First They Killed My Father Part 2

April 1975

The first sight I see when I open up my eyes the next morning is the glum upside-down face of Chou against the background of cloudy skies as she tugs at my hair. "Wake up. We have to move again," she tells me.

Slowly I sit up and rub the seeds out of my sleepy eyes. All around me, a sea of people wake: babies cry, old people groan, pots and pans clang against the sides of wagons whose wheels grind the dirt beneath them. There are many more people than the numbers I know to count them with. My eyes follow Khouy and Meng as they walk into the temple with big silver pots to fetch water. Keav says there is always a well near a temple. Moments later, Khouy and Meng return visibly shaken with their empty pots.

"We went into the temple but found no monks there, only a Khmer Rouge soldier," they tell Pa. "They yelled for us to stay away from the temple well. We stopped and came back but other people went in anyway-" Khouy's words are interrupted by the sound of gunshots coming from inside the temple. Hurriedly, we pack our belongings and leave the area. Later on we hear the Khmer Rouge soldiers had killed two people inside the temple and wounded many more.

Today, our third day on the road, I walk with a little more bounce in my step. In Phnom Penh, the soldiers had said we could return home after three days. The soldiers told us we had to leave because the United States was going to bomb our city. But I have not seen any planes in the sky and have heard no bombs dropped. It is strange to me that they made us leave just so we can turn back and go home after three days. I smile at the silly picture of us marching like black ants coming to a stop at the end of the day only to head back home. I do not understand, but I guess three days is how long it takes for them to clean the city.

"Pa, will we go home soon? The soldiers said we can return home after three days." I tug at Pa's pants. It is afternoon and we are not even slowing down yet.

"Maybe, but meanwhile, we have to walk."

"But Pa, this is the third day. Are we going to turn around and walk back home now?"

"No, we have to keep walking," Pa says sadly. Reluctantly, I do what Pa tells me. Everybody has to carry something, so I pick the smallest item in the pile, the rice pot. As I walk, the pot becomes heavier and heavier in my hands as the sun climbs higher and higher in the sky. The metal handle digs and burns the palms of my hands. Sometimes I carry it with two hands in front of me, other times I switch the pot from my right to my left arm, but it seems no matter how I carry it the pot painfully bangs into some part of my leg. It is evening now and I am losing hope that we can go home tonight. Tired and hungry, I drag my feet, taking smaller and smaller steps until I am far behind everyone else.

"Pa, I'm very hungry and my feet hurt," I yell to him.

"You can't eat now. We have very little food left and we need to ration it because we have a long way to go."

"I don't know why we have to save it!" I stand still in the road, letting go of the rice pot to wipe dirt and tears from my cheeks. "Our three days will soon be over. We can return home. Let's just go home. I want to go home." The words somehow come out between halting sobs. My forty-pound body refuses to walk any more. The red dust from the road and the sweat on my body has mixed to create a layer of mud on my skin making it dry and itchy. Pa walks over to Keav and takes a ball of sticky rice out of the pot she is carrying. He comes over to me and hands me the food. My eyes look down at the ground in shame, but I take the food from him anyway. Silently, he strokes my hair while I eat my rice between choking sobs. Bending down, Pa looks me in my eyes and says softly, "They lie, the soldiers lie. We cannot go home tonight." His words make me sob harder.

"But they said three days."

"I know. I'm sorry you believed them, but they lied."

"I don't understand why they lied," my voice quivers as I say it.

"I don't know either, but they lied to us." My hopes crushed, I wipe my forearm across my nose, dragging snot all over my cheek. Pa gently cleans my face with his hand, then takes the rice pot from me and says I only have to carry myself for the rest of the trip.

With Geak on her hip, Ma walks over to me and wraps my scarf around my head to protect me from the sun. I wish that I were a little baby like Geak. She doesn't have to walk at all. Ma carries her in her arms all the way. I am miserable, but at least I have shoes. Some of the people walk barefoot in the scorching heat, carrying their life's belongings on their backs or heads. I feel sorry for them knowing they are worse off than I am. And no matter how far we go, there are always more people along the way. When night falls, once again we make the road our home and sleep, along with the hundreds of thousands of other families fleeing Phnom Penh.

