First They Killed My Father Part 8

My first night at the camp the two groups gather around a roaring bonfire to listen to the latest propaganda. The two Met Bongs stand before us and take turns preaching their message. "The Angkar is our savior! The Angkar is our liberator! We owe everything to the Angkar! We are strong because of the Angkar!" Having heard it many times, I know when to break into the obligatory claps and screams. "Our Khmer soldiers today killed five hundred Youns trying invade our country! The Youns have many more soldiers, but they are stupid and are cowards! One Khmer soldier can kill ten Youns!"

"Angkar! Angkar! Angkar!" we scream our replies.

"The Youns have many more weapons, but our Khmer soldiers are stronger, smarter, and fearless! The Youns are like the devils and some refuse to die!" Their voices rising higher and higher, the Met Bongs tell us how our Khmer soldiers kill the Youns! Our Khmer soldiers gut the Youns with knives, spilling their insides on the dirt. They cut off the Youns' heads as warnings to other Youns invading Kampuchea. The Met Bongs pace around the circle of children as if possessed by powerful spirits, their arms shaking furiously at the sky, their lips moving faster and faster as they spit words about the glory of the Angkar and our unbeatable Khmer soldiers-words condemning the Youns and detailing their gory fate. The children's furor matches that of the Met Bongs.

"You are the children of the Angkar! In you lies our future. The Angkar knows you are pure in heart, uncorrupted by evil influences, still able to learn the ways of the Angkar! That is why the Angkar loves you above all else. That is why the Angkar gives you so much power. You are our saviors. You have the power!"

"Angkar! Angkar! Angkar!" we thunder in appreciation.

"The Youns hate you. They want to come and take away the Khmer's treasures, including you. The Youns know you are our treasure." Squatting down, the Met Bongs look us in our eyes and tell us the Youns have already infiltrated our towns and villages to try to capture us. But the Angkar will protect us if we give it our total loyalty. This means we must report to the Angkar suspected infiltrators and traitors. If we hear anyone at all-our friends, neighbors, cousins, even our own parents-speak things against the Angkar, we must report them to the Met Bongs. My heart stops. Though the Met Bongs' lips continue to move and words continue to come out, I can no longer hear them. Pa was against the Angkar! That must be why Pa was killed. Ma is against the Angkar and they must never know this. With my fist raised I scream the obligatory "Angkars!"

When the speeches are over, the circle opens up and the kids gather to one side of the fire. Four boys get up from the crowd, with mandolins and homemade drums in hand. They stand to the side of the crowd and start to play their instruments. They beat the drums and strum the mandolins while their feet tap the ground. They look at each other, brows arching, eyes narrowing, mouths opening with bared teeth. But they do not look angry; in fact, they look happy! When they finish, they tease each other about who missed what notes. All of a sudden, they burst into loud laughter! The sound is nasal, shrill, and genuine. I have not heard anyone laugh genuinely since the Khmer Rouge takeover. In Ro Leap, we lived with so much fear that there was no room for laughter. We were afraid to laugh lest it draw attention to our family.

After the boys quiet down, five girls walk up to the front and stand facing the crowd. All are wearing beautiful black shirts and pants, not the faded, gray-black I have on, but shiny and new, with bright red scarves around their waists. They wear red ribbons across their foreheads with red fake flowers made of dyed straw. Forming a line, they sing and dance for us. All the songs are about worshiping the powerful leader of the Angkar, Pol Pot, the glory of Angkar society, and the unbeatable Khmer soldiers.

They dance scenes depicting farmers at work, the harvesting of rice, nurses helping wounded soldiers, and soldiers winning battles. There is even a song about a woman soldier hiding her knife in her skirt and thrusting it into the heart of a Youn. Though I dislike the songs, it is music nevertheless, and it is something of a respite from the life I have been living. In the nearly two years I lived in Ro Leap, there was no music or dancing. The chief told us the Angkar had banned it. This must be a privilege that we, as child soldiers, have been granted.

