First They Killed My Father Part 10

"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 rea.s.sure 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 b.a.l.l.s. Quickly, these b.a.l.l.s 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 gra.s.s growing out off my flesh. Like the hair on my arm, the gra.s.s 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 a.s.sume 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 a.s.sumes 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 "h.e.l.lo." "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 s.p.a.ces, 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 hold 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 ma.s.sacring 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 pa.s.s 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 gra.s.s 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 embarra.s.sment 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. n.o.body 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 antic.i.p.ation 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 catch 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 pa.s.sing 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.

Each morning we set off, always the three of us: Chou, our girlfriend Pithy, and I. Pithy is Chou's age and, like Chou, is rather meek and not much of a speaker. Soldiers took her father away too, so now she lives with her mom and older brother. We first met Pithy while gathering water by the stream. We watched her fold her scarf and place it on her head. She was our size, with pretty brown eyes and skin. She still wore the black Khmer Rouge pajama shirt and pants, but her hair was growing out of the blunt Khmer Rouge cut. She struggled to lift her clay water jug on her shoulders. Chou walked over to help her. From then on she was our friend. Though she lives on the other side, of town, she often meets us to gather firewood.

I don't mind the task, but I hate having to roam around the woods barefoot. I am wary of snakes. The ground is covered with leaves and branches, so I cannot see what's slithering beneath them. Once, I stepped on something that at first looked like a small brown stick, but then the stick wriggled, squirmed, and slid away. The sole of my foot tickled, sending shivers all over my body.

At sunrise, Chou and I greet Pithy at our meeting place on the road. The haze is pink today. I rub my eyes, yawn, and adjust the ropes we brought to tie the wood, slinging them over my shoulders. Cradling an axe in her arms, Chou glowers at me for forgetting the canteen. Side by side, we walk into the woods, far away from the displaced people's camp. As I collect fist-sized, dry tree branches, Chou bends and shaves the leaves with her ax. As the sun climbs higher in the cloudless sky, we take a break and rest under a tree. But it is February and the weather is hot and sticky, even in the tree's shade. It cools only at night.

"I need water. My throat is burning," I complain loudly to the girls.

"Me too," Pithy echoes in agreement, "but we can't leave now. We'll all be in trouble if we don't bring home enough firewood."

"Shhh ..." I interrupt Pithy and listen to leaves rustling nearby. "Someone's coming."

Looking up, we are startled to see a Youn soldier walking in our direction. He is thin and tall, maybe two feet above us and dressed in the standard green uniform but without the rifle and grenades on him. The Youn raises his canteen to his mouth and drinks from it.

"Maybe he'll give us some water," I say to the girls. "Let's ask him."

The girls nod. When he is close, we approach him. He stops and smiles quizzically at us. "Water, thirsty, drink." I say the words loud and slow. He narrows his eyes and shakes his head. I point to his canteen, and with my hand I mime the drinking motion. Finally, he nods and smiles with understanding. He then unscrews the top of his canteen and holds it upside down but nothing comes out. He points to the canteen, points to me, and motions us to follow him.

"He wants us to follow him to get the water," I declare proudly to the girls. In unison, we step forward. The Youn turns suddenly around and puts up his palm to stop us. He points to me and waves for me to follow him. "Don't worry, I'll bring enough water back for all of us," I say, and I follow him into the woods leaving Chou and Pithy behind.

The soldier takes me far away from the direction of the base, where I a.s.sume we would go for water. As he leads me farther into the woods, my heart quickens. Looking back, I try to find Chou and Pithy but cannot see them in the thick brush. The Youn points to an area where the shrubs are high and dense, and waves for me to come to him. Standing where I am a few feet from him, I ask, "Where water?" By now my palms are sweating with fear. He points to the bushes and motions for me to follow. "No!" I say firmly, refusing. Breathing rapidly, I turn to run but am stopped by his hands on my arms. He throws me hard on the ground. I fall, sc.r.a.ping my knees and hands on rocks and sticks. Stunned and shaken, I try to get up, but his hands are there again, pushing me down by the shoulders. I land hard on my bottom as pain shoots through my body. My eyes widen in alarm.

"Nam soong! Nam soong!" He orders me to lie down in Vietnamese. I cannot understand what he says and stare up at him. In our culture, the bride finds out all there is to know between a man and woman on the night of her marriage. I do not know exactly what he wants to do, but I know that it is bad. I struggle to get up. Again he shoves me down. "Nam Soong! Nam Soong!" he screams at me, his white face dark and mean now, like the faces of the Khmer Rouge. I sit there, paralyzed and speechless. I am unable to get the scream out of my throat; my heart pounds; my eyes plead with him to let me go.