Our fourth day on the road starts the same as the all the other days. "Are we there yet?" I keep asking Kim. When I receive no attention, I proceed to sniff and cry.

"n.o.body cares about me!" I moan and keep walking anyway.

By noontime we have reached the Khmer Rouge's military checkpoint in the town of Kom Baul. The checkpoint consists of no more than a few small makeshift tents with trucks parked beside them. There are many soldiers at this base, and it is easy to recognize them because they wear identical loose-fitting black pajama pants and shirts. All carry identical guns slung across their backs. They move quickly from place to place with fingers on the triggers of their weapons, pacing back and forth in front of the crowd, yelling instructions into a bullhorn.

"This is Kom Baul base! You are not allowed to pa.s.s until we have cleared you! Stand with your family in a line! Our comrade soldiers will come and ask a few simple questions! You are to answer them truthfully and not lie to the Angkar! If you lie to the Angkar, we will find out! The Angkar is all-knowing and has eyes and ears everywhere." This is the first time I hear the word "Angkar," which means "the organization." Pa says the Angkar is the new government of Cambodia. He tells us that in the past, Prince Sihanouk ruled Cambodia as a monarch. Then in 1970, unhappy with the Prince's government, General Lon Nol, deposed him in a military coup. The Lon Nol democratic government has been fighting a civil war with the Communist Khmer Rouge ever since. Now the Khmer Rouge has won the war and its government is called "the Angkar."

"To your right, you see a table where your comrade brothers sit waiting to help you. Anyone who has worked for the deposed government, ex-soldiers or politicians, step up to the table to register for work. The Angkar needs you right away." Anxiety spreads through my body at the sight of the Khmer Rouge soldiers. I feel like I have to vomit.

Pa quickly gathers our family and stands us in line with other peasant families. "Remember, we are a family of peasants. Give them whatever they want and don't argue. Don't say anything, let me do all the talking, don't go anywhere, and don't make any moves unless I tell you to do so," Pa instructs us firmly.

Standing in line wedged among many people, my nostrils are a.s.saulted by the stale smell of bodies that have not been washed for many days. To filter the smell, I pull the scarf tightly over my nose and mouth. In front of us, the line splits in two as a large group of ex-soldiers, government workers, and former politicians walk over to the table to register for work. My heart pounds quickly against my chest, but I say nothing and lean against Pa's legs. He reaches down and puts his hand on top of my head. It stays there as if protecting me from the sun and the soldiers. After a few minutes, my head feels cooler and my heartbeat slows.

Ahead of us in the line, Khmer Rouge soldiers yell something to the crowd, but I cannot hear what they say. Then one Khmer Rouge soldier roughly jerks a bag off of one man's shoulder and dumps its contents on the ground. From this pile, a Khmer Rouge soldier picks up an old Lon Nol army uniform. The Khmer Rouge soldier sneers at the man and pushes him to another Khmer Rouge soldier standing beside him. The soldier then moves on to the next family. Eyes downcast, shoulders slumped, arms hanging loosely on both sides of him, the man with the Lon Nol uniform in his bag does not fight as another Khmer Rouge soldier points and pushes him away with the b.u.t.t of his rifle.

After many hours, it is finally our time to be questioned. I can tell we've been standing here a long time because the sun now warms my lower back instead of the top of my head. As a Khmer Rouge soldier approaches us, my stomach twists into tight knots. I lean closer to Pa and reach up for his hand. Pa's hand is much too big for mine, so I am only able to wrap my fingers around his index finger.

"What do you do?" the soldier curtly asks Pa.

"I work as a packer in the shipping port."

"What do you do?" The soldier points his finger at Ma. Her eyes focus on the ground, and she shifts Geak's weight on her hips. "I sell old clothes in the market," she says in a barely audible voice.

The soldier rummages through all our bags one by one. Then he bends down and lifts the lid of the rice pot next to Pa's feet. Gripping Pa's finger even tighter, my heart races as the soldier checks the pot. His face is close to mine; I concentrate on my dirty toes. I dare not look into his eyes, for I have been told that when you look into their eyes, you can see the devil himself.