Watching the girls sing and dance, a strange feeling comes over me. Though the words they sing describe images of blood and war, the girls smile. Their hands move gracefully in unison, their bodies sway and twirl to the rhythm of the music. After the dance, they hold hands and giggle as if they have had fun. This thought warms me, bringing a smile to my lips. Laughter has become a distant memory and I cherish the echo of a different time. In Phnom Penh, Chou and I used to take Keav's clothes out of her drawers and play dress-up with them. At fourteen, Keav was beautiful and stylish, and bought only the latest fashions. Her clothes were so grown-up and pretty, just like Ma's. Long, flowing dresses, short shimmering skirts, and ruffled-collar shirts filled her closet. Chou and I slipped in and out of her clothes, laughing and giggling, calling each other Madame and Mademoiselle. Then we'd go into Keav's jewelry box and put on her necklaces and earrings. Keav inevitably came home and caught us. Screaming and yelling, she swatted at our bottoms as we ran out of the room.

After the performance, all of us are invited to dance. The girls get up and dance with each other and the boys group tightly together. I have always loved music and dancing. For a few minutes, my feet move to the beat of the drums, my arms sway to the rhythm of the song, and my heart is light and joyful. After the dancing is over, Met Bong comes over and says, "For a young girl, you are a good dancer."

"Thank you," I reply softly. "I like to dance."

"What is your name again?"

"Sarene," my lips easily say my new Cambodian name.

"Sarene, I want you to join the dance troop. We're putting together shows for the soldiers. This would mean taking time off work for rehearsal. We only dance for fun now, but we will dance for the soldiers if a unit comes to the village."

"Thank you, Met Bong. I would like it very much." After she leaves, I cover my hand over my mouth, stifling a scream. Me! A dancer! I get to get off work for rehearsal and travel. New clothes! Fake flowers in my hair! For the first time since the takeover, I feel young and light. A smile crosses my face.

The reality, though, is more painful and tiring than I had imagined. Every morning before we start rehearsing, Met Bong wraps our fingers together with elephant gra.s.s. Then she forces our hands to bend backward creating a beautiful curve when the hand is unwrapped. The process is incredibly painful and it takes many years to achieve a permanent curve. She cuts the gra.s.s bondage after an hour, leaving my fingers stiff and throbbing with pain. Then in our line formation, she teaches us a few simple steps each day. When I am not busy with dance rehearsals, I work from morning until midafternoon in the rice field. The rest of the time I spend learning the songs and listening to Met Bong preach the philosophy of the Angkar.

On my first day of field work, after only a few steps in the muddy water, my ankles and toes start to itch. I lift one foot out the water and scream loudly. There are fat black leeches all over my ankles, feet, and between my toes. I have seen leeches before, but never ones so big and fat. These are bigger than my fingers. Black and slimy, they attach themselves to my flesh with suction cups, sucking my blood! Their bodies writhe and vibrate, making my skin itch and tingle. Frantically, I try to peel them off, my fingers grabbing their cold squishy bodies. The leeches stretch with my pull, become longer. They refuse to let go. Finally, I get one head off but the other end stays firm and continues to take more blood.

A workmate comes over to me and laughs. For a brief second the sound of laughter startles me. "You are so stupid! This is the only way to get them off." She pulls out a stalk of gra.s.s. Her hands hold both ends of the stalk, and she swipes the gra.s.s down and around my ankle. The leeches fall off onto the ground, leaving my ankle bleeding.

"This way both heads come off at once. Next time, put the legs of your pants down, and tie them tight around your ankles so nothing can get in." I had rolled my pants up so as not to get them wet. I was wondering why everyone wore them down.

"What about my feet and toes?" I ask anxiously. The girl shrugs her shoulders.

"There's nothing much we can do. They don't hurt and they can't take much blood. I pull them off at the end of the day. Get used to them."

I shudder at the thought and wonder if I can. From afar, Met Bong screams for me to stop being lazy and get back into the water. My heart beats quickly. Laziness is the worst crime against the Angkar. I tie my pants tight around my ankles with long gra.s.s and jump back into the rice paddy. In the water, the warm mud oozes itself between my toes and after a few steps, my feet and toes begin to tingle and itch again. "Get used to it!" I mutter to myself. Gritting my teeth with determination, I bend over to plant the rice. The work is back-breaking and boring, and the sun burns my black pajama clothes. As the hours pa.s.s, my mind wanders to Keav. This is what she did every day until she died. Sweat drips down my face and chin as my stomach convulses. I have no time to be weak. At the end of the day, I did forget about the leeches clinging to my toes, but I did not forget about my sister.

