My legs hurt and my body aches from the walk, but physical pain does not matter anymore. My mind wanders to Pa, Ma, and Geak, and I become deaf to the conversations around me. Pa cared about politics. I am too young to understand Pol Pot’s strategies for creating a classless pure agrarian society. I do not know why Pol Pot did what he did when he made us leave Phnom Penh, gave us very little food, or took Pa away from me. All I know is if the Youns invading Kampuchea could have saved Pa, Ma, Keav, and Geak, I wished they would have come sooner.
After we eat more of our chicken, Chou spreads one blanket on the grass and I roll up the scarves to use as pillows. We have settled in the middle of an open field that sits at the edge of a forest.
“The open field,” one man says, “is safe from the Youns’ crushing monster.”
“Met Pou,” I ask a comrade uncle curiously, “what is this crushing monster?”
“You don’t know?” he asks, incredulous. I shake my head in reply. “No one has actually seen it, but they say it is like a wild monster and nothing can destroy it. It is part machine, part man, but very evil. It is bigger than a hut and can shoot out flames and bombs. It has many wheels for legs and rolls across the land like thunder, destroying everything in its path. It can smash trees, rocks, metal, everything. Nothing can destroy it!”
My eyes open wide as I learn of this evil machine, wondering if it is sitting in the woods waiting for us.
“So it is safer for us to be in the open so we can see it approaching and run out of its way?” I ask as my knees go weak and my imagination creates images of the crushing monster chasing after us.
“Chou, let’s move into the middle of the crowd,” I plead with her as I grab her hand. Kim frowns at us as we repack our bundles and get ready to move.
“It’s not a monster. That man does not know what he is talking about. He is a farmer who’s never left his village until now and probably has never even seen a car, so he wouldn’t know what a tank looks like. It’s a huge machine that a man drives like a car.” He tries to reassure us but it does not work.
“Does it roll over trees, houses, and metal? Does it destroy everything in its path?” I question him.
“Yes, but—”
“Does it shoot out fire and bombs?”
“Yes, but … all right, we’ll move.” Kim sighs and picks up his bags. Making our way into the maze of many thousands of people, we move to a spot in the middle of the crowd and set up for the night.
“Now we won’t be the first one to get crushed by the monster,” I say and Chou nods in agreement. Kim smiles and shakes his head, dropping his bags to the ground. Chou spreads out our blanket again and lies down. With her in the middle, Kim and I huddle closely on either side of her. Kim hooks the backpack through his arms while I do the same to my bundle. We pull another blanket over us.
The ground is cold, but I am warmed by Chou’s body heat. All around us people are sleeping, eating, or setting up their areas. I look over to the side and watch a family sitting together, eating their meal. It is a family of five, parents with three boys, from perhaps five to ten years old. The father scoops rice and hands it over to his youngest child first, then he does the same for the others. The mother reaches over and wipes the child’s nose with her fingers, then quickly wipes her hand on her skirt. While they eat, the father’s eyes watch over his family and their belongings.
I turn away and look at the sky as tears roll out the corners of my eyes. “Oh Pa, I miss you,” I tell him in my head. The sky is dark and silvery; it fills with a few gray wispy clouds and countless twinkling stars. I stare at the clouds and envision Pa’s facing looking down at me. “Where are the angels, Pa?” I ask him. All of a sudden, the clouds pull together, forming many tight balls. Quickly, these balls begin taking the shape of skulls. They hover over me, these cloud-skulls, glaring at me with their invisible eyes. My breath quickens and my chest tightens, and I force my eyes to look away. I focus on my arm, and my heart races when I see grass growing out off my flesh. Like the hair on my arm, the grass pokes easily out of my skin like needles through paper, growing taller and taller. Then my flesh melts, and my skin sinks into the ground. In slow motion, my skin decomposes until there is nothing left and it mixes with the dirt, becoming Khmer Rouge top-soil. Holding my breath, I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch decomposed arm. Feeling the pain of the pinch, I open my eyes and all is normal again. Locking my arms together across my chest, I close my eyes and try to sleep.