"All right, you are cleared. You may go."

"Thank you, comrade," Pa says meekly, his head bobbing up and down to the soldier. The soldier is already looking past Pa and merely waves his hand for us to hurry on. Pa.s.sing the checkpoint safely, we walk a few hours more until the sun goes to sleep behind the mountains and the world becomes a place of shadows and shapes once again. In the ma.s.s of people, Pa finds us a spot of unoccupied gra.s.s near the side of the road. Ma puts Geak down next to me and tells me to keep an eye on her. Sitting next to her, I am struck by how pale she looks. Breathing quietly, she fights to keep her eyelids open, but in the end she loses and falls to sleep. Her growling stomach talks as mine grumbles in return. Knowing there will be nothing to eat for a while, I lie down on a small bundle of clothes next to her and rest my head on another. Quickly, I too fall asleep.

When I wake, I am sitting upright on the straw mat and Keav is pushing food into my mouth. "Eat this," she says. "Rice b.a.l.l.s with wild mushrooms. Khouy and Meng picked the mushrooms in the woods." With my eyes still closed, the rice ball works itself slowly down my dry throat and quiets my hunger. After I finish my small portion, I lie back down and leave the world of the Khmer Rouge soldiers behind.

In the middle of the night I dream I am at a New Year's parade. The Cambodian Lunar New Year this year falls on the thirteenth of April. Traditionally, for three days and nights, we celebrate the New Year with parades, food, and music. In my dream, fireworks crackle and boom noisily, rejoicing in the New Year celebration. There are many varieties of food on the table: red cookies, red candies, red roasted pigs, and red noodles. Everything is red. I'm even wearing a new red dress that Ma has made for this special occasion. In the Chinese culture it is not proper for girls to wear this color because it attracts too much attention. Only girls who want attention wear red and they are generally viewed as "bad" and "improper," more than likely from a bad family. But New Year's is a special occasion and during the celebration everyone is allowed to wear red. Chou is next to me clapping her hands at something. Geak is giggling and trying to catch up with me as I run and spin around and around. We all have on the same dress. We look so pretty with red ribbons in our ponytails, red rouge on our cheeks, and red lipstick on our lips. My sisters and I hold hands, laughing as fireworks boom in the background.

I wake up the next morning to the voices of my brothers and father whispering to each other about what went on in the night.

"Pa," Meng says in a frightened voice, "a man told me the noise last night was the Khmer Rouge soldiers opening fire on all the people who registered for work. They killed every one of them." Their words push at my temples, making my head throb with fear.

"Don't say anything. If the soldiers hear us we will be in danger."

Hearing this makes me afraid and I walk over to Pa. "We've been walking and walking for five days now. When can we go home?"

"Don't talk anymore," he whispers and hands me over to Keav. Keav takes my hand and leads me to the woods so I can go to the bathroom. We have only taken a few steps when Khouy stops us.

"Turn and walk back! Don't go any farther!" He yells.

"She has to go."

"There's a dead body in the tall gra.s.s only a few feet from where you are. That's why this spot was left empty last night."

I grip Keav's hand tighter and suddenly notice the smell that hits my nostrils. It is not the smell of rotten gra.s.s or my own body odor but a smell so putrid that my stomach coils. A smell similar to that of rotten chicken innards left out in the hot sun for too many days. Everything surrounding me becomes blurry and I do not hear Keav telling me to move my legs. I hear only the buzzing of flies feasting on the human corpse. I feel Keav's hand pull at me, and my feet automatically move in her direction. With my hand in hers, we catch up with the rest of the family and begin our sixth day of marching.

On our walk, the soldiers are everywhere, prodding us along. They point and give us directions with their guns and bullhorns. In the scorching April heat, many older people become ill from heatstroke and dehydration, but they dare not rest. When someone falls ill, the family throws out his belongings, puts the sick person on someone's back or a wagon if the family is lucky enough to have one, and march on. We walk all through the morning and afternoon, stopping for food and to rest only when the sun goes down.

