First They Killed My Father Part 11

"Well, you better help us then. She is a tough one. Grab on to her other leg so she won't kick me. I have to change the bandages." I quickly obey her.

With one nurse pushing her down by the shoulders and my arms wrapped around her leg, the nurse unravels layers of b.l.o.o.d.y bandages as the grandmother squirms and shakes to be free of us. The bandages coil on the floor like red-dotted albino snakes, exposing the grandmother's ankle. It is red, raw, and covered by a thin cake of dried blood. Just above her ankle is a tiny black circle the size of a cigarette burn. "It's lucky the bullet went straight through the flesh. Any lower and it would have shattered the ankle." The grandmother screams in response. "It looks good, but we still have to clean it." The nurse takes the silver tray of tools and pours alcohol into a white plastic bowl. With a pair of thongs, she dips a piece of white cloth into the alcohol bowl, allowing it to soak through. "Okay, it's time to really hold her down now." I grip her leg tight, my nails digging into her flesh as the nurse swabs the alcohol-soaked cloth on the wound. The grandmother screams and curses us, but the nurse continues to jab the cloth at the wound, wiping away the caked brown blood. When she is satisfied it is clean, the nurse wraps the ankle up again with clean white bandages.

"Please," the grandmother pleads, her bony fingers dragging the snot from her nose onto her cheeks, "please give me some medicine. It hurts very much." For that brief moment, the grandmother looks vulnerable, desperate, human. My heart goes out to her. The nurse looks at her and slowly shakes her head. "I'm sorry, Grandmother. If we had some I would gladly give it to you, but we do not have any medicine." The grandmother cries, both hands ma.s.saging near her ankle. She looks so frail and sad that even I pity her.

When the nurse leaves, the grandmother's face darkens and she turns her attention to me. "What are you doing? Give me my food!" she barks at me and unwraps the banana leaves to find rice and salted pork. "Stupid girl! I know you ate some on the way. I am old and I need this more than you." I say nothing and continue to stand there. "You are a little thief-I know you are. You are not even grateful we took you in. Stupid little thief!" Hearing her hateful words, I cannot find it in my heart to feel sorry for her anymore, and I leave her with her cries and moans and the stench of impending death.

The next day, the father brings the grandma home from the hospital. In the hut, she laughs and plays with the grandchildren, ignoring Chou and me standing outside the hut. A few hours later, while Chou and I feed the children their lunch of rice and fish, we watch the father walk up to Kim as he waters the garden. Standing in front of him, the father says something that makes Kim's lips purse. Putting down his pail, Kim walks over to us.

"We have to leave in a few hours; the family can't afford to keep us. He says there's a family that will take us, and he'll return soon to take us there." Kim's voice is strong and firm, but his shoulders sag. Kim and Chou are surprised by the father's abrupt announcement. I, on the other hand, expected it to come sooner, and I wonder how much I am to blame for his decision. We have lived with them for almost two months and we have grown used to being there. I am thankful he has found a family who will take in all three of us. I am relieved that we will not have to go back to living alone on our own.

Chou and I continue feeding the children while Kim returns to the garden. After their meals, I wipe and clean the children's hands and faces of dirt and dribbles. In the hut, Chou folds our spare set of black pajama shirts and pants, now faded and tattered, and puts them in Kim's backpack.

By the afternoon, the father returns and asks Kim if we are ready. Kim nods. Grabbing the backpack, he carries all we have on his shoulder while Chou and I follow him, our hands clasped tightly together. Our eyes looking ahead of us, we leave without saying goodbye to the mother or the children. The father walks us to a house a mile away and introduces us to the new family. He tells them we are good workers. Kim thanks the former father for his kind words and for finding us a new family. Taking Kim's cue, Chou and I bow to him and thank him. Abruptly he turns and, without a word of comfort or bidding us good luck, walks away.

This new family consists of a mother, father, and their three little children who are between ages one and five. They live in a larger hut than the first family, but still we are relegated to the corner of the room. Behind the hut grows a big, luscious vegetable garden. In the front stands a tall mango tree heavy with fruit. Chou and I are to help look after the children, the garden, and various other ch.o.r.es while Kim fishes and collects wood with the father. Dropping our bags, the mother hands me the baby, instructs me to look after her kids, and leads Chou to the garden. Outside the hut, with the baby balanced on my hips, I watch the mother squat next to the rows of vegetables and proceed to pull the weeds. Obediently, Chou does the same. Her faded black Khmer Rouge pajama clothes hang loosely on her thin body as her back bends over the garden. Chou is eleven and only three years older than me, but at times I feel much older than she is. It still amazes me how she can survive by being accepting and not fighting back.