We wake up the next morning and resume our journey once more. Since Kim and Chou have not mentioned anything about searching for Ma and Geak, I assume they know of their fate. I do not know how he and Chou found out about Ma and Geak. I dare not bring up the subject. Kim tells us we will try and make our way to Pursat City and wait for our brothers there. Kim does not tell us how long we will wait for Meng and Khouy or how long we will be there once we reach Pursat City. I do not know why Kim assumes Khouy and Meng are still alive. Since we left Ma and went to our separate camps, we have had no way of receiving news from our older brothers. It has been more than a year now since we last saw them. As an implicit rule, we do not talk about our family. I fear that if I ask, I will make Chou and Kim sadder than they already are. Being only eight years old, this is the only way I know to protect them.
Everyday we walk with the crowd, occasionally stopping in deserted villages to rummage for food. It is many days before we see the first sign of a possible end destination. My heart pounds so loudly I am sure others can hear it as my feet come to a complete stop. Before us walk three men dressed in green clothes with funny round cone-shaped hats on their heads. Their legs move in long, casual strides and their rifles swing on their back. “Youns,” the traffic hums and whispers. My breath becomes short and shallow; images of the Youns torturing and killing their victims flash before my eyes. I have never seen a Youn and yet these men look remarkably human. They are the same size as our Khmer men and are similarly built, not like the Barang, with light skin and a thin nose, like I saw in Phnom Penh. The Youns look more like Ma than many Khmers. They do not look like the devils Met Bong said they were.
The Youns walk toward us and raise their hands in greeting. I search the ground for weapons—a staff, sharp rocks, anything I can use to fight them. All eyes focus on them as they come nearer. People gasp when, in the next moment, one Youn smiles and says in broken Khmer, “Chump reap suor,” which means “hello.” “There is a refugee camp up ahead in Pursat City,” he tells us and keeps walking. The crowd smiles gratefully. I cannot believe it. The Youns did not shoot us. They did not take the children and slice open their stomachs. They even told us where Pursat City is. At last, after three days on the road, we have a destination!
The camp looms like a small village before me, flickering and swaying in the haze like a mirage. From afar, the many green, black, and blue plastic tents jut into the sky like thousands of anthills with black-haired people frittering in every direction. While most people sleep out in the open spaces, others are putting up makeshift tents and building huts. Next to the huts and tents, women prepare food, blowing and stoking the fires, coughing as the smoke finds their faces. Hovering above these women, men and children tie strings of wet clothes from trees to tents, creating giant spiderwebs. Beside each group of tents lie small hills of trash, rotting in the hot sun, with children playing around them, occasionally picking up a half-eaten mango, orange, or fish head and putting it in their mouths.
The Youns are all around, weaving through the labyrinth of homes and patrolling the area with rifles on their shoulders and grenades attached to their belts. There are many of them, smiling and talking to the kids, sometimes patting them on the head. My eyes follow a certain Youn in a green camouflage uniform as he openly approaches a young Khmer woman in black pajama clothes. He flirts with her and I think he is barbaric. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a box. Placing it on his palm he extends his hand to her. Shyly, she smiles and starts to take it, only to have him grab a h
old of her hand. Abruptly, she pulls her hand out of his grasp. After the brief stolen touch, he continues to talk to her. It fascinates me to see the Youns courting girls in public, for in the Khmer culture these things are done in secret.
In the midst of the crowd, I overhear the Khmer men discussing how the Youns are there to protect us. They say the Youns marched into Cambodia only three weeks ago, on January 25, and through their artillery power and army defeated the Khmer Rouge, sending Pol Pot and his men running into the jungles. During his entire regime, Pol Pot had been provoking the Youns’ attack by sending his men to their borders and massacring Vietnamese villages. Pol Pot viewed the Youns as the archenemy of the Khmer people and feared the Youns would annex our land if we did not attack them first. But Pol Pot’s small, ill-equipped army could not win against the well-trained, well-equipped Youn army. The men say that the Youns have liberated Cambodia and saved us all from the murderous Pol Pot.