All around us, other families also have stopped to rest for the night. Some stagger into the field, picking up firewood to cook their meals. Others eat what they cooked earlier and fall asleep as soon as they lie down. We walk around the curled up bodies to find an empty area of our own. Exhausted, Ma and Keav struggle to set up our resting spot and start a fire. From one of the plastic bags we carry our remaining belongings in, Keav takes out a bedsheet and spreads it on the ground. Ma unrolls the straw mat and lines it up next to the bedsheets. While I sit with Geak on small bundles, rubbing my burned and aching ankles, Chou and Kim move our other bags onto the bedsheet. Holding her hand, I attempt to lead Geak to sit on the sheets, but she pulls out of my hand and toddles over to Pa. He picks her up and holds her to his chest. Her face, brown and blistered from the sun, rests at the nape of his neck as his body swivels left and right. Before long, she is asleep.

Our food supply is reduced to only a few pounds of rice so Meng, Khouy, and Kim have to forage for other food to supplement the rice. They walk half a mile to the nearby town of Ang Snur and return an hour later. Their figures move toward us slowly; Kim carries an armful of dry wood and in Meng's hand is a small branch piercing two small fish and some wild vegetables. Khouy walks toward us with a small pot and an ecstatic grin on his face.

"Ma, look!" he calls to her, barely able to contain his glee. "Sugar!"

"Brown sugar!" Ma exclaims, taking the pot away from him. Though I am tired, those two words bring me running in the direction of the pot.

"Brown sugar!" I repeat quietly. I never knew how two little words could bring me so much happiness. "Ma, let me have a taste! There's almost a quarter of a pot of it!"

"Shh. Don't say it so loud," Keav warns me, "or people will come and beg us for some." I notice a few of our neighbors look in our direction.

"Here everyone, have a small taste. We have to save some," Ma says as we gather around her. My siblings stick their fingers into the sugar and lick what they are able to pull out.

"Me ... me ... me ..." I beg Ma as she slowly lowers the pot to my level. I know it is my one chance to get as much sugar as I can, so I wait a few seconds to form enough spit in my mouth. Then I put my finger in my mouth and swish the spit around my finger to make sure I wet every millimeter of my finger. When I am satisfied that my finger is wet enough, I take it out of my mouth and slowly roll it around on top of the sugar. My finger rolls so slowly that I can feel the rough grains bonding to it. When I pull it out of the pot, I am happy to see what I have achieved. I have more sugar on my one finger than anyone else does! Carefully, I place my other hand under my treasure to catch any grains that might fall from my finger. Slowly, I walk my finger back to my spot on the mat and begin to eat each grain of the sugar.

After dinner, Ma takes us girls to a nearby pond, which is already crowded with people washing their clothes and naked children, tentatively putting their heads under the muddy water. The children all look too tired to bop up and down, laugh, or splash at one another. Ma instructs us to strip off our clothes. I remove my brown shirt, a shirt that was yellow when I hurriedly dressed six days ago. Naked, Chou, Geak, and I wait while Ma removes her clothes from under her sarong and hands them over to Keav. With no soap, Keav takes the clothes to the edge of the river and scrubs them against the rocks to get them clean.

With Geak balanced on one of her hips, Ma takes my hand and walks Chou and I into the pond for our first wash in six days. Hand in hand, we stop when the water reaches my waist. The water feels cool and soft on my skin, slowly peeling away the layers of grime that has collected. The slippery gra.s.s in the water sways back and forth to the rhythm of our movements, gently brushing against my legs. Some of the blades slither around my ankles, sending chills up and down my spine. I jump and fall into the water, pulling Chou with me, who is still holding on tight to Ma's hand. When I resurface, they are all laughing at me. I am happy to have all of us laughing together again.

In the morning, Ma wakes everyone and we get ready for our seventh day of walking. The road ahead of us shimmers in the heat, and the dust swells are everywhere, burning my eyes. In the distance, my eyes focus on a lone bicyclist. I cannot tell how tall he is, only that he is very thin. It is strange that he is traveling against the flow of traffic. All of a sudden, I am startled by Ma's scream. Between loud, halting sobs Ma manages to say, "It's your uncle Leang!"

