First They Killed My Father (33 page)

“Here’s one for you, Chou, and one for Kim.” Shyly, I step toward him and extend one arm. “Sorry, little girl. I have only enough for my family. I have none extra for you.” My face burns with shame and embarrassment. My own uncle does not recognize me. He thinks I’m a street girl begging for food.

“Uncle,” Meng says laughingly, “it’s Loung.”

“Oh, here’s one for you then,” surprised, Uncle Leang smiles.

Chou, Kim, and I sit pressed against one other on the back of the bike, holding onto Uncle Leang. We are returning to Ma’s childhood home without her. At Bat Deng, everyone is happy to see us. Uncle Leang and his family still live in the same hut they did when we stayed with them. The first thing Uncle Leang’s wife, Aunt Keang does is to take off our dirty black clothes and give us new ones. She puts me in a shirt and pants the color of a blue sky. The clothes shimmer as they touch my skin softly, making me feel nice and light—transformed! In the back of the hut, I watch Aunt Keang throw our dirty clothes into an aluminum bowl and soak them with water. She then sprinkles a handful of white powdered detergent in the water and begins to scrub my clothes. I watch in fascination as the clear water becomes gray and then black as the detergent does its work.

When Khouy and Meng arrive on foot two hours later, they tell our story and Aunt Keang cries when she hears what has happened to us. They want the two of them to tell them over and over again about all that has happened. At Krang Truop, Uncle Leang’s family is considered to be a base family because they have lived in the same village since the prerevolutionary days. As my family talks about the war, I pretend to have no memory of it. They do not ask me about my experiences. In our culture, it is enough that the oldest child relates the family’s story. Children are not asked for opinions, feelings, or what they individually endure. I do not volunteer information about my
indoctrination as a soldier, escape from being raped, or how I lost three days of my life when I found out about Ma. For a long time I needed to hold on to the memories because they made me angry. My rage made me strong and resilient. Now, however, enclosing the memories in my heart and mind is unendurable.

Often I walk away from their chatter, but sometimes I just sit quietly and listen. Through their conversations, I learn that Bat Deng, my uncles’ village in the Kompong Speu province was liberated by the Youns weeks before Pursat province. Furthermore, the Khmer Rouge cadres were different in every province. In the eastern provinces, the Khmer Rouge cadres were more moderate and humane: the work hours were generally shorter, the food rations were larger, and the soldiers did not kill the villagers indiscriminately. In Bat Deng, Uncle Leang’s and Uncle Heang’s families were allowed to live together. Though many new people who resettled in their village were taken away and never heard from again, my family’s status as base people protected them from the killings. In the Pursat province where we lived, the cadres were among the most brutally insane. “And your mother,” Uncle Leang says, shaking his head, “two more months, just two more months, and she would have made it.”

Hearing this, I get up quickly and leave them. I walk to the new town market that has sprung up since the Youns came. There is no monetary system in place, so rice is used as currency. To go shopping, people bring a bag of rice with them and use it to barter for the items they want. I have no rice with which to buy anything, but still I weave my way around, remembering Phnom Penh. Unlike in Phnom Penh, this market is a gathering in a field. There are no tents selling eight-track tape players, imported vinyl pants, or hair-coloring cream, nor are there elaborate stalls glistening with dangling gold or silver necklaces and bracelets. Here in Bat Deng’s market, long homemade wooden tables display dried fish, slabs of pork, yellow naked chickens, green beans, white corn, red tomatoes, orange mangoes, ripe guava, papayas, and some precooked food. Those with the most “currency” can cross from the food section to the book section, where old Khmer, Chinese, French, or English dictionaries and novels can be bought with several kilograms of rice.

The market here thrives because most people did not have to leave their homes and are therefore already settled. Our family is poor and survives by farming a small plot of land. With a heavy heart, I walk through the market taking in the smell of all the delicious food. My feet stop at a stall that sells pork dumplings. Pork dumplings will always remind me of Ma. It was her favorite food. “Two more months and she would have made it!” my mind screams. “Why couldn’t she hold on for two more months? Did Ma do something stupid and get caught? Did she complain about her work? Did Geak cry for Pa too loudly and too often? They must have let their weakness show. What did they do?” My eyes burn into the dumplings. Anger rises up in me because I resent and blame my mother for not holding on for two more months. Eight weeks, sixty days, 1,400 hours more, and she would have made it.