It is September, two months since I last saw Chou. Met Bong is training the younger children to protect themselves now. She tells us Pol Pot senses troubles ahead and we must prepare ourselves. Pol Pot is sending soldiers into villages and towns and taking all children eight years and older from their homes, including base children. Depending on their size and age, the children are given different jobs and training. They are put in camps to grow food, make tools, work as porters, and train as soldiers on bases like ours.

"You should be proud," she says. "Your training with me puts you far ahead of these other children."

"Met Bong," I ask, "I have done nothing but work in the field and watch the older girls train."

"It is very easy to train someone to use weapons," she replies, "but to train the mind is much more difficult. I have been training your mind all these months. I have tried my best to place Pol Pot's words in your head and to tell you the truth about the Youns. Children must be taught to follow orders without hesitation, without question, and to shoot and kill even their traitor parents. That is the first step in the training." I seethe when I hear her words. Rage boils quietly inside me, but I contain it. I will never kill Ma for them. Not ever!

The New Year pa.s.ses over without any celebration or joy. The January breeze turns into April heat and I am one year older. Life at the camp continues as always while I divide my time between the field and the training lessons. Like Keav, I am alone here, even though I eat the same food and sleep in the same hut with eighty girls. Besides our obligatory discussions about the power of Pol Pot and his army, we live together in silence. We keep to ourselves because we are all hiding secrets. My secret is our lives in Phnom Penh. For another girl, it may be that she has a handicapped brother, has stolen food, possesses a pair of red pants, is nearsighted and used to wear gla.s.ses, or has tasted chocolate. If she is found out, she can be punished by Met Bong.

Though I know the danger of developing a friendship with the girls, sometimes I wistfully think about it. Without Chou, I am alone. Until now, I've always had Chou to play with, fight with, and talk to. In Phnom Penh, Khouy and Meng were already adults, Keav was a teenage girl, Kim a prep.u.b.escent, and Geak a baby. Chou and I were closest to each other. When I was sad and upset, it was she whom I invariably sought out to share my feelings. I never realized how much I would miss her now that we are apart.

At the new camp, the nearest thing to friendship comes from the palm tree boy. I do not know his name and have never spoken to him. He comes to our camp often, sometimes by himself and sometimes with his father. I learned from Met Bong that he lives with his family in a nearby village. He and his father share the job of collecting palm sap and fruit for the village's chief. The boy and his father often give Met Bong some palm fruit to eat. If they are there when I am around, the boy usually throws a palm fruit in my direction, smiling and waving to me with his hand still clutching the cleaver.

Every day, our nightly lessons grow longer and longer. It seems Pol Pot has replaced the Angkar as the source of power. I don't know why or how it happened. I do not know anything more about him, except for what Met Bong tells us at our nightly lesson. Met Bong says he is the one responsible for bringing the Khmer Rouge to power. He is the one who will restore Kampuchea to its ancient glory. Met Bong's voice rises as she speaks his name, as if uttering "Pol Pot" brings her closer to his power. Since the Khmer Rouge takeover of Phnom Penh, I have heard of Pol Pot but I never knew exactly what his position with the Angkar was. Now it seems that it is the Angkar that is working for him, and that we all work for him. More and more each day, we call out his name in place of the Angkar. In the propaganda reports, we now give thanks to Pol Pot, our savior and liberator, and not to the Angkar. It seems that nothing is accomplished without the credit going to Pol Pot. If our rice production is increased this year it is because Pol Pot made it happen. If a soldier is a strong and skillful fighter, it is because Pol Pot taught him. If the soldier gets killed, then he did not listen to Pol Pot's advice. Every night we praise and commend Pol Pot and his Red Khmer soldiers for defeating the enemy.