With our hands in the air and bodies jumping up and down, we wave excitedly to our uncle. Uncle Leang waves one hand back and peddles his bike faster in our direction. He comes to a stop a few feet from us, and all at once we rush toward him. Blinking his eyes, he takes Ma into his arms with Pa standing quietly beside them. All the worries and fears of the past few days are now over, for at last he has found his sister. Uncle Leang hands Ma a package from his front bike rack, and while she opens the cans of tuna and other food he tells Pa that this morning other people from Phnom Penh arrived in his village. The new arrivals told him of the evacuation and how the Khmer Rouge forced everyone to leave all the cities, including Phnom Penh, Battambang, and Siem Reap. Hearing this, he got on his bike and has been looking for us all morning. He then shares with us the glorious news that Ma's oldest brother Heang is on his way to pick us up in a wagon. A smile of joy crosses over my face, knowing I will not have to walk anymore and that in a few days we can ride in their wagon home.

Standing next to Uncle Leang, I have to tilt my head back as far as I can to see his face because he is so tall. Even then all I can see is the shape of his thin lips and wide, black nostrils that flare once every few seconds as he talks to Ma. At almost six feet tall, second Uncle Kim Leang hovers above all of us. His long thin arms and legs make him look like the stick figures I used to draw on my schoolbooks. Uncle Leang lives in a village called Krang Truop. Both Uncle Leang and Uncle Heang have lived in the countryside since before the revolution and have never lived in a city. The Khmer Rouge considers them uncorrupted model citizens for their new society. Pa says we will go and live with our uncles in their village.

The wagon, pulled by two yellow skinny cows moving very slowly, arrives later that evening. While Pa and Ma talk to my uncle, I quickly claim a seat in the wagon with Chou and Geak. Our trail takes us on a gravel road along Route 26 westward until we reach the Khmer Rouge-occupied village of Bat Deng. No matter where we go or in which direction we turn, there are people marching ahead and behind us. In the midst of the crowd, our wagon pa.s.ses the Khmer Rouge village without stopping. We veer westward, leaving our roadside companions far behind. Somewhere between Bat Deng and Krang Truop, I fall asleep.

krang truop

April 1975

On the morning of April 25, eight days after leaving our wonderful home in Phnom Penh, we arrive at our destination. Krang Truop is a small and dusty village surrounded by rice fields as far as the eye can see. All around the rice paddies, little red-dirt roads wind like snakes slithering through water. In the fields, gray buffalos and brown cows graze lazily on the gra.s.s. Many have bells tied on strings around their necks, which chime when the animals slowly move their heads. When they run, they remind me of the sound of the ice cream cart in Phnom Penh. Here, instead of concrete city buildings and houses, people live in huts made out of straw that squat on four stilts above elephant gra.s.s in the middle of rice paddies.

"The kids are even messier than I am!" I exclaim, as one runs across our path, oblivious to my own ragtag appearance. "Ma's always complaining about me-just look at them." The children are red and dusty all over, crimson earth clinging to their clothing, skin, and hair.

Chou frowns at me and shakes her head. Though she is only three years older than I am, Chou often acts as if she knows many more things than I do. I have the larger build and can beat her up easily, though I rarely do it. Because she is shy, quiet, obedient, and doesn't say much, all our older siblings a.s.sume what she chooses to say is of some importance and usually take her side in our fights. Because I am loud and talkative, my words are thought trite and silly. Chou looks at me now with her brows wrinkling close together, as if trying to figure out my thoughts. I stick my tongue out at her. I don't care. I am thrilled to be here and able to return home in a few days.

After a joyous reunion with my aunts and many cousins, Pa disappears with Uncle Leang to meet with the village chief and request permission to live here. Uncle Leang and Uncle Heang say that since the Khmer Rouge have won the war, the soldiers removed the old village chief and replaced him with a Khmer Rouge cadre. Now the villagers have to seek permission for the simplest of human desires-to have family members live with them or to leave the village to visit another area.