Though we live with the family as their helpers, they treat us kindly. Many times the family will have special treats such as coconut cake or sweet rice b.a.l.l.s for dessert. No matter how we crave them, it is not proper for Kim, Chou, and I to take a piece for ourselves. The mother and children can reach for whatever they want, but we have to wait until it is given to us. Even with his children screaming for extra pieces, the father always puts a piece on each of our plates. They occasionally raise their voices but never swear or raise their hands at us. Despite the Khmer Rouge ban on religion, they are able to continue to practice Buddhism in secret. A major Buddhist mantra preaches kindness to others or reincarnate in the next life as a slug for all to step on. Being from the country, the family is very superst.i.tious-especially the mother. Whenever anything happens that she cannot explain or understand she blames it on supernatural powers. Every day she prays to the earth G.o.ddess for plentiful vegetables, the river G.o.d for plentiful fish, the wind G.o.d to bring rain, and the sun G.o.d to bring life.

One of my daily ch.o.r.es is to wash the family's laundry. Many villagers are wearing colorful clothes now, including our new family. I look wistfully at the mother's dark orange sarong and marvel at her sky blue blouse. I remember the red dresses Ma made for Chou, Geak, and me. Our first red dresses.

One New Year's morning, I remember Keav, with big pink, yellow, blue, and green p.r.i.c.kly plastic rollers in her hair held in by a hundred small black bobby pins sticking up everywhere like porcupine quills, as she combed my hair and tied it in ponytails. Next to her on our bed, Chou worked on getting Geak dressed. After Keav finished with my hair, she put red rouge on Geak's lips and cheeks as Chou and I slipped on our new dresses and stood in awe of each other's beauty. On our bed, we bounced with glee as our mattress squeaked, prompting Keav to yell at us. On the other side of the hallway, Ma picked out gold necklaces and bracelets from her collection for us to wear. She set aside a pair of red ruby earrings for Keav because she was the only one of us girls with pierced ears. In the kitchen, our helpers cut brown roasted ducks and arranged white moon-shaped cakes on a large blue plate. In the living room, Pa, Khouy, Meng, and Kim, dressed in their best clothes, lit orange incense sticks. After bowing three times before the red altar decorated with gold and silver Chinese symbols of peace and happiness, they inserted the incense into a yellow clay bowl filled with rice.

The baby in my arms pulls my hair and brings me out of my reverie. Looking at the mother, I a.s.sume she feels happy and joyful wearing her colored clothes. Glancing at my own, I wonder when I will also get out of the Khmer Rouge uniform and into some colorful clothes. I dream of one day owning a red dress to replace the one the soldier burned.

The mother interrupts my reverie when she takes the baby and asks me to do the laundry. After too many green mangoes, the three kids have had diarrhea all over their sheets. I roll the dirty clothes and sheets into a wicker basket and walk down to the river. With the basket balanced on my hip, I wade into the river until the water reaches my knees. I take out the sheets and spread them open on the surface of the water, allowing them to sink slowly while the diarrhea floats to the top. while doing this, little fish swim over and eat the mess. Some nip at my legs. With no detergent or soap, I must beat the bedsheets against rocks to try and clean them. This ch.o.r.e disgusts me, but I do it without complaining, afraid that if I don't, the new family will send me away.

Sometimes the mother sends me to the forest to gather firewood. I meet Pithy along the way and we set off, making sure to stay clear of the Youn base. One day while walking, a stench attacks my nose and I begin to cough. It resembles rotting chicken livers left out in the sun for too long. Coming around the path into a clearing, I know what the smell is before I even spot the body. The corpse lies decomposing in the sun. I hold my breath and walk toward it.

"Come on, let's go back," Pithy urges, looking pale. I wave my hand at her and proceed forward while she stays back. Pinching my nose, I approach it. The face looks as if it has melted, exposing the cheekbones, the tip of the nose cartilage, and teeth in a lipless mouth. Beneath decomposing lids, the eyes are sunken deep into the skull. The eyelids and mouth are covered with small white eggs, some already hatching to become maggots, which crawl and disappear into the skin. More maggots wriggle around on the lids and out of the open mouth. Long black hair sinks into the gra.s.s, becoming one with the dirt. The chest cavity is caved in beneath the black clothes, home to hundreds of the black-green flies feasting on the body. I cover my mouth and push down vomit, not daring to look anymore. Quickly, I turn and walk away, but the smell of death still clings to my clothes.