Time slows as he unb.u.t.tons his pants and they drop to his ankles. Breathing short, shallow breaths, I scurry back in terror. His bright red underwear stands in stark contrast against his white skin. They hug him tightly and hang below his potbelly. He hooks his thumb on the waistband and pulls his underwear down. A scream claws its way to my throat, but it comes out in a whimper. He quickly squats down in front of me, one hand gripping the back of my neck, the other covering my mouth and most of my face. His nails dig into my cheeks. My eyes follow his stomach down to his p.e.n.i.s. It is big and quivers like it's alive. My head is dizzy as I begin to hyperventilate. I shut my eyes. I have never seen a man's p.e.n.i.s before. Babies, yes, but I never imagined it to be so different on a man. All its wrinkles and pouches. It disgusts and terrifies me.

He lowers my head to the ground, and while his hand still covers my mouth I can see my reflection in his eyes. "Shh, shh," he whispers. His body inches away from me. His hand lets go of my mouth and tugs at my pants, pulls them past my hips. A scream crawls its way from my throat and explodes loudly. Shocked, he stops. He quickly looks around. I pull my pants back on and twist my body to get up. His long fingers wrap firmly around my ankles, pulling me closer and closer, one hand now on my thigh. I slide on my bottom, unable to get away. Letting out a loud shrill cry, I squirm out of his grasp and kick to get away.

"Help! Monster! Somebody help me! Monster!" I yell as tears stream down my face and snot drips from my nose to my mouth. Dark, thunderous, powerful hatred rises in me as I scream and call him names. With a surge of anger, I twist and snap my left leg out of his grip. "I hate you!" I yell into his bewildered face as my leg crashes into his chest. His face winces in pain. He gasps for breath and lets go of my other leg. "Die! Die!" Screaming at the top of my lungs, I kick him in the groin with all of my hatred. He doubles over and falls to the ground, hollering like an injured animal. My legs push me up and I run as fast as I can without stopping.

I flee to where I left Chou and Pithy, and see their figures running toward me, axes over their shoulders, faces full of worry and fear.

"Loung! Are you all right? I heard you scream!" Chou questions me shrilly.

I nod shakily.

"We were so scared for you! We thought it was strange when he took you to the woods, away from the base. We kept our eyes on you, then you disappeared!" Chou is crying now. She drops her axe on the ground.

"I'm never going to be that stupid again. I want to report him to the authorities," I tell her.

"No, let's get out of here and go to a place where there are lots of people," Pithy pleads, and drags me away by the arm.

Reluctantly, I allow myself to be dragged away. Pithy helps Chou wrap the rope three times around the pile of wood. Then they sit facing each other with the pile in the middle. Both put their feet on the wood and push, each pulling one end of the rope. When the rope is taut, Chou ties it in a double knot. She lays the axe in with the pile of wood and strings her scarf through the rope to make a handle. Once she finishes, she helps Pithy with the other two piles. Grabbing the scarves, we pick up the wood, now the size of our bodies, and carry it horizontally on our backs. When we get close to the base I look closely at all the soldiers, hoping to catch the monster. I want to report him, but I do not know who to report him to. With their funny round hats and uniforms, most of the soldiers look the same to me. I am not sure which one to tell my story to. I thought they were here to save us from the abuses of Pol Pot and not to hurt us. "Come on, we have to go," Pithy again pleads after a few minutes.

Then from the corner of my eye, far in the distance, I think I see him. My mind swirls with rage of revenge. My heart jumps to my throat, and I take off after him. "Monster!" I yell, running. Chou and Pithy call for me to stop and return, but I ignore them. I am so full of hate I pay no attention to where I am going. Suddenly, something crunches under my foot and pain shoots through the sole. I break into a sweat but do not stop. I focus on him and leap on my toes in his direction. My foot throbs painfully as blood leaves a trail over the ground. Briefly, I look to see a piece of broken gla.s.s sticking out of my foot. I look down and yank the gla.s.s out, causing more blood to spurt. When I look up again, he is gone.

"He's gone!" I scream when Chou and Pithy catch up to me. The pain is so great now that I have to sit down. Saying nothing, Chou takes her scarf and wraps it around my foot to stop the bleeding.