They return shortly and report that our request is granted. My interest in the town quickly dies when Pa tells us we will all live with Uncle Leang and his family in their house. Uncle Leang and his wife have six children, so with the nine of us it makes seventeen under one thatched roof. Their house would not be called a house by city people's standards. It looks more like one of those simple huts poor people live in. The roof and walls are made of straw and the hut has only a dirt floor. There are no bedrooms or bathrooms, just one big open room. There is no indoor kitchen, so all the cooking is done outside under a straw roof awning. Later that night Kim took me aside, scolding me for being sn.o.bbish about our new house. Even as a ten-year-old boy he understood how brave our uncle was to beg the new Khmer Rouge village chief to permit us to stay.

"The village is so poor," I say to Pa as the family gathers on the floor of Uncle Leang's hut. Sitting on straw mats or wooden stools and chairs, we listen to Pa's instructions.

"So are we." The sternness in Pa's voice makes my face burn with shame. From now on we are as poor as all these people here. We have to live far away from the city where people might recognize me and know who I am. If anybody outside the family asks where we are from, tell them we are country people just like your uncles."

"Why don't we want them to know who we are, Pa? Why can't we go home to our own house? The soldiers promised that we could go home after three days."

"The Khmer Rouge lied. They have won the war, and we cannot go back. You must stop thinking we can go back. You have to forget Phnom Penh." Pa has never spoken so bluntly to me before, and slowly the reality of what he says sinks in. My body trembles with fear and disbelief. I am never going home. I will never see Phnom Penh again, drive in our car, ride a cyclo with Ma to the markets, buy food from the carts. All of that is gone. He reaches out and takes me into his arms as my eyes water and my lips tremble.

As Pa continues to talk, I slide out of his arms and into Keav's. Pa tries to make my brothers understand the history of politics in Cambodia. Led by Prince Sihanouk, Cambodia, then a French colony, became an independent nation in 1953. Throughout the 1950s and 1960s, Cambodia prospered and was self-sufficient. However, many people were not happy with Prince Sihanouk's government. Many regarded the Sihanouk government as corrupt and self-serving, where the poor got poorer and the rich became richer. Various nationalistic factions sprang up to demand reforms. One of the groups, a secret Communist faction-the Khmer Rouge-launched an armed struggle against the Cambodian government.

The war in Vietnam spread to Cambodia when the United States bombed Cambodia's borders to try to destroy the North Vietnamese bases. The bombings destroyed many villages and killed many people, allowing the Khmer Rouge to gain support from the peasants and farmers. In 1970, Prince Sihanouk was overthrown by his top general, Lon Nol. The United States-backed Lon Nol government was corrupt and weak and was easily defeated by the Khmer Rouge.

Pa says many more things to my brothers, but I don't care much about politics. All I know is that I am supposed to act dumb and never speak of our lives in the city. I can never tell another soul that I miss home, that I want to go back to the way things were. I rest my head on Keav's shoulder and close my eyes while gritting my teeth. She softly strokes my hair and caresses my cheeks.

"Don't worry, your big sister will look after you," she whispers quietly into my hair. Next to her, Ma sits on the mat, holding Geak, who sleeps quietly in her arms. Chou is next to her, focusing on her red-and-white kroma, intently folding and refolding it.

Later in the night, lying on the wooden plank for beds, I keep Chou awake by tossing and turning.

"I hate this. I am so uncomfortable!" I gripe to Chou, who is sleeping next to me. In the city, we three youngest girls slept on mattresses in the same bed. On the farm, the boys get to sleep in hammocks while the girls sleep all lined up like sardines on a rough wooden platform made of bamboo trees. I'd much rather sleep in the hammocks.

"Be quiet and go to sleep."

"Chou, I have to go to the bathroom."

"Go then."

"I'm afraid. Come with me."

Chou answers by turning her back to me. Every time I have to go, I have to walk into the woods by myself to the outhouse. We have used up our paper money and now have nothing to use for toilet paper. Chou taught me to use leaves, but at night, when I cannot see, I am afraid there might be bugs on them.