"He was a Khmer Rouge soldier. He deserved to die. Too bad they are not all dead," I say vehemently to Pithy. She says nothing. I do not in fact know if the body is a civilian or a soldier. Thinking of the body as a civilian makes me think of Pa too much. It is easier to feel no pity for the dead if I think of them as all Khmer Rouge. I hate them all.

Holding on to my hate for the Khmer Rouge also allows me to go on living the mundane details of life. Another one of my fixed duties is to go down to the river and gather water for the family. Each morning, balancing two water pails on a long flat piece of wood over my shoulders, I set off to fetch the water. The walk to the river is only ten minutes, but in the February sun it always feels much longer. Squinting at a reflection in the water, I make out a figure of girl standing on the bank. She is not much bigger than I am and with one hand on her hip, she peers at the riverbank in frustration. She removes the pails from her plank and hits at something on the gra.s.sy bank.

"What are you doing?" I ask her.

"I'm trying to loosen the body so it will flow downstream," she says between halting breaths. A few feet from where we are standing, a body floats past, dressed in a black pajama shirt and pants. He is an adult man, bigger than most men in the village, and much fatter. He bobs up and down in the water, his hands and feet shiny and swollen as if made of white rubber. His upper body sways with the currents, but his pant leg is caught on some branches from the bank. His head bobs in the water each time the girl pokes him with her wood.

"I want to loosen him up so he'll go downstream. He'll dirty the water, maybe his juices will flow into my pails." Her logic makes complete sense to me. I remove my pails, and with my stick help to push the body away. With the two of us beating on it, it bobs and sways even more. Finally we loosen the leg and the body floats a few feet down before getting stuck again near the bank. This time he is inches away from us.

"The water is too shallow. On the count of three, you push the body and I'll push the head," I direct. After a concerted effort, the body finally floats down the river, his long hair spreading around. The picture tugs at my heart and knots up my stomach. For a few brief seconds I think of Geak and hope the soldiers did not put her in a bag and throw her into the river. I nearly cry at the thought of someone poking at her body, but I push the tears down. "Another d.a.m.n Khmer Rouge," I mutter under my breath. "I hate them. I hope they all die." We wait a few minutes until we believe the body fluids have all floated past us before fetching our water.

At the hut, the clay water container stands as tall as my chest. It takes me many trips and most of the morning to fill it up and still the water runs low by the end of the day. In the evening Chou, Kim, and I repeat our water ch.o.r.es before we go to sleep. We keep the pot full so we can have easy access to the water for we fear we will fall in if we have to reach to the bottom.

Kim, Chou, and I have had red eye disease for two weeks now. I fear I might have given the disease to them because I dare to look at the dead bodies. Somehow, the disease must have flown from the bodies and into my eyes, making them red as the blood I poke at with my stick. Every morning I wake up unable to open my eyes because both of my lids are glued together. Painfully, I pick, pinch, and pull the crud off of my lashes, but it is so thick that I have little success.

"Kim, are you there?" I call out to him. In the dark I sense a hand searching for me, finally finding my arm.

"It's me," Chou whispers. "Are you ready? I've got Kim's hand."

"Yes."

Grabbing Chou's hand, Kim slides on his behind until he reaches the edge of the hut. Then jumps to the ground and helps Chou and me. Linked together by our hands we feel our way to the water pot. Kim retrieves a bowl full of water and puts it on the ground. Squatting around it, we scoop water with our hands and wet our lashes.

By this time the mother has awakened and is looking at us suspiciously. "You must have been looking at dogs when they mate," she tells us. "It's a sin to look at dirty things. The G.o.ds have punished you to make you blind."

khmer rouge attack

February 1979

The sky is pitch black and the air is still. All is quiet except for the rhythmical chirping of crickets calling out to each other. Suddenly a loud explosion awakens us. I sit bolt upright, my ears still ringing from the blast. My heart and stomach vibrate from the shock. Then we hear a shrilling whine before another rocket ruptures nearby. The straw walls and roof of the hut rustle and shake. The children scream at the top of their lungs, clambering around the mother. The father jumps out of the hut and runs to look outside. Chou, Kim, and I follow him. Outside, the earth shakes violently as crackling yellow, orange, and red flames devour a neighbor's hut. Gray smoke floats to the sky and white ashes fall on us like powder.

"Chou! Kim!" I yell.