Kim pulls at my arm and gestures for me to hurry as I begin to fall behind. We pass through the crowd, searching for an empty spot to make our home. I look longingly at the adults in the crowd. I want to have our own adult to take care of things, build houses, put up tents, and forage for food. I remember when we left Phnom Penh how Pa, Khouy, and Meng searched for food and took care of us. Though I was also hungry then, I was less afraid because I knew they would look after me. Gazing at the adults in the camp, I pray silently, wishing someone will ask us to join their family. But we are invisible to them. The adults look through us. They have their own families and can’t burden themselves with us.
Having no success finding a home in the midst of the crowd, and with no tent for shelter, we settle under a tree at the edge of camp with a few other orphans. With our small bag of rice dwindling, Kim is as good as Pa was at rationing our food. Every morning he goes out to a nearby river and fishes while Chou and I guard our things. Sometimes we see a jubilant Kim return with a smile on his face and know we will eat well that night. Other times, Kim returns with drooping shoulders and a scowl on his face. With the influx of refugees pouring into the camp, the river becomes polluted and the fish gone. It becomes increasingly hard for Kim to catch fish in the shallow water. Tonight, Chou and I cook mushrooms and wild vegetables that we found in the field and we make rice soup for dinner. But many other nights we have nothing to eat and go to bed hungry. After we eat, Chou spreads a small blanket over the grass and covers us with the other two.
Huddling close to Chou, I cry silent tears for my family, my loneliness, and my constant hunger. But most of all I cry for Kim. I cry knowing how he feels coming back each night and having to tell us there will be nothing to eat. After a week of living under the tree, the nights become cold and our stomachs too empty, so Kim asks a family camping nearby to let us live with them. With our bundles in our hands, we stand before them, our faces washed, our hair wet and smoothed over, and our manners polite and respectful.
“Sorry, we cannot,” the father says to us. “We can barely care for our own family.” My face turns red with embarrassment and hopelessness. I do not understand their unwillingness to help us. They are adults, and adults are supposed to be able to care for children. But they don’t want us. They don’t want me. Nobody wants me. With our eyes downcast and shoulders slumped we walk back to our spot under the tree and I vow to try harder to make people like me.
Though he cannot take us in, the man feels sorry for us and looks for a family to take us. He comes back with a few interested families, but no one wants to take in all three of us and we would rather brave the cold than be separated.
the first foster family
January 1979
“I have found a family for you!” the man tells us excitedly a week later. “They have some small children and an old grandmother. They need someone to help with the children and around the house and they are willing to take all three of you.” That afternoon I wait with nervous anticipation to meet my new family. I wonder what they are like and what it would feel like to belong to a family again. A new family! A safe home, food to eat, someone to protect me.
When finally I see their figures in the distance, I cannot believe my eyes! I squint to make sure it really is them. Opening my eyes again I grab Chou’s hand and whisper quietly to her, “It is them. It is the palm tree boy and his dad. The same people who came to my soldier training camp to collect palm sap.” Chou nods and warns me to be quiet.
Though appearing calm on the outside, inside I am spinning faster and faster. “How can this be?” I think to myself. “That in this crowd of people I actually know them?” The palm tree boy and his father break into big smiles when they recognize me. They seem actually happy about it. “This must be fate, a good omen! Maybe things will be all right after all!” I am barely able to contain my happiness.
“This is no coincidence,” the man exclaims. “I know this little girl.” He laughs and musses my hair. My face beams with joy at the touch of his hand.
“I am Kim and she is Chou, and this is Loung.” Kim introduces us.
“You want to come and live with us?” the palm boy’s father asks.
We nod.
“All right, let’s go home.” I look up at him and he smiles.
“Here, give me your bundle,” he says, taking it out of my hand. My eyes shine at him and my heart floats to the clouds. “Father!” My mind whispers happily. Chou and Kim thank our neighbors as we leave with our new family.
