others grow two or three times that size. Never have I seen such a thing.
I’m still spellbound by the beauty and abundance of the pineapples, but Than is already at the well, like a happy dog wiggling his tail at the prospect of something intriguing. Than calls to me, “Look in there, Athy, you can see your shadow in the water during the daytime.”
Surrounding the well are more pineapples, then bananas scattered in rows with long green leaves and buds sprouting out of their trunks. From the barn to the well are tall-branched lamut trees, full with their rough-skinned fruit, that are the color and shape of kiwi. The fruits are still green, but abundant.
“Can we pick lamut?” I ask Than.
“You want some?” Than’s eyes glow, his eyebrows raised.
“Yeah!” My eyes widen. On the road, fresh fruit was not to be found, and lamut is one of my favorites.
Than and I hurry back to the house so he can show me where he has kept his private stash, the ones hidden in a rice barrel to ripen.
The next day is a homecoming. Mak, Aunt Heak, her two sons, and my sisters and brothers roll into Year Piar in rumbling oxcarts, joining other relatives who have already arrived. Their final arrival seems to mark a family reunion for my grandparents, who look relieved. Now, five of their seven children have r
eturned home with their families. In my own family there are ten of us. The other families consist of my aunts, uncles, and cousins, totaling twenty-nine people, including my grandparents. We now share three large bedrooms. The crowding is not bad, but the lack of electricity bothers me.
Later in the week, more homecoming. Most of Mak’s side of the family. Mak’s parents as well as her sisters and brothers and their families. Fourteen altogether, too many people for Kong Houng to accommodate even in his large home. Sensitive to their situation, Mak’s parents and siblings elect to turn the rice storage area into their makeshift home. Everyone learns to cope.
After dinner Chea, Ra, Ry, and I rest in our room, surrounded by our belongings, which lean against the walls like weary travelers. Listening to Chea, Ra, and Ry talk is like a balm. All of a sudden Chea jumps up. She scurries to her school briefcase to look for her watch.
“You guys, it’s almost time for the Voice of America.” Chea’s eyes widen. “Ra, where’s the radio?”
Ry and I jump up as Chea and Ra locate the radio near one of the suitcases.
“Athy,” Chea exclaims anxiously, “go get Pa.”
In a minute I have Pa with me, along with Mak, Than, my aunts and uncles, and Grandma, all crowded into the room and the doorway. Already Chea is fumbling for the Voice of America’s frequency. The static crackles loudly.
“Achea, turn it down,” Pa says, knitting his eyebrows.
The faint, brassy strains of American music come through—the theme song of the Voice of America.
“This is the Voice of America in Khmer,” a man’s voice announces in English. Then a woman comes on, speaking in Cambodian: “From the city of Washington, I’m…Ladies and gentlemen, please listen to the events that have taken place in Cambodia….”
At first I find comfort in her voice, for she connects us to the world, unveiling facts, or what the broadcast claims to have happened. But that sense of comfort is brief. I become nervous when I notice Pa frowning. Then everyone else—Chea, Ra, my aunts and uncles—all look anxious, sad. They glance at Pa after he sighs. He is a thermometer for our fear.
“Achea, turn the radio off,” Mak orders. “They’ll suspect us.”
Chea throws Mak a glance, but her hand doesn’t obey. Mak strides toward the radio and reaches to turn it off.
“Not yet,” Pa cries, raising his hand to shield Mak from the radio.
Then Kong Houng’s head peeks through the door. He nervously whispers, “There’s someone standing below the house listening. He stands right underneath this room,” he points, stabbing at the floor, with its wide gaps. “It’s a chhlop.* You’d better be careful.”
Pa turns to his father. Mak quickly reaches over and flips the switch off. She disconnects us from the outside world but links us to the mask of horror on her face. By then my father has digested what his father just said.
The next day a Khmer Rouge cadre seizes the radio, his simple black uniform a mark of his authority. He says the radio now belongs to the commune. All I know is fear. At night, following the chhlop’s eavesdropping, I’m afraid to speak to my sisters, even to utter words like “hand me the blanket,” as if whispering anything at all will cause trouble or bring bad luck.
At night I lift the mat below me and look through the spaces between the floorboards to see if a chhlop is beneath the house, lurking like a demon. Sure enough, I see the shadow of a person standing in a dark corner of the house just below our bedroom. Quickly I drop the mat, recoiling as if I’ve just scorched my fingers on a hot iron. I snuggle closer to Chea.
Within a few days of our arrival, Year Piar Khmer Rouge leaders, who were formerly my grandparents’ employees or tenants, order my father and uncles to work in the name of Angka Leu. The office for Pa is now replaced by an empty field. A hoe, woven baskets, and a carrying stick replace pens and paper. They order the newly arrived men to dig dirt, to build water canals for no pay, in order to advance their revolution.
After dinner, the evening breeze brings my relatives and me to the solid oak bed—a heavy slab of wood, really—which has been brought outside and down the stairs. With the heat and fieldwork, the men seek relief, yearning for a cool breeze the way some men thirst for a quenching drink of water.