"Follow me, stay together," the father hollers to his family. He picks up two of the children and jumps out of the hut. The mother holds the baby tightly in her arms and follows. Kim leaps into the hut and grabs his backpack while Chou and I wait. All around us people cry and scream for help as more rockets rain on the village. The dark night is bright as many houses are engulfed by fire and villagers rush to evacuate.

With our legs shaking in fear, we follow the father, ducking when he ducks, keeping low when he keeps low. We come to the river and, holding hands, wade across it. The river splashes in waves as thousands of people jump in it at once trying to get to the other side. With small bundles on their heads or draped on their shoulders and small children hanging on their backs, the villagers wade across the chest-deep stream, desperately reaching for safety. Once on the other side, we find shelter in an old abandoned warehouse with a low concrete roof, propped up by three remaining walls.

"We stay here tonight," the father tells us. "It is guarded by the Youns and it is safe." The shelter is filling up fast as more and more people arrive. Among them I see Pithy running through the door.

"Pithy! Over here!" I scream over the wails and moans of others. She waves and runs toward us with her mom and brother, settling in the s.p.a.ce next to us.

We spend the night in the dark, afraid that any light might signal our whereabouts to the Khmer Rouge soldiers. Everyone is quiet, breathing softly, some even trying to sleep. My heart beats loudly, jumping at every sound as I crouch in between Pithy and Chou, praying to Pa to protect us. Chou sits beside me, holding Kim's hand tight. I grit my teeth hard together to stay calm. Outside in the distance, the mortars and rockets continue to explode through the night.

The hours pa.s.s slowly. I tap my feet as if to the beat of some fast song, hoping to make time go by faster. Chou now sits cross-legged, her hands clasping together and then unclasping. Next to her, Kim lies on the ground, using his backpack as a pillow. The father and mother stretch their legs beside us, with the children sleeping on both their laps. All around us, families are lying down on the ground with no mats or blankets separating them from the dirt. Their knees pull up close to their chest, and their arms prop up their heads like pillows.

By early morning it is quiet again. I can almost feel the shelter expand with air as everyone lets out a sigh of relief. Then, without warning, the whistle of a rocket flies near us and hits our shelter! The blast almost knocks the air out from my lungs. I reach for Pithy's arm, then jerk my hand back as my palm touches something wet and sticky on her. My stomach churns. I turn to see Pithy lying facedown on the ground, quiet and motionless. The top of her skull is caved in. A pool of blood slowly seeps into the dirt around her head. Her hair is wet and matted with small bits of a tofulike substance on her black head. Her blood and pieces of brain are still on my hand. Pithy's mom screams for her, then gathers Pithy into her arms. I wipe her blood and brains on my pant legs. In a panic, I get up and run after Kim and Chou out of the shelter, away from Pithy. Away from her screaming mother. Away from the sorrow that threatens to take residence in my heart.

Outside, people are scattered everywhere, screaming and crying as they run in every direction, b.u.mping and pushing each other. Kim and Chou hold hands and run ahead of me, yelling for me to keep up. We don't know where to run to, we just run. Kim stops running and looks back at the shelter.

"I left behind the backpack," he yells.

"Keep running ... I'll get it and catch up!" I scream to him, and before he can answer, I am gone. I know he has to take care of Chou. Entering the destroyed warehouse, the thick smell of burnt flesh quickens my pulse. Black smoke obstructs my vision, stings my eyes. Stepping over slabs of concrete and parts of the wall that has fallen, I make my way to our spot. My heart drops at the sight of Pithy's mom holding her corpse to her chest, weeping. Pithy is limp in her arms, her blood soaking into her mom's blouse. So much blood everywhere. Then I see that Pithy's mom is also injured. She is bleeding from her stomach and arms. Pithy's brother squats beside them, urging his mom to leave. His voice quivering, he tells her the Khmer Rouge soldiers are crossing the river and will be upon them any minute.

I grab the backpack, ignoring the pleas and cries for help. Looking straight ahead I jump over the dead and run to meet my brother and sister. I see them waiting for me and scream for them to run ahead. The rockets have stopped, but the Khmer Rouge soldiers are getting closer. I hear their bullets whiz past me. I dare not turn and look. I know they are there. I run for my life. In front of me, a man falls from a bullet. His body stops midstride, his chest jerking forward before he falls to the ground. Many people get hit and drop one by one to the ground all around me. Some lie still while others crawl on their elbows trying to reach safety.