“I have a big family already,” the father says. “I have three little girls who are one, three, and four. And my oldest, Paof, is fourteen. My wife needs help looking after the kids. My mother is old and also needs help. You girls will help care for them, cook, collect wood, and tend the garden while Kim will go out fishing and hunting with me.” His voice is so matter-of-fact now when it was welcoming and happy a few minutes before. The realization of our work arrangement sends chills down my spine. He is not Pa. I have to stop dreaming about our family and settle for being a part of a family of convenience.
As we approach the house, the rest of the family comes out to greet us, not with smiles but with cold stares. “Small, but I guess strong enough to help us out around the house,” the mother says to the father. My face flushes with anger, but I contain myself. She motions for us to follow her inside the hut. Their hut is bigger than many we have seen yet built like all the others. “My family lives on this side so you three sleep in that corner over there.” She points to the far corner of the hut. “Drop your things there.”
One afternoon, after a day in the forest gathering firewood, Chou and I come home to find Kim in the corner of the hut watching the mother go through our things. I climb the steps and sit by him, holding in my anger. “I cannot believe this!” the mother squeals, her fingers picking up Ma’s shirt. It was Ma’s favorite silk shirt. She wore it many times in Phnom Penh. When the soldiers burned our clothes, Ma was wearing this shirt underneath a plain black shirt and was able to hide it from them. She risked everything just to keep it. As if she knew of her impending fate, Ma gave Kim the backpack with her jewelry sown in the straps, as well as her favorite shirt, on his last visit to her.
“It is so soft!” the mother exclaims happily and slips the shirt over her head. It falls smoothly over her body, the blue silk shining beautifully in the sun. Kim’s jaw bulges as he grits his teeth and Chou looks elsewhere; our anger rises, but we say nothing. Finally sensing our glares, she takes the shirt off and throws it back in the bag. “I don’t like it anyway. It’s ugly now that I really look at it. How can anyone wear this color?” she says and walks away. Kim takes the shirt out and gently folds it neatly before putting it back in the bag.
The only bright spot in the family is Paof, the fourteen-year-old brother, who is very nice to me. He often takes me fishing and swimming with him and introduces me to people as his new sister. I like him; it is nice to be treated kindly. I know he likes me; he says as much. Yet at times there is something about him that gnaws at me. The odd ways I c
atch him looking at me—his eyes lingering too long over my face and body—makes my stomach queasy.
While picking firewood in the forest one day, someone comes up from behind me and grabs my waist. I swing around ready to attack but stop when I realize it is Paof. The clouds darken and follow above us. He walks toward me, his hand sliding on my flat chest around to my back, pulling me close to him in a tight grip. He breathes heavily, his wet lips on my cheek. In a surge of anger, I slap him across the face and push him away.
“Leave me alone! Get away from me!” I scream into his face.
“What’s the problem, am I not nice to you? You like me, I know you do.” He smirks and approaches me again. I want to rip his lips off his face. “Get away or I’ll tell on you!”
“All right,” he says, and his eyes glare at me. “Who will believe you? It’s your fault anyway, always tagging along and going places with me.” Spitting at his feet, I turn and run away. Paof is right: I cannot fight him. I cannot tell anyone—not even Kim and Chou. There is nothing I can do but keep away from him. I do not want to cause trouble with our new family. I do not want to live on the streets again.
I avoid Paof after that. Wherever he is, I am not. Whichever direction he goes, I go the opposite, and with each passing day my heart blackens with hatred for him, but I keep it all inside. I keep it well hidden as Paof laughs and goes fishing with Kim.
The arrangement with the family works well for me since I am used to long hours of labor. But no matter how hard we work, they let us know we are never efficient enough. To make matters worse, the mother often wonders out loud in front of us whether we are worth our keep. We know very little about the family and dare not ask them questions. Though we all now live in the newly liberated zone, after almost four years of living with secrets, it is hard to change. We do not know whether they were supporters of the Khmer Rouge or if they were base people. Even if the family doesn’t love us, they do feed us a sufficient amount of rice, fish that the boys catch in the river, and vegetables from the garden. The family has many fifty-pound sackcloth bags of rice hidden in their corner of the hut. I don’t know how they got them.