First They Killed My Father Part 12

I am not convinced and stand firm with the other children. Turning their backs to us, they bend and lift the dusty corpse off the ground and drop it into the well. I hear a big splash and a thud when it lands. Each man then wipes his b.l.o.o.d.y hands on the gra.s.s, picks up a handful of dirt, and rubs his palms together to clean off the blood. Finally, they leave together. The other children and I look at each other.

The smell coming from the well is horrible. Pinching my nose and covering my mouth, I walk up to it and peer in. The smell is so putrid it makes my eyes water. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the well, then slowly, thirty feet below, I make out the shape of human figures floating on top of the water. What my eyes cannot see, my mind makes up for, and I picture dark dead faces staring up at me. The hair stands up on my arms and legs as I run away.

"Don't fall in-the smell will never wash away!" I yell to the other kids.

back to bat deng

April 1979

While staying at the displaced people's camp, Meng, Khouy, and Kim leave to go fis.h.i.+ng every morning. My job is to search for wild vegetables and mushrooms in nearby woods while Chou guards our tents. Usually, we eat half of what the boys bring back each day. The rest we salt, grill, or dry to save. These days we go to bed on a full stomach every night. We have fish, wild vegetables, and the rice Meng and Khouy stole from the Khmer Rouge. We are the lucky ones. Most of the old and very young he sick on the outskirts of the sites where the displaced people gather or die in the camp from disease and hunger.

At the end of April, Khouy and Meng decide we are ready to leave Pursat City. They believe we have gathered enough supplies to last the long trip to Bat Deng. Abandoning our tents, we pack our few pots, pans, clothes, and all our food. We leave with two of Khouy and Meng's women friends but the third stays behind to search for any surviving family members. Khouy and Meng each carry a fifteen-pound bag of rice on their shoulders and the rest of us help with bundles of clothes, blankets, and other food.

Balancing the rice pot on my head, I turn around and look one last time at Pursat City. My eyes linger on the mountains, thinking of Pa, Ma, Keav, and Geak. The mountain peaks majestically jut into the sky as large clouds cast dark shadows on them. It all looks so calm and normal, as if the h.e.l.l we have lived through for the past four years has never happened. Four years ago, on April 17, 1975, the Khmer Rouge took over Phnom Penh, a course that eventually brought us here to Pursat. Up there somewhere in the mountains, Pa, Ma, Keav, and Geak are still trapped and unable to go home with us. "Pa, Ma, Keav, Geak," I call out to them, "I am taking you all home now. I will not say goodbye. I will never say good-bye."

Day after day, we walk onward, stopping only to rest at night. In the dry April sun, our black clothes absorb the rays and the heat weighs heavy on our skin. Our bones grow tired, our backs ache, our feet blister, yet still we march. Almost exactly four years ago, we evacuated Phnom Penh. I remember how I cried and whined about the hot sun and how the touch of Pa's hand on my head soothed me. I was not used to the heat, the sun, and the hard ground then because Pa provided us with a sheltered, middle-cla.s.s life. Now my body is accustomed to the extreme environment and weather, but my heart has never come to terms with the absence of those we have lost. Now we are leaving them behind. I hope wherever they are, their spirit will follow us back to Bat Deng.

One night, we find shelter in an abandoned hut. We are in the middle of nowhere and are highly vulnerable to a Khmer Rouge attack. The makes.h.i.+ft refuge must house the seven of us and one other family who arrived there before us. The other family consists of a mother, father, and baby. He is sick, his face and feet are swollen, as are hers and their baby's. When I see the mother of the other family, I think she is Ma. The woman could be a double for Ma! I want to run to her, talk to her, and hold her, but then I see her husband lying next to her. He is about Pa's age, but the resemblance ends there. I know then she isn't Ma, because she would never be with anyone else other than Pa. I don't dare ask my siblings whether they see the resemblance too. Watching their eyes, I notice they do not linger on the sight of the mother the way I do. Do my brothers and Chou see the resemblance too?

While the family stays on the ground level of the hut, our group moves to the top floor. Before they fall asleep that night, my brothers practice jumping out of the second floor to plan their escape route in case of a Khmer Rouge attack. They leap off in different ways and clear the area of anything that might hurt us when we land. Next they test the stability of the stairs under pressure, and rehea.r.s.e running up and down them. Chou and I sit and worry about what will happen to us because we don't think we can jump without breaking our legs. Now that we are together again, I fear something will happen to break us up again. I'm afraid that if there is an attack I will be left behind. If all of us cannot live then at least hopefully some will. I know Pa would have wanted it that way. Still, the thought fills me with anxiety. After I am sure my brothers are asleep, I take off my scarf and go to sleep on the ground at the bottom of the stairs.

Before we leave the next morning, and when my brothers and sister aren't looking, I grab some of our cooked rice and wrap it up in banana leaves. Downstairs, the woman is awake and breast-feeding her baby. I do not have the courage to talk to her or look at her. Instead, I place the rice near her and leave before she can say anything. Looking back longingly at the hut, I wonder what will happen to them. It does not look like they will be able to leave today, with a sick husband and baby. They will probably spend another night alone.