After I catch up with Chou and Kim, we all run and do not look back. We see an old remnant of a cement wall. It sticks out of the ground three feet tall by four feet wide. We crouch behind it. Chou covers her ears with her hands and squeezes her eyes shut. Kim is white, leaning against the wall for support. We stay there for what seems like hours until all is quiet again. No longer deafened by the bombs, I finally notice something circling and buzzing over my head. Then I feel like many tiny pins are p.r.i.c.king my skin.

"Hornets!" I scream. We get up to see that we have disturbed a hornet's nest. Big red welts cover our arms and legs. We were so scared we did not feel the pain when we got stung. When we believe it is safe, we leave to find our foster family. Finally, we spot them near the Youn camp.

"You all stay here with the women and children," the father tells us. "Stay here until we come back for you. The men must clean the village of its dead bodies," he says before he goes off to the village that afternoon. He tells us that the Youns have retaken our village from the Khmer Rouge a few hours ago.

"It is worse than anyone could have imagined," the father says to the mother after returning from his village. "One couple was hiding in their dug-out bomb shelter, which is only a hole in the ground. The soldiers threw a grenade in it, killing them both. We also found many of the victims' heads, hanging by the hair in front of their door or tossed about on the streets. The Khmer Rouge soldiers surely feel these people betrayed them by staying with the Youns."

Stories about victims of the Khmer Rouge attack spread like fire. There were stories about a baby thrown in the air and speared with a bayonet; the body of one mutilated man lying naked on top of another; a man's torso found in front of his house and the bottom half on someone else's front door. There are bodies of men found with their chests cut open and their livers missing. The Khmer Rouge soldiers believe that eating the livers of their enemy will give them strength and power. These images of the ma.s.sacre play themselves over and over in my head as I take tentative steps back toward the village that evening. I do not doubt the truth of the stories. I know Pol Pot's men are capable of this. I walk behind the father and his family. Chou and Kim trudge ahead of me, their eyes focusing on the ground. There are smoldering remains of bonfires giving off the stench of burnt human flesh all through the village. Trails and puddles of blood stain the steps and posts of the huts. My eyes are on the ground wherever I go, steering clear of anything that looks like a grenade. I'm also afraid of stepping on a landmine, which the villagers say Khmer Rouge soldiers plant after an attack, maiming and killing people long after they have fled.

A few days after the attack, I happen to walk by Pithy's brother while gathering wood. He is about Kim's age, and like Kim, his eyes are very sad. His body is wiry and agile, allowing him to easily climb palm trees for their fruit. I stand there watching him, admiring his ability to get up and slide down the tree so fast. "Chum reap suor." I call out. He nods at me. "Where are you off to?" I do not ask him about Pithy.

"Everyday I go fishing and pick palm fruits for Ma. She is in the hospital. I bring food for her and stay with her through the night. She is getting better." I am surprised he is saying so much to me. He peels the fruit and hands me a slice.

"Aw koon," I say thank you to him, but he does not hear me. He is very far away now. He picks up his fruit and heads off to the hospital.

The next day, I see him again at the same place, peeling palm fruits. I walk over and ask, "How is your mom doing today?" He looks up and I see that his eyes are red and angry.

"Leave me alone. Don't bother me," he yells and comes after me with a large rusty silver cleaver. With my knees shaking I run from him. "Get away from me! I hate you all!" he screams as I crouch and hide in the bushes. Suddenly, he stops coming after me and stands transfixed, dropping his cleaver. With his shoulders slumped, he stoops and slowly sits on the ground. His elbows rest on his knees, his face buried in his hands. He cries long, hollow sobs and his shoulders shake uncontrollably. My heart leaps for him. I want to reach out to him, but instead I turn and walk away. He is alone now too.

It is April 1979. Our future looks bleaker every day. I dread the idea of going to live with another family, but I know it will happen soon. Kim is still hoping our brothers Khouy and Meng are alive somewhere and that soon they will come for us. We don't know how to go about searching for either them or our uncles in Bat Deng.

After completing his ch.o.r.es each evening, Kim sets off to the Youn camp. There is an area there where the newly arriving displaced people stay, and where people congregate to try and find each other. Every time someone new arrives at the base, Kim asks if they know or have ever heard of our brothers. Always, they give him the same sad answer. Each night, he drags himself back to give us the news, but my heart always sinks before he has had a chance to say anything. My world darkens when the thought that they might be dead enters my mind. I force it to go away. Khouy and Meng have to be alive somewhere out there.