"Come, we have to go," she says sympathetically.

"He's gone-"

"Leave him behind. We have to go."

I stand up and limp around for a few more minutes looking for the Youn, but he is nowhere to be seen.

They walk ahead of me as I hobble slowly behind them. Along the way we do not talk about it, and they do not ask me about the man's p.e.n.i.s. I wonder if Chou will tell Kim, or if Pithy will tell her family. For me, the humiliation is too much, the terror too real to relive by bringing it up. I am determined to keep my secret until the day I die.

Once we reach our meeting place, Pithy leaves and goes her separate way. Chou and I continue on in silence.

"You were gone all morning and these small piles are all you brought?" the mother hollers at us when we get home. Chou and I nod. "And what happened to you?" she asks, noticing my foot.

"I stepped on a piece of broken gla.s.s," I tell her.

"Careless, lazy girl! You are so stupid you will amount to nothing."

"No, you're wrong. I am going to be somebody great," I mutter to her.

"What? Are you talking back to me?" She walks up to me and pushes my forehead with her index finger, spits at my feet.

"You will never be great. What makes you think you will be great? You are nothing. You are an orphan. You'll only be somebody if you become a hooker!" Her words ring in my ears as hate pulsates through my body.

"I will not become a hooker," I reply indignantly, turning my back to her and hobbling away. Later, crouching near a bush, hugging my knees to my chest, the mother's words echo in my mind and despair creeps into my heart. She is right. I am an orphan with no future. What will happen to me? Then, as I sit in the woods in a corner of the world, hiding from a war I know little about, I hear Pa's voice.

"No one knows how precious you are. You are a diamond in the rough and with a little polishing, you will shine," Pa whispers softly. His gentle words bring a small smile to my lips. The mother may not give me the love I crave, but I know what it feels like to be loved. Pa loved me and believed in me. With that little reminder from him, I know the foster mother is wrong about me. I do possess the one thing I need to make something of myself one day: I have everything my Pa gave me.

flying bullets

February 1979

I have lived with the family for a month now, and the longer I am with them, the more my hatred grows. However, I know that no matter how I feel about them, their home is safer than living by ourselves. Even though Pursat City is protected by the Youns, people still live in fear. Among the villagers there have been many discussions about the Khmer Rouge closing in on us. The village men say the Khmer Rouge soldiers are all around us, some even hiding in the village or in nearby woods. It is hard to tell the soldiers from the civilians when they are all the same people, speak one language, and wear the same black clothes. Hiding their guns, the soldiers can easily infiltrate the refugee camp and spy on our activities. Every once in a while, a group of Khmer Rouge soldiers attacks a random village, raids the houses, kills a few people, and then ducks back into the woods. They attack without warning, and since no one knows when or where they will appear, we must have eyes in the back of our heads all the time. The refugee village is so large that in these surprise raids, the Youns are not able to arrive in time to protect us until people have been killed.

One afternoon, while the grandmother and I are outside the hut, squatting near the well scrubbing pots and pans, I hear the unmistakable whizzing of bullets around me. "Flying bullets!" I scream, dropping flat and pressing my chest against the wet ground. I lay in the wet sc.u.m of dishwater as it soaks through my shirt and pants. My heart pounding in my ears, I stare at a small ant spinning in a circle in a puddle next to my face. I clasp my hands over my ears as more bullets ring in the air. They explode like Chinese firecrackers, one after another in a feverish succession. A few seconds later the bullets stop. My cheek presses to the ground. I watch the same ant flailing its four legs in the half inch of water. The more it struggles, the more it spins. A few seconds pa.s.s and still no more bullets. Raising my head, I quickly get up from the dirt and crawl on my hands and knees behind a tree.

Suddenly, the grandmother screams a loud, shrill cry. Up above, the sun hides behind the clouds. My body still protected by the tree, I peer out to look at her. She is on the ground, lying in a fetal position on her side, both hands clutching her leg as thin, red blood pours out from a wound above her ankle, staining her skirt. The blood forms a pool around her feet, mixing with dishwater as it seeps into the earth. She screams and cries for help, but I crouch in my hiding place. In the hut, the children scream and cry as the mother hushes them. Seconds later, the father jumps frantically out from the hut and picks her up off the ground. Then he carries her off to the camp's hospital with his son trailing behind him.