A few weeks later, my uncle arranges a marriage for Meng. His bride’s name is Eang and she is in her early twenties. Eang was in school during the evacuation of Phnom Penh and was separated from her family. She does not know where they are, or even if they are alive. Aunt Keang says not only is Eang Chinese but she is very clever and smart as well, and truly believes she is the right wife for Meng. Aunt Keang tells Meng he is the head of our family now and needs a wife to help look after us while he works. A week after they meet, they are married. There is no big celebration, only a small ceremony. It all happens in one day. Then it is over and life resumes as before.

Each morning, Meng, Kim, and the male cousins work with Uncle Leang on the small farm in back of their hut. They grow potatoes, onions, leeks, beans, and tomatoes. But the land is dry, having been neglected during the Khmer Rouge rule, and produces hardly any fruit. Khouy occasionally works as a laborer, helping people carry and load heavy bags of cloth, fruit, and rice from their wagon to the new market for a small fee. Eang and the female cousins stay at home and make crêpes, sweet cakes, and cookies from corn and wheat, which we exchange for rice.

Chou, the younger cousins, and I sell what they make in the market. We have no stall, no chairs, no cart, and no tables. Balancing our wicker baskets on our hips, we walk barefoot around the new market in our blue outfits, yelling out our goods of the day. We sell mostly to
other vendors, collecting twelve ounces of rice for five sweet cakes or ten cookies. When I see a well-dressed woman entering the market, I rush to her. Smiling widely, I lift my basket to my chest, hoping to catch her eye. I stare at the red ruby earrings draped from her ears and, for a moment, the wind is knocked out of me. “Ma,” my mind whispers, and I walk nearer to her. The woman raises her hand and waves me out of her way. Ignoring me, she passes by. My eyelashes moisten; my smile fades.

For three months, we live our lives this way in Bat Deng. Then one day, a lady comes in to town looking for Eang. She is Chinese and in her thirties. She says she has come from Vietnam to search for Eang. When Eang sees the woman, her face wrinkles up and bursts into tears. It is one of her sisters! They rush into each other’s arms and hug for a long time. They stand there, crying and saying very little to each other.

“Mother and father are alive and well in Vietnam,” she tells Eang, “as is your oldest sister. Our brother is missing and believed to be dead. During the evacuation, we went over into Vietnam and have been living there ever since. We thought you were dead!” The next day, Eang and Meng leave for Vietnam. The economy in Cambodia is bad and Meng thinks maybe there will be work in Vietnam. With or without Eang, he says, he will return in a few days.

The days pass slowly as we wait for Meng’s return. Our family continues to live as before, with the men working on the farm and the girls selling food in the market. At night, Chou and I sit outside the hut looking at the road until the sky darkens and our aunt orders us in to go to sleep. Each day that Meng is gone, my anxiety grows, and I wonder if he will ever come back. Sensing my fear, Kim tells me the route Meng took to Vietnam is very safe, and does not cross any Khmer Rouge zones. Still, I worry. But true to his word, he returns alone four days later. Sitting inside the hut with the family, Meng talks excitedly about Vietnam, Saigon, and Eang’s family. Most of all, he talks about leaving Cambodia and going to America.

Meng tells our uncles that many Cambodians are leaving the country for Thailand in search of new life and to escape the war. Furthermore, they fear the Khmer Rouge might come to power again and kill more people until no one is left. Many Cambodians are trekking on
foot to the north, crossing dangerous mined fields and Khmer Rouge control zones, with little food and water, to go to Thailand. Many people step on landmines and die on the way or are captured by the Khmer Rouge.

He says the safer way to go to Thailand is via Vietnam. In Vietnam, Meng explains, the human smuggling operation, or leaving the country without papers, is illegal. If we are caught being part of the operation as either an abettor or a refugee, the Vietnamese government could take our gold and throw us in jail for five years.

“It will be very costly,” he informs us. “We cannot all afford to go. It costs ten ounces of gold to buy a seat on a small boat that will take us from Vietnam to the Thai refugee camp. He says Eang’s family knows the person running this human export operation. With money from the rest of the family and after selling Ma’s remaining jewelry, we only have enough money for two to go.”