I am feeding the baby when one of the kids runs over and tells me Kim is coming with some man. I cannot dare to hope. Chou and I look at each other, our eyes full of fear, praying the man is our brother. I see Kim's figure as he approaches us. Meng walks beside Kim. I do not know whether to cry or run to him. I am filled with so much happiness. He is alive. We are a family. I find myself feeling shy, and I stand stiff and awkward. Meng smiles and musses my hair. My heart soars quickly at the touch of his hand. He is real-not a figment of my imagination!

"You're coming with us," Meng says and goes to talk to the father. When Meng comes back out, Chou, Kim, and I leave with him. While Kim and Meng talk, Chou and I are quiet. Looking at my oldest brother, my heart is heavy with the memories of Ma. He has her almond-shaped eyes, long face, high cheekbones, and thin lips. In Phnom Penh, he wore blue bell-bottom pants, jean jackets, and thin sideburns that were trendy at the time. He "was nice to everyone. Girls thought him handsome. Now he is twenty-two and already an old man. Yet even in his tattered black pajama shirt and pants, with his weathered face and sad eyes, I still see the brother I knew in Phnom Penh.

Meng takes us to the area where all the new arrivals live. Their dark green tents are set up in the middle of a group of trees. Around the front, there are two black cloth hammocks between tree trunks tied low to the ground. The tents and the hammocks look soiled, but they feel more like a home to me than the biggest hut here. He tells us he and Khouy are living with three women friends in two tents. He says Khouy's wife somehow escaped the labor camp when the Youns invaded. He believes she returned to her family's village to search for surviving family members. The women whom they are living with are friends. It is dangerous for women to be on their own so they asked if they could live with my brothers.

Shortly after we arrive at their tents, Khouy returns too. I watch as he saunters slowly toward us. He moves gracefully, his steps firm and steady. He always reminds me of a tiger-strong, fast, agile, and mean when he bares his teeth. The sleeves of his fading black shirt and pants are rolled up, showing us muscular calves and forearms. His eyes are dark, his face is bony, his jaws are squared, and his ears stand straight. At only twenty years old, already everything about Khouy gives you the impression of hardness. When he sees us, his face softens and he smiles broadly. Walking over, he greets Kim, Chou, and me. While talking to Meng, he leaves his hand resting on my head-the way Pa used to do.

Our family sits near the fire that night listening to Meng tell their story. Khouy and he were together in a labor camp when the Youn invaded Kampuchea at the end of December. One night, rockets landed near their camp, and in the confusion, many people escaped and ran away, including Khouy's wife. But Meng and Khouy were unlucky and they found themselves confronted by Khmer Rouge soldiers just outside their hut. The soldiers did not kill them because they needed them as porters. As the Youns moved closer and closer, Khmer Rouge soldiers pushed them farther into the jungle. When the Khmer soldiers stopped each night to rest, Khouy cut firewood while Meng cooked meals for them all. One night, Khouy told Meng they had to make their escape. The soldiers were moving them up the mountain "where they would be under total Khmer Rouge control, isolated from the world and cut off from all the escape routes. If they did not make their break now, the chance might never come again.

While the soldiers were sleeping, Khouy and Meng pretended to go relieve themselves. Each stole a twenty-pound bag of rice, and they met in the woods. At first they proceeded down the trail, but fearing the soldiers' ability to track them, they took off back into the woods. There they followed the sound of rushing water to a stream and, once there, tied a few logs together to make a raft. With the rice bags on the raft, they floated downstream. The water was cold and rough, threatening many times to tear the raft apart, but with teeth chattering and bodies shivering, they managed to stay afloat all night. In the morning they arrived at the base camp of Pursat City, where we are now.

We are together again. Seeing my eyes slowly closing, Meng takes me to his cloth hammock. I climb in and suddenly feel very tired. Chou comes over and climbs in next to me. Our bodies press against each other as the hammock folds over us like a pod protecting its peas. Drifting off, I think of Pa and Ma; I miss them so much. By the fire, I hear Kim's voice quivering as he tells them about Pa, Ma, and Geak. They whisper to each other, as if trying to shield Chou and me from news we already knew. I shut my eyes, not wanting to see Meng and Khouy's faces as they receive the news. The remainder of our family is together again. With my brothers around me, I feel safe and relaxed. As I drift off to sleep, I hear Meng announce that our next step is to return to Bat Deng to search for our aunts and uncles. Bat Deng is Ma's hometown and where we left Uncle Leang and eldest Uncle Heang. We will go there and wait for other surviving family members to return. Since Bat Deng is many miles away, we have to stay here a while longer and gather supplies. Though risky because the Khmer Rouge may still control sections of the route, we will travel by foot again and hope to be reunited with our relatives.

the execution

March 1979

A few days later, Meng arrives at the tent site all flushed and out of breath, telling us he has just returned from the Youn jail. He says somehow the Youns have captured a Khmer Rouge soldier and are holding him there. He reports that when the villagers heard about this, hundreds of them rushed to the jail and demanded that the Khmer Rouge soldier be released to them. Men, women, and children blocked the entrance to the jail, threatening to riot if their demands were not met. They carried steel bars, axes, knives, wooden stakes, and hammers-all the weapons used by the Khmer Rouge soldiers to kill their victims.