I do not come out of my hiding place, afraid that if they see me they'll blame me for not helping the grandmother. Long after they have gone, and after the mother has calmed down the little kids, I am still behind the tree. I sit there, scratching the dry mud out from between my toes and then looking up at the sky, wondering when more bullets will rain down on us. Though my heart is beating wildly I feel nothing. My mind still makes pictures and creates thoughts, but I do not have any attachment to them. I am sorry she got shot, but she is mean and often slaps my face and pinches my arms and ears. Now I will not have to see her wrinkled face or hear her poisonous mouth for a while. I stay behind the tree, deep in my own world, until Chou and Kim return from gathering wood.

Three days later, the mother sends me to bring food to the grandmother in the hospital. I take the packet wrapped in banana leaves and head toward the hospital. It takes me an hour to walk the two miles. The small, well-traveled, red dirt footpath cuts through the town and is usually quite safe. On this day, all is quiet and yet I nervously put one foot in front of the other, my eyes scanning the trees and bushes around me for signs of the Khmer Rouge. Neglecting to look down, I kick something and hear it roll away from me. It is rusty-green and shaped like an egg with little square boxes on the surface. I freeze and suck in my breath. My knees are weak and my feet sting as if I have been electrocuted. It is a grenade. "Stupid girl! You have to be more careful," I curse under my breath.

It is noon when I see the hospital. Taking short steps, I proceed slowly toward it, dreading going in. The abandoned makeshift hospital looks sicker than its patients. The one-level warehouse is gray with age, crumbling from the destruction of war. Dark green mold eats through the cracks in the wall as wild trees and vines threaten to overtake the building. Stepping out of the sunlight into the dark building temporarily blinds me. Inside, the temperature is uncomfortably hot and the air hangs heavy, unmoving. The shrill cries of babies, the repet.i.tive moans, and the echoes of shallow, labored breathing bombard the large s.p.a.ce. The stench of human waste, urine, rotting wounds, and strong rubbing alcohol surrounds me, permeating my clothes, skin, and hair. My throat tightens and I swallow hard to suppress a gag. I want to run out of the building. My eyes twitch, wanting to shut so I do not have to look at the bodies lying on the floor. During the Khmer Rouge rule I saw many dead bodies. Having lost all hope of escaping the Khmer Rouge, many went to the infirmary to die. They did not have families to hold their hands and swat away the flies when they became too weak. Like Keav, they wasted away and laid in their own feces and urine, completely alone. In a Khmer Rouge hospital, people moaned and whimpered in pain but did not scream. Here at the hospital in the newly liberated zone, people scream in pain because they're fighting to live.

Taking small, cautious steps I walk past rows of people lying on cots and mats on the ground. Out of the corner of my eye, something scurries away. I jump, then relax. It is only a mouse. Walking on, I look at each patient, searching for the grandmother. I hate having to bring food for some old lady I don't care for. If she were Ma, it would be different. My heart sinks at the thought and sadness spreads throughout my body. If she were Ma, taking care of her would redeem all the wrongs I've committed.

Ahead of me, two nurses kneel beside a young boy. An old woman sits cross-legged next to them, her face long and sad. The nurses are busy preparing silver trays of tools, bandages, and alcohol bottles. I hover over them, looking at the boy who lies motionless on a straw mat. He looks five or six years old, but I really cannot tell. His eyes are slightly open; his lips are gray and bloodless. My body vibrates with pain when I see that his upper body is badly burned. The skin looks as if it will peel off in one crisp layer. One of his legs is missing from the thigh down and the other is wrapped in bandages. The old woman cries softly, her hand clutching his small one, her thumb ma.s.saging the top of his hand in a circle. Her other hand fans his body, chasing away the black-green flies that wait to lick his scorched flesh.

"Bong Srei, what happened to him?" I ask the nurse as she prepares to clean him.

"He was walking here to visit-"The boy screams then, making the old woman sob louder. My toes and feet tingle when I hear the nurse say the boy either kicked a grenade or walked over a landmine. I quickly walk away and leave them with the boy screaming until he pa.s.ses out.

When I find the grandmother, she is in the process of having her bandages changed by a nurse. The nurse is young and pretty, and wears a graying white uniform. She kneels by the grandma and reaches out for her arm. The grandmother swats her hand away and screams in protest. Hearing the screams, another nurse walks briskly over to a.s.sist the first nurse. She holds the grandmother by the shoulders and pushes her down on the cot. Under her weight, the grandma is forced onto her back.

"Are you with her?" the nurse asks, noticing me standing behind her.

"Yes."