Uncle Leang puts his hand on Meng’s shoulder. “Your Pa is gone, Meng, so you are now the head of our family. Your life is not your own anymore. You have a family to take care of,” he says quietly.

“Uncle, I
am
doing this for the family. I will take Loung with me. She is still young enough to go to school, get an education, and make something of herself.” Though the younger children studied French in Phnom Penh, Pa made Meng and Khouy study English. As a result Meng is already fluent in English. Once in America, Meng’s plan is to work hard and send money to the family. He will save and build a home, and in five years send for the rest of the family. Uncle Leang still has his doubts, but it is decided that Meng and I will leave at the end of the week.

At the rooster’s cry, our family gathers outside the hut to say good-bye to us. While Meng says farewell to our relatives, I stand with Chou, holding on to her hand. One by one, our aunts and cousins come up to me and touch my hair, my arms, and my back. Meng ties our bags onto the backseat of his bicycle and lifts me up onto it. I straddle our bags, finally as tall as the adults, and look down at Chou. She stares up at me and cries, her lips quivering and her face crumpled. Our hands reach for one another and we hold on a few seconds more. I do not know how to say good-bye, so I say nothing. No matter what, I
am determined not to cry. Chou has this luxury; everyone expects her to. I am strong, so I cannot cry. I will never understand how Chou ever survived the war.

Meng gets on his bike and slowly begins to peddle, breaking Chou’s hold on my hand. They are all in tears now as they wave good-bye to us. I do not turn around. I know they will not leave until we are out of their sight. I grit my teeth and fight back the tears. “Five years,” I think as we ride away. “In five years I will see them again.”

I return to Phnom Penh on the back of Meng’s bike, my heart beating wildly as I absorb the sights and sounds of the city. Nothing looks the way I remember it. The buildings are charred from fires and their walls riddled with bullet holes. The streets are covered with litter and filled with cavernous potholes. There are many bicycles and cyclos but few trucks. Gone are the tall, leafy, lustrous flowered trees that lined the wide boulevards. Instead, tall brown palms and coconut trees provide little shade for the dry, crumbling city. Though the palm trees are heavy with fruit, I see no people climbing to get it. People say the Khmer Rouge buried corpses next to them and now the palm milk is pink like thin blood and the fruit tastes like human flesh. Makeshift tents, no longer confined to the poor areas, sprout all over the city. There are people living everywhere, in alleys, in streets, in crumbling buildings and tents. Many are farmers and rural villagers. They moved to the city to look for work because their land is littered with landmines. They come to Phnom Penh to escape the Khmer Rouge, who still control parts of the countryside. They arrive and take up residence in the deserted homes. The memory of our life here comes flooding back to me.

“Eldest brother,” I call out to Meng. In the Chinese culture, young children never call their elder siblings by name as it is considered improper and disrespectful. “Eldest brother, will you show me our old house?”

“It’s not what it used to be. It is broken down with bullet holes everywhere, but we will go there,” he answers and continues peddling. He tells me he went to see it when he came through the city with Eang and her sister on their way to Vietnam. He says someone is living in our apartment now. There are no documents kept on people’s property from before the takeover in 1975. So whoever arrived first and set up residence in houses or apartments can claim them as theirs. He says it is no longer our home. Still, I want to see the place where I remember feeling joy and happiness. I want to ask him more about our former home, but Meng is quiet now, lost in his own thoughts. The stench of the city and its trash seeps into my nose making me want to pinch it, but I do not. Instead I hold on tight to Meng as he steers the bike abruptly left and right to avoid the holes in the road.

We arrive at the water port late in the afternoon, but the sun is still hot and beats down on us. Meng holds the bike for me to jump off and tells me stay where I am as he disappears into a crowd of people with his bike. Vendors yell out their products to people passing by. In the sun, the fish scales on the seafood vendors’ arms and faces sparkle and shimmer, reflecting the sunlight. On the rows of tables, big and small fish alike flap their tails on blocks of ice underneath them. It is October: the end of the rainy season and start of the dry season. Meng says that when it’s hot, the water in the ocean goes down, so the fish move farther out to sea and are harder to catch; therefore, the fish displayed here are more expensive than usual.