In violent details we hear of the soldiers' mighty strength and supernatural powers to kill the Youns. The Youns are superst.i.tious and believe that if their body parts are not buried together when they die, then their souls are doomed to wander the earth for all eternity. These souls cannot rest or be reincarnated back to earth. Knowing this, our soldiers cut off the Youns' heads and hide them in bushes or toss them in the jungle so they cannot be found. All this information we get in gory detail until we too become desensitized to the violence.

Within the next month, one by one the older boys and girls leave the camp with nothing more than the clothes they are wearing. They are sent off to help the war. Some go to live in other camps, where they learn to make poison stakes, and others follow the soldiers as porters. As porters they carry supplies, food, medical aid, and weapons for the soldiers and are often put in the line of fire. Many of the children have been moved to so many locations that their parents do not know where they are. Once gone, many of them are never heard from again.

Then the boys' camp closes altogether. Met Bong says Pol Pot needed the boys to go and live in the mountains so they are closer to the other soldiers. There the soldiers can protect them. She tells us Pol Pot knows best but still she seems angry with their move. On the boys' last night, while the children were sleeping, I got up because I had to go to the bathroom. From the bushes, I spied Met Bong and Met Preuf together by the fire. They were sitting on the ground, their shoulders touching. They talked softly, but the words were drowned out by the crackles of the fire. Met Bong then rested her head on the male supervisor's shoulder and he put his arms around her. She is, after all, a young woman, and anywhere else this would be an everyday scene. I wonder why she is allowed companionship when we are not. When the boys left, they took their instruments with them. Now Met Bong still requires the girls to practice with the hope that soon the boys will return and we can all dance again.

Soon our camp population is reduced to forty girls, ranging in age from ten to thirteen. Now it is our turn, Met Bong tells us, to increase our training and fulfill our duty to Pol Pot. She gathers the girls together and instructs us to sit in a circle. "You are the children of the Angkar. You are here because you are the brightest and fastest. You are fearless and are not afraid to fight. The Angkar needs you to be our future." She says this slowly, deliberately, filling us with pride. "One day soon you will join the older girls to fight the Youns, but for now there are many things you will need to learn."

Met Bong stands up and disappears, only to return moments later with an armful of tools. They clang noisily as she drops them in a pile in front of us. Sitting before us she says, "All these tools you know already. We use them to harvest rice, plant vegetables, and build houses. But in the hands of fighters, they are also weapons of war. The round sickle, the hoe, the rake, the hammer, the machete, the wooden stick, and a rifle." She reaches for the sickle and holds it up. "The sharp edge can take off the enemy's head," she says. "The point of the sickle can pierce a person's skull." My eyes widen as these images are imprinted on my brain. The top of my skull tingles. I look to see the other children listening intently, displaying no emotion. "The hammer smashes the enemy's skull; the machete cuts them. When you have to protect yourself, make whatever you have into weapons," Met Bong shares with us. I stare blankly at her, absorbing her words, showing no feeling while my hate for her grows stronger. These are the weapons Pol Pot's men used on their victims, victims like Pa. I blink rapidly several times trying to chase away the images.

Met Bong picks a rifle from the pile, the same kind I have seen many times before on the shoulders of the Khmer Rouge soldiers. "This is a weapon I wish we had more of but they are very expensive. The ammunition for them is very expensive too, so we have few rifles to waste. The rifle is easy to shoot. Anyone can learn to use them-even a child can shoot it." She calls me from the circle of forty girls. "This is one way to carry it," she says as she puts the rifle on my shoulder, its b.u.t.t digging into my chest. It rests heavily on my shoulder, perhaps a fifth of my weight. Met Bong then instructs me to sling one arm over it, balancing its weight with my arm. I do this easily but against my will. She then takes the rifle and slips the strap on my shoulder. The rifle hangs on my back a foot from the ground, its b.u.t.t bouncing lightly on my calf. "Obviously, it is too long for Sarene to carry this way," Met Bong says.

I focus on it, realizing that this is the weapon that made Kim bleed, the same weapon that smashed into his skull. My hand shakes slightly, but I steady it by clutching the stock tightly until my knuckles turn white. "Your extended left hand holds and balances the rifle. Your right hand aims and squeezes the trigger. See, it's easy!" Met Bong's voice sounds enthusiastic and jubilant, but I feel neither her joy nor pa.s.sion, only my hatred for her and Pol Pot. "When the bullets come out of the rifle, they travel in a straight line. Many soldiers say they can escape the bullets by running in a zigzag." She calls each child one by one and teaches her how to hold the rifle. After our first lesson, Met Bong a.s.sures us that this is only one of many lessons to come.