It is here that Pa shares his thoughts and feelings about his first day of labor for the Khmer Rouge. “These people are dumb,” he mutters, shaking his head. “They use educated people to dig dirt, the kind of work people without education can do.”
“In this era,” he says, his mouth widening into a smile, “all you need do to pass an exam is know how to dig dirt.”
Some of us join in with light laughter.
Mak looks around. “Your father is careless about what he says,” she warns. “If they hear what he says, we will be in trouble. Joking without thinking.” Mak gives Pa her patented look of disapproval. Everyone knows what it means.
Mak’s words erase our smiles. Pa glances around us. “Let’s stop talking,” he says softly. “Nowadays, walls have ears.”
Already the Khmer Rouge, the phantoms of the jungle, seem ubiquitous. They are like flies buzzing around us, everywhere but invisible. They are the breeze that ruffles the banana trees, unseen but powerful.
Angka is now the master of our destiny, it seems. The next morning Khmer Rouge order us to attend a meeting. A meeting for “new people,” we are told. As recent arrivals, most of my family must attend except Mak, who stays home to look after Vin, Map, and Avy.
We dress as if we were going to visit the Buddhist temple or attend school. I hold my father’s hand as we journey to this meeting on foot. Pa wears a white short-sleeved shirt with slacks, and I wear my school uniform. After we walk about four miles, we come to a large open field, filled with people dressed in spring clothes—they are not local villagers. There are hundreds of them, and everyone squats or sits on the ground on plastic material or cloth. Together we look like nicely dressed vagabonds, surprised to find we have put on good clothes only to sit in the dirt.
I shake my father’s hand. “Pa, people sit on the ground.”
“Pa knows.”
We are struck by this churning mass of people sitting on the ground like mushrooms. In the bright pulsing sun we squint, blocking the rays with hands shelved above our eyes, an unintended salute. I gaze at the bulging body of people, sweeping over the scene again and again like a surveillance camera taking snapshots of intruders. In my wildest dreams, I could never have visualized such a meeting, a goofy, dressed-up tribal gathering, a trip back in time.
I glare at Pa. Why must we sit on the ground and obey the Khmer Rouge? We can’t just obey them. We don’t owe them our respect. Deep in my heart, there’s a fire. I feel that if I sit down, I will forever give in to the Khmer Rouge. In my mind I shout, You cannot tell me what to think!
For the first time, I’m defiant, very angry at the Khmer Rouge who are shaping my life as well as my family’s. I am no longer sad or afraid. Now I know the taste of anger, for I know I don’t want to be in this whirlpool of darkness without reason, yet I get sucked into it.
Behind a mile of people, Pa squats, sitting on his heels, and I stand by him. The rest of my family squats near us. Pa tells me to sit down. I answer with a single sharp shake of my head.
I don’t want to dirty my clothes, I don’t want to listen to them, I don’t like them. Anger boils in me. Internally, I take it out on my father as I squint defiantly at the makeshift stage, glaring at the Khmer Rouge in their stupid black uniforms and ugly tire sandals. As much as I loathe their backward revolution because it has threatened my safety and security, I dislike their stage even more. A deck covered with gray roofing with two beams in front, each mounted with bell-shaped loudspeakers. It seems a false altar to their power.
Finally the loudspeakers squawk, followed by a man’s commanding voice: “Comrades, now we are all equal. There are no longer rich and poor. WE ARE EQUAL. WE ALL WEAR BLACK UNIFORMS.”
Black? I look at my clothes, then at
Pa. He cracks a smile.
“We fought the ‘American imperialists’ with bare hands, and took victory over them. We’re brave…. Chey yo [Long live] Democratic Kampuchea, chey yo, chey yo…. Para chey [Down with] the ‘American imperialists,’ para chey, para chey.”
Since we are merely the Khmer Rouge’s puppets, we are supposed to do the same, shouting “chey yo” with our fists stabbing upward into the air. Then “para chey” with our fists stabbing downward.
Even at nine years of age, I recognize that this meeting is deceptive. How can these Khmer Rouge leaders blindly say things that many of us, even children, already know to be false. What are their intentions?
After a few hours of listening to numbing chants under the hot sun, I know only that I feel a defiant seed sprouting deep within me. The entire time, I never sink into the dirt. It is a small act, but an important one.
The next day my asthma returns. As always, Pa is my doctor—he’s there for me, checking my breathing, listening to my lungs, trying to make things better as my chest rides up and down, struggling for air. At night before going to sleep, Pa listens to my labored breathing again, then gives me medicine one more time. As always, Pa has a way of putting things right. Good father that he is, he smiles warmly, then says, “Koon, when your medicine is gone, let’s stop getting sick, okay?”
I look into Pa’s eyes and know what he means.
Since I’ve been sick, Pa has me sleep outside downstairs, sharing the oak bed sandwiched between him and Kong Houng. The next evening as I sleep, I hear Pa’s voice calling my name, and then his hand gently touches my face.
“Athy, koon, do you have difficulty breathing? Sit upright if you do.”
When Broken Glass Floats: Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge Page 7