Meng says the villagers at the jail have only one thing in mind: blood for blood, life for life. They want a public execution of the prisoner. They screamed threats to the Youn soldiers and questioned why the prisoner should be protected. They are ready to break down the jail if they must to get to the prisoner. In the end, the Youns opened the door and handed the prisoner over to the people. The crowd raised their weapons in the air and cheered with satisfaction. Finally, they have the power to seek revenge for their suffering.

He describes how two Khmer men in their early thirties stepped forward and took the prisoner from the Youns as the crowd cheered again. The men dragged the prisoner away while people were pushing and shoving around them. They took him to the middle of a field on the edge of town. Someone brought forth a chair and put it in the middle of the crowd. The two men thrust the prisoner into the chair, and tied his hands behind his back and his legs together.

Hearing this, my heart races with excitement. Finally, a chance to kill for Pa, Ma, Keav, and Geak. "Come, Chou! Let us go and watch!" I plead with her.

"No. Please don't go," Chou pleads with me.

"I have to go. We get to kill one of them for once."

"Meng and Khouy won't like it when they hear about this."

"Don't you tell them then. Don't you want to see the execution yourself?"

"No." When Chou makes up her mind, there is no changing it.

Failing to convince her, I head off on my own. To get to the field, I have to wade across the river, climb a tall hill, cross a broken bridge, and walk thirty minutes in the scorching sun. When I arrive hundreds of people are already there, standing around the prisoner. Their bodies block my view. I shift, trying to find an open s.p.a.ce between them, but I cannot. Frustrated, I wedge my small body between theirs and push my way through, calling out loudly, "Sorry, I cannot see." The tall bodies snort and huff in annoyance but let me through anyway. I am in the middle of the crowd, totally surrounded by people. I cannot see anything. I look up to the faces of the adults who are all looking in the same direction. Breathing a sigh of relief, I follow their gaze. Sorry, I cannot see." I repeat my pleas as I nudge and step on their toes trying to get to the front. Finally, I see a clearing between people's legs. I try to push my way through, but they are so engrossed in what's going on that they do not move. Determined, I get on my hands and knees, and crawl through the brown forest of legs up to the front.

There he is. I stand and find myself almost face-to-face with him, separated by only fifteen feet. Automatically, I raise my scarf to cover my head and face. My heart beats wildly. Fear seeps into my body. He is looking at me. He can see me. What if he escapes and kills me? I take a step back, leaning into the crowd for protection. The crowd vibrates with antic.i.p.ation and energy, closing in around the prisoner, glaring at him. I have never seen an execution before. Rage heats up my body, seeing only one of them killed is not enough!

His face reveals nothing. His lips do not beg for mercy. He sits propped up on a highback chair on a gravel hill that serves as a stage. He is dark and wears the black clothes of the Khmer Rouge-the black clothes I still wear. His matted hair is sweaty and he hangs his head to focus on his feet. The rough hemp rope that binds his feet together is so tightly tied that it draws blood. More rope straps him to the back of the chair, it coils around him from the chest down to the stomach.

"Murderer! You deserve to die a slow, painful death!" someone yells.

That is what we have planned for him. I hope he knows his life is about to end. I hope he knows we are here because we want his blood and will soon rip him apart for it. People talk loudly about the best way to kill him. They argue about how to make the execution as drawn out and painful as possible. They discuss which tools to use to crack his skull, to slice his throat. Someone says we should let him sit in the sun, shave his skin open little by little, and rub salt into the wounds. Someone else wants to strangle him bare-handed. The discussion continues for a long time, but the people cannot agree on what to do.

Finally, two middle-aged men step up in front. The crowd hushes. The prisoner glances up. He looks scared now. His eyes are squinting and his lips move as if to mutter something, but he decides against it and purses his lips shut. Sweat pours from his face, slides over his Adam's apple, and soaks his shirt. He bends his head, looks down at his feet again, knowing there is no way out. His government has created a vengeful, bloodthirsty people. Pol Pot has turned me into someone who wants to kill.

"Brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts," one of the two men yell. "We have decided that this Khmer Rouge will be executed for his crimes. His blood will avenge the innocent people he has slaughtered. We are asking for volunteers to be the executioners." The crowd roars. They look about, wondering who will be the first to volunteer. At first, no one raises his hand. For all the big talk, everyone stays silent. Then a few hands go up and the crowd comes to life again.

A woman, crying loudly, pushes her way to the front of the crowd. She is young, maybe in her midtwenties. Her straight black hair is tied back, giving us a view of her angular, thin face. Like me, she wears the Khmer Rouge clothes. Though tears fall from her eyes, her face is dark and angry.

"I know this Khmer Rouge soldier!" she screams. In her left hand she holds a nine-inch knife. It is copper brown, rusty, and dull. "He was the Khmer Rouge soldier in my village. He killed my husband and baby! I will avenge them!"

Another woman then pushes her way out of the crowd. "I also know him. He killed my children and grandchildren. Now I am alone in this world." The second woman is older, perhaps sixty or seventy. She is thin and wears black clothes. In her hand she holds a hammer, its wooden handle worn and splintered. One man takes the women aside while the others continue to speak to the audience. I am no longer listening. I am fixated on the prisoner. He looked up briefly when the two women came forth, but now he is back in position, head down, eyes to the ground.

I watch without emotion as the old woman walks slowly up to him, her hammer in hand. Above us the black clouds move with her, shadowing where she goes. She stands in front of him, staring at the top of his head. I want to shield my eyes from what's about to happen, but I cannot. The old woman's hands shake as she raises the hammer high above her head and brings it crashing down into the prisoner's skull. He screams a loud, shrill cry, that pierces my heart like a stake, and I imagine that this, maybe, is how Pa died. The soldier's head hangs, bobbing up and down like a chicken's. Blood gushes out of his wound, flowing down his forehead, ears, and dripping from his chin. The woman raises her hammer again. I almost feel pity for him. But it is too late to let him go, it is too late to go back. It is too late for my parents and my country.

Blood splatters the woman's clothes, body, face. She screams and swings the hammer up above her head again. Blood droplets land on my pants and face. I wipe them off. Red smudges are still on my palms. Another scream comes from the old woman, this time her hammer smashes his leg. His leg jerks but is held down by the rope. The hammer lands over and over again, on his arms, shoulders, and knees, before the younger woman moves toward him. Taking her knife, she pushes it into the prisoner's stomach. More blood pours out, spilling over his chair. She stabs him again, this time in the chest. The Khmer Rouge body convulses and trembles, as if electricity is traveling to the legs, arms, and fingers. Gradually, he stops moving, slumping over in the chair.

Finally the women stand still. Their weapons drip with blood as they walk away. When they turn around, I see that they look like death themselves. Their hair trickles blood and sweat, their clothes drip, their faces red and rigid. Only their eyes look alive as they seethe with more rage and hate. The women are quiet as the crowd parts for them to pa.s.s through. During the execution, the crowd did not cheer but watched, silent and devoid of emotion, as if it were the slaughter of an animal for food. After the women are gone, the crowd begins to buzz.

"Did you see how rich and dark the blood was? It was the color of the Devil's blood!"

"It is rich because he has been feasting on the food we grew while my family died from starvation!"

"His blood is dark because he isn't human. Humans do not have black blood!"

"Why didn't they make him die more slowly?"

One by one, people return to their homes, leaving me standing there alone, staring at the corpse. My mind plays back images of my parents' and sister's murders. Again my heart tears open as I stand there and wonder how they died. Quickly, I push the sadness away. The slumped over corpse reminds me of Pithy in her mother's arms. Pithy's head bled in much the same way. His death will not bring any of them back.

The crowd is gone, except for ten of us kids waiting to see what the adults will do with the body. Three men eventually approach the body and cut loose his legs and hands. As they loosen the rope around the chest, the corpse tumbles off the chair and lands in the dirt. One man tightly wraps the rope three times around the corpse's chest. Holding the end of the rope, the three men drag the body away, leaving behind a trail of blood in the dusty road. I follow along with the other children. The men haul the body to a well and stop in front of it. Four feet in diameter, the round concrete wall sticks two feet out of the ground. The once white concrete is gray with mold, the short gra.s.s around it brown and shriveled.

Turning to us they yell, "What are you kids following us for? Go home! Get away from here. There is nothing to see!"