During the day, no one can hurt me, but at night, as I drift off to sleep, sandwiched among forty girls, away from Chou, my mind wanders and dreams of my family, keeping me awake. In the morning, my head throbs and I am drained of energy. I cannot allow this weakness to control me, or let it seep into my spirit. If this happens I know I will die because the weak do not survive in Kampuchea.

The nights when I do not dream of my family, I have nightmares of something or someone trying to kill me. The dream always begins the same way. The sky is black and echoes with the thunder of monsoon storms. I am crouching in a bush and sweat runs down my forehead and stings my eyes. Shivering, I bring my knees closer to my chest. I hold my breath when I hear leaves rustling all around me, then footsteps. Instinctively, I know something is after me; it is looking for me in nearby bushes, looking to kill me.

Two giant hands separate the leaves and expose me. My body is paralyzed when I see what stands before me. It is both a man and a beast. It hovers above me, coal black eyes bulge out of its sockets, and large, flat nostrils flare from his fat, furry face. Fear grips me as I notice the silver machete in its hand, gleaming sinisterly in the moonlight. As the beast bends down to grab me, I run and make my escape between its legs. It turns around and slashes at me with the machete, barely missing my leg. As I run I hear the blade landing nearer and nearer to me, slicing through the bushes around me. The faster I run the faster it runs after me. It chases me until I am cornered.

Then the jungle closes in on me, forming thick walls. There is no escape. The beast raises the machete over its head, aimed directly at me. I am sick of it now. I'm sick of being chased and tired of running. My blood boils with rage as I hurl my body into it, knocking it off balance. It drops the machete. I ram my body into it once more and it crashes down onto the ground. I get up and grab the machete. Time freezes as I chop off its hand. Its stump squirts blood all over me, but I do not care. Again and again, I raise the machete and hack off pieces of its body until it lies motionless, dead. In the morning I wake up soaked in sweat and fear, yet strengthened by the nightmare since I turn out to be the victor.

The dreams are always the same, but the character changes. The "enemy," a Khmer Rouge soldier or a wild beast, a monster or a ghostly man-creature, comes after me with knives, guns, axes, machetes. There is always a struggle until I obtain control of the weapon and kill the enemy before it can kill me. In the end, I, the hunted, turn and become the killer. Each night before we can sleep, Met Bong gathers us together in the hut for another hour of propaganda reports. She lights one candle and holds it in her hand. The orange glow lights up her face while the rest of us are in the dark. At one meeting, as I lean against the straw wall and slowly fall asleep, a loud scream shocks me awake. With my heart pounding, I wonder if it was me who screamed. But then I see that the girls have closed in tightly around Met Bong.

"What happened?" Met Bong asks the girl who screamed.

"I felt ... it was a big hand. I was leaning against the wall. A hand reached through the straw and grabbed my arm, then my throat. It was wet and cold. I know it's a Youn coming to get us." The girl's lips tremble, her face is yellow in the light, looking very much like an apparition. Met Bong turns to the older girls and tells them to go look.

"Take the guns-make sure they are loaded. Shoot anything that moves." After the older girls leave, the group huddles together in the middle of the room, facing the walls. Images of the Youns attacking and killing us run in my mind, filling me with fear. In Phnom Penh, Pa once told me the Youns are just like us but with whiter skin and smaller noses. However, Met Bong describes the Youns as savages who are bent on taking over our country and our people. I do not know what to believe. The only world I know beyond this camp is the one Met Bong describes to me. Sitting in the dark, I find myself starting to believe her message about the enemies.

A few minutes later, the girls return and report that whatever was out there is now gone. In the moonlight, they saw large footprints around the compound. "The Youns are attacking us," Met Bong informs us. Her hands grip the rifle tightly to her chest. "When they take over the towns, they infiltrate them and open up the prisons. The Youns are running around raping girls and pillaging towns, and the prisoners who are against Pol Pot are with the Youns. We have to protect ourselves," Met Bong rambles on frantically. After that night Met Bong inst.i.tutes a new policy and we now take turns guarding the camp at night.