Entering the woods at night is a haunting experience, especially for someone with a vivid imagination. In the darkness, I see spirits shaking the trees, letting me know they are waiting for me. They whisper chants and spells that the wind carries through the leaves, back to my ears. The spirits call me to come to them so they can take possession of my body. I am so filled with fear about going to the bathroom alone at night that I force myself to hold it until dawn when I make a mad run into the woods.

I soon realize how early everyone gets up when they are already busy about the farm before the sun rises and long before I awake the next morning. Life on the farm is boring and dull, but at least there is enough to eat. Unlike my life in Phnom Penh, I do not have any friends outside the family. It is hard to make friends because I am afraid to speak, afraid I will blurt out secrets about our family. Pa says the Angkar has abolished markets, schools, and universities, and has banned money, watches, clocks, eight-track players, and televisions.

Since we are now a family of peasants I will have to learn the time of day and night by the position of the sun and moon in the sky. If I run into other children and speak to them, I have to watch what I say and what language I use. I cannot mention the food I wish I could eat, the movies I have seen, or the cyclo I have ridden in. If I speak about them, the children will know we are from the city. I am used to kids seeking my attention and friendship in the city. Here they look at me with suspicion and steer away from me when I approach them. No matter, I have many cousins to play with. On the days I don't spend watching other people watch us, I help my older cousins bring their cows to the field to graze. I gradually adjust to life on the farm and let go of my dream of returning home.

The first time my cousin Lee Cheun puts me on a cow, I am afraid I will fall off. The cows are much taller than I am. Lee Cheun is sixteen and taller than the cows. She hoists me effortlessly on top of one. Sitting on its back, my legs hang to the middle of its stomach. My hands hold tightly to the rope tied to the ring pierced through its nose while my legs hug its body. Every time the cow moves, its huge rib cage shifts between my legs, and my heels slide over the ribs like fingers over piano keys.

"Relax your body." Lee Cheun laughs. "Cows are lazy so they move slowly. You will fall if you sit so rigidly." Following her advice, I stop holding on so hard and sway my upper body with the movement of the cow. After a few minutes, my fear subsides.

How much farther before we stop? It's hot and my bottom is hurting," I complain.

"We're going just over the hill where the gra.s.s is greener. You're the one who wants to come so stop grumbling." Lee Cheun points to a group of girls walking in a distant field. "Look, at least you don't have their jobs."

They are peasant girls, not much older than I am, wandering in the field. They carry bags strapped diagonally across their back and their eyes look at the ground. Occasionally, a girl bends to pick up a round greenish-black patty from the ground and puts it in her bag.

"What are they doing?"

"They are collecting dry cow dung."

"Disgusting!"

"Usually the peasants come by with their wagons and scoop up the fresh manure to use as topsoil. These girls are picking up the dry manure because it is believed to have medicinal properties. They will boil it in water and drink it like tea."

"Disgusting!" I exclaim again.

Even the new experience of riding on a cow becomes dull when you do it everyday. Yet despite the monotony of farm life, the longer we live in Krang Truop, the more fearful and anxious I become. Everywhere I venture I cannot shake the feeling that someone is watching, following, me. Though I have nowhere to go, each morning I hurriedly dress myself so I can catch a glimpse of Pa before he goes off to work. On most days, by the time I am awake, Pa and my brothers are already gone and Ma is busy sewing clothes for the family or working in the garden.

After getting dressed I do what I can to keep up my hygiene. Pa tells us it is important, so I try to make him happy. Since we no longer have toothbrushes or toothpaste, I use a handful of hay and run it over my teeth like a brush. To get to the back teeth, I have to reach into my mouth with my fingernails and sc.r.a.pe away the thick, yellow crust.

To wash, I use a bath stall similar to an outhouse. Inside, there is a big round container that looks like a three-foot-tall clay flowerpot, which Kim and the other cousins fill with water every evening. I undress and hang my clothes on a splinter of wood on the door. Then I reach into the container and take a bowl full of water and pour it over myself. There is no soap or shampoo, and as a result my hair becomes very sticky and knotted, and it is painful to comb.