I am asleep when a hand roughly jerks my shoulders. "Wake up, it's your turn to stand guard," a voice says to me from the dark. Grumpy, I sit up and rub the sleep out of my eyes. She puts the rifle in my hand, which is heavy, and I cradle it against my chest because my fingers are not long enough to wrap around its stock. I walk over to the doorway and sit down.

The sky is dark and cloudless, allowing the full moon to shine through, giving everything an eerie, silvery glow. The cool wind blows quietly. All is quiet, except for the crickets. I live with forty others, but I am so alone in this world. There is no camaraderie among the children, no blossoming friendships, no bonding together under hardship. We live against each other, spying on one another for Pol Pot, hoping to win favors from Met Bong. Met Bong says Pol Pot loves me, but I know he does not. Maybe he loves the other children, the uncorrupted base children with their uncontaminated parents. I came to this camp under false pretenses and lies. They think I am one of them, one of the pure base children.

I have never seen Pol Pot in person or in pictures. I know little about him or why he killed Pa. I do not know why he hates me so much. In the night when my defenses are down, my mind flashes from one member of my family to next. I think of Ma, Keav, Chou, and my brothers. My throat swells when Geak's face floats into my mind. "No," I tell myself, "I have to be strong. No time to be weak." But I miss Pa so much it hurts to breathe. It's been almost a year now since I held his hand, saw his face, felt his love.

The night sky looms ever more black in front of me. "Oh Pa," I whisper to the air. As if answering me, something rustles loudly in the tall gra.s.s. I hold my breath and look around the compound. I know I heard something! My heart races. Everything out there is moving toward me. The tree trunks expand and contract as if they are breathing. The branches shake and swing, transform into hands. The gra.s.s sways like waves heading toward me. They are coming at us! My finger squeezes the trigger and the shots go everywhere! The rifle jerks back, hitting me hard against my ribs. "I'll kill them! I'll kill them!" I scream.

Then a hand grabs the rifle from me while another slaps my face. With my eyes open wide, I put my arms up to shield against another a.s.sault.

"Wake up!" Met Bong screams at me. "There's nothing out there! We have no bullets to waste!" I flinch as she raises her hand again but then decides against hitting me.

"But Met Bong, you said-" I plead in a small voice.

"I said shoot when you see something real, not ghosts," Met Bong interrupts me as laughter erupts from the girls.

"Don't forget about the bodiless witches," a voice calls out to me as they all head back to sleep.

Many claim she's only a myth-the bodiless witch, an ordinary person by daytime and a witch at night. The only way to tell if someone is a bodiless witch is by the deep wrinkle lines around her neck. At night when these witches go to sleep their heads separate from their bodies. Dragging their intestines along, they fly around to places where there's blood and death. The heads fly so fast that no one has ever seen the faces, only their shiny red eyes and sometimes the shadow of their heads and entrails. Once she finds a dead body, the bodiless witch nestles against the corpse all night. Their tongues lick blood and eat flesh while their innards writhe around them.

That night I clutch the gun tight to my chest, my finger resting on the trigger, alternately aiming at the sight of the Youns and up in the sky for the witches.

gold for chicken

November 1977

Seven months have pa.s.sed since I left Ro Leap. My fingers tremble as I b.u.t.ton my new black shirt. I want to impress Ma with my new clothes. I wish I had a mirror, but there isn't one around. Since there are no hairbrushes or combs, I run my fingers through my greasy hair to smooth it out. Nervously, I walk out of the compound of the camp; in a couple of hours, I will be with Ma.

The Youn scare is over for now and all is quiet again at the camp. Every few months, Met Bong allows all the children to have a day of rest. Many take the opportunity to visit their families. My breath quickens as my feet take me closer and closer to Ro Leap. Since Met Bong believes I am an orphan, I say I am visiting Chou but instead will go see Ma. Ma does not know I am coming; she might not even be home. She told me not to come back. What if she doesn't want to see me or won't see me?

Following the same path Chou and I took out of Ro Leap, I march crisply toward the village. The surroundings seem to have changed very little since I last saw them. The red dirt trail winds and dips behind small foothills, shaded by tall teak trees. When I left I was a scared kid who cried and begged Ma to let me stay with her. Though I tried to be strong, I was weak and did not know how I could fend for myself without Ma's protection. But I am no longer that scared child. My only fear now is that Ma will not be happy to see me. The memory of her hand swatting my behind to make me leave Ro Leap still burns in me. On today's journey, the trees look smaller and less haunted, and the path has an end-a destination.

Finally I see the village. It looks familiar yet it's changed. The town square is deserted and quiet as I cross it to face the rows of huts. My lungs expand and contract rapidly as I remember Pa lifting me off the truck when we first arrived. I freeze his face in my mind, his warm eyes beckoning me to him, his arms holding me, protecting me while a base person spits at him. Inhaling deeply, I force myself closer to our hut. Like entering a ghost town, images of Keav telling Pa she will survive, Kim's swollen cheeks, my hand reaching into the rice container, earthworms writhing in a bowl float before my eyes. The memories haunt and follow me like my shadow as I climb slowly up the steps to our hut. Ma is not there. My knees ache as I force my feet to move to the village's garden.

There I see them. Their backs are to me. Ma's squatting in the garden, pulling out weeds. Her black pajama clothes are gray and faded. The noon sun burns down on her, but she keeps working. Stiffening my back, my eyes skip over to Geak, who is sitting under a tree, watching Ma. She is still so little, so thin. Her hair is growing out again, but it is still very fine. She is almost five and looks much smaller than I did when I was that age. Ma says something to her, and she laughs a small, frail laugh. My heart leaps. They have each other. They will always have each other.

"Ma," I call out loudly. Her back stiffens. Slowly, she turns her head, her eyes squinting in the sun. It takes her a few seconds to recognize me, then she stands quickly and runs toward me. Tears fall from her eyes as she puts her hands over me, touching my head, my shoulders, my face, as if to make sure I am real.

"What are you doing here? What if you get caught?"

"Ma, it's okay. I have a permission slip."

She takes the slip and quickly reads it. It is only a piece of paper saying I can leave my camp and no mention of a designated location.

"All right, you stay here with Geak while I take this to the chief and ask for some time off." Before I can say anything she's gone, leaving me standing there by myself, already missing her. I feel a gentle hand tug on my little finger and I look to see Geak's face staring up at me, her eyes big and wet. She barely reaches my chest. Though she is five, I always think of her as a baby. Maybe because she is weak and does not fight. I smile and reach my hand out to her. Together we walk to a shady tree and wait for Ma's return.

Sitting under the tree, I hold on to Geak's hand. It is small in my palm, brown from the sun with black dirt burrows in her nails and the wrinkles around the knuckles. Her nails are brittle. I continue to stare at her hand, too afraid to look at her face and see my guilt in her eyes. I do not know what to say to her. She has never been a talkative child; she is the sweet-natured one and I am the cranky one. Leaning over, I put my arms around her tiny shoulders and rest my cheek gently on her head. She does not move or struggle but allows me to hold her.

Ma comes back with a bowl of rice and permission to take a few hours off. "It's past lunch, but I got this for you from the chief."

I take the bowl and we walk back to our hut.

"The chief gave you time off?"

"Only a few hours. He is not a bad man."

"Ma, Geak still looks really sick," I say once we are sheltered in our hut.

"I know, I'm very worried about her. I'm afraid she won't grow anymore. We are given plenty of rice now, but we had all those periods of virtually no food.

Pangs of guilt gnaw at my stomach.

"She needs meat," Ma continues. "Last week, I tried to trade a pair of my ruby earrings for a small chicken ..." Her eyes are sad as she recounts her story to me.

It was dusk and the sky turned red as it phased into night. When she and Geak finished their meal of rice and fish, Ma went to her secret hiding place under the small pile of clothes and took out one of Pa's old shirts. Reaching into the pocket, she took out a pair of ruby earrings. Sadness overcame her as she remembered Phnom Penh, a place long ago where she collected expensive antique jewelry. She shook her head as if to chase away the memory. No time for that now. She had to get going before it got too dark. She told Geak she would be back soon and quickly left.

As she walked the twenty minutes to a nearby village, her body grew weak. Her joints ached with every step. She hated leaving Geak alone. She knows Geak cries for her whenever she leaves, even for only a few minutes. Her poor baby girl. "Seng Im," she whispered to Pa, "I'm so tired. I'm thirty-nine and growing old, so fast and so alone. Remember? We were to grow old together. Seng Im, I'm too old to live like this." The memory of Pa brought tears to her eyes. She knows it's no use, but still she talks to him.

Ma approached the village. Her heart raced, pumping the blood too quickly and making her dizzy. "Act casual," she thought. "They cannot suspect." If they knew what she was doing here, if she got caught, there would be big trouble. She shuddered when she thought of what they would do to her. Pa had traded inside the village with the base people for rice and other grains. But Ma wanted to trade for meat to feed Geak. The other women a.s.sured her the operation is completely discreet and safe. Slowly, she walked into the village. No one stopped her to ask questions. If they did, she would tell them she was visiting a friend. A sigh of relief escaped her when she saw the house. In it lives a certain woman who works in the chicken farm. Other women in the village told Ma this woman had stolen chicken for them in exchange for jewelry. They described in detail the woman and her hut, so it was easy for Ma to pick it out. She walked over and called out, "Good evening, comrade sister. It is your friend visiting you." The woman looked out of her hut, and though she did not recognize Ma, she invited her in.

Once safely inside Ma whispered to her, "Comrade sister, I have come to ask for your help. I am told that you work in a chicken farm. I have a young daughter who is sick. She needs some meat. Please, comrade sister, help me." Ma unfolded her scarf and showed the woman the earrings. "If you are able to help me, I will give the pair to you."

"Yes, yes, I can get you a small chicken, but I cannot do it now. You have to come back tomorrow. Come at the same time tomorrow." With that, she hurriedly sent Ma away.

The next night Ma returned to the village with her earrings. Her steps were faster and lighter tonight, a smile spreading over her face as she thought of giving Geak the chicken to eat. Ma can't even remember the last time she and Geak had meat. Ma walked to the house and the woman invited her in. As she sat down across from the woman, Ma realized the woman was agitated and nervous. Then Ma heard the sound of footsteps behind her, coming from a dark corner of the room. Her heart lurched and fear took over her body as she stood. "What's going on?" she managed to whisper to the woman.

A man emerged from the shadows and blocked her escape. "Please comrade, I have a daughter-"

His hand came down hard across Ma's face.

Ma's hand blocked her face, her eyes blinked back tears.

"Give me the earrings," the man commanded. With shaking hands, Ma reached into her pockets, found the earrings, and put them in his open palm.

"Give me everything you have," he demanded her.

"Comrade, please forgive me for I do not have any more. This is all I-" her voice trembled. He balled up his fist and punched her in the stomach. Ma doubled over and fell to her knees. His foot kicked her thighs, then many more kicks landed on her body. She was lying on the floor now, gasping in pain.

"Please comrade," she begged, thinking of Geak, "have mercy, I have a young, sick daughter."

His foot dug into her stomach. White spots flashed before her eyes. She felt as if her insides had been ripped out. She gasped for more breath as his hands pulled her to her feet. He dragged her to the door and pushed her out the steps.

"Don't come back, ever!" he yelled at her. Her knees buckled on the steps. She fell, her body slamming against the stairs. Landing in the dirt, she picked herself up and ran.

Back at Ro Leap, Ma lifts her shirt and shows me the bruises where the man beat her. The marks look raw. Black and blue, they run across her protruding ribs. She lifts her skirt up and shows me the big red and purple patches covering her white thighs. Looking at her face, a rage rises up in me. The image of some stranger beating my mother brings to life such hate in me. And all for a chicken!

"Ma, I want to kill him!" I tell her.

"Shh ... Don't talk crazy," she shushes me. "Don't say it out loud or we will be in trouble. I am lucky to be alive at all. I feel sad Geak did not get her meat."