Day after day, we push on until I lose count of how many days we have traveled. Every day we walk, only stopping at night to rest. All along the way, I travel with Pa, Ma, Keav, and Geak in my thoughts. In my mind, I talk to them. I complain to Pa about my blistering feet and aching joints. I describe to Ma all the pretty flowers I see on the roadside. I report to Keav the flirting that goes on between Khouy, Meng, and their women friends. And Geak-I have the hardest time finding words to say to her. To Geak, I keep silent.

"We're very close to Bat Deng," Meng says, breaking into my thoughts. "If our aunts and uncles are alive, we will be with them soon." We have been on the road for eighteen days now and our food ration is getting smaller with each pa.s.sing day.

As we walk the last few hours back to Bat Deng, Meng and Khouy ask many people on bicycles or wagons if they share our destination. When they say yes, my brothers plead with them to bring word to our uncles that we have arrived. Within an hour, we see a familiar figure on a bicycle riding toward us. It is Uncle Leang! Uncle Leang still resembles the stick figure I drew in Phnom Penh, only his back curves more now. My brothers rush up to him and soon they are hugging each other and crying. Uncle Leang reaches into his bag and pulls out some sweet rice cakes. My eyes widen and my mouth waters at the sight of the roasted sesame seeds sprinkled over sweet rice.

"Here's one for you, Chou, and one for Kim." Shyly, I step toward him and extend one arm. "Sorry, little girl. I have only enough for my family. I have none extra for you." My face burns with shame and embarra.s.sment. My own uncle does not recognize me. He thinks I'm a street girl begging for food.

"Uncle," Meng says laughingly, "it's Loung."

"Oh, here's one for you then," surprised, Uncle Leang smiles.

Chou, Kim, and I sit pressed against one other on the back of the bike, holding onto Uncle Leang. We are returning to Ma's childhood home without her. At Bat Deng, everyone is happy to see us. Uncle Leang and his family still live in the same hut they did when we stayed with them. The first thing Uncle Leang's wife, Aunt Keang does is to take off our dirty black clothes and give us new ones. She puts me in a s.h.i.+rt and pants the color of a blue sky. The clothes s.h.i.+mmer as they touch my skin softly, making me feel nice and light-transformed! In the back of the hut, I watch Aunt Keang throw our dirty clothes into an aluminum bowl and soak them with water. She then sprinkles a handful of white powdered detergent in the water and begins to scrub my clothes. I watch in fascination as the clear water becomes gray and then black as the detergent does its work.

When Khouy and Meng arrive on foot two hours later, they tell our story and Aunt Keang cries when she hears what has happened to us. They want the two of them to tell them over and over again about all that has happened. At Krang Truop, Uncle Leang's family is considered to be a base family because they have lived in the same village since the prerevolutionary days. As my family talks about the war, I pretend to have no memory of it. They do not ask me about my experiences. In our culture, it is enough that the oldest child relates the family's story. Children are not asked for opinions, feelings, or what they individually endure. I do not volunteer information about my indoctrination as a soldier, escape from being raped, or how I lost three days of my life when I found out about Ma. For a long time I needed to hold on to the memories because they made me angry. My rage made me strong and resilient. Now, however, enclosing the memories in my heart and mind is unendurable.

Often I walk away from their chatter, but sometimes I just sit quietly and listen. Through their conversations, I learn that Bat Deng, my uncles' village in the Kompong Speu province was liberated by the Youns weeks before Pursat province. Furthermore, the Khmer Rouge cadres were different in every province. In the eastern provinces, the Khmer Rouge cadres were more moderate and humane: the work hours were generally shorter, the food rations were larger, and the soldiers did not kill the villagers indiscriminately. In Bat Deng, Uncle Leang's and Uncle Heang's families were allowed to live together. Though many new people who resettled in their village were taken away and never heard from again, my family's status as base people protected them from the killings. In the Pursat province where we lived, the cadres were among the most brutally insane. "And your mother," Uncle Leang says, shaking his head, "two more months, just two more months, and she would have made it."

Hearing this, I get up quickly and leave them. I walk to the new town market that has sprung up since the Youns came. There is no monetary system in place, so rice is used as currency. To go shopping, people bring a bag of rice with them and use it to barter for the items they want. I have no rice with which to buy anything, but still I weave my way around, remembering Phnom Penh. Unlike in Phnom Penh, this market is a gathering in a field. There are no tents selling eight-track tape players, imported vinyl pants, or hair-coloring cream, nor are there elaborate stalls glistening with dangling gold or silver necklaces and bracelets. Here in Bat Deng's market, long homemade wooden tables display dried fish, slabs of pork, yellow naked chickens, green beans, white corn, red tomatoes, orange mangoes, ripe guava, papayas, and some precooked food. Those with the most "currency" can cross from the food section to the book section, where old Khmer, Chinese, French, or English dictionaries and novels can be bought with several kilograms of rice.

The market here thrives because most people did not have to leave their homes and are therefore already settled. Our family is poor and survives by farming a small plot of land. With a heavy heart, I walk through the market taking in the smell of all the delicious food. My feet stop at a stall that sells pork dumplings. Pork dumplings will always remind me of Ma. It was her favorite food. "Two more months and she would have made it!" my mind screams. "Why couldn't she hold on for two more months? Did Ma do something stupid and get caught? Did she complain about her work? Did Geak cry for Pa too loudly and too often? They must have let their weakness show. What did they do?" My eyes burn into the dumplings. Anger rises up in me because I resent and blame my mother for not holding on for two more months. Eight weeks, sixty days, 1,400 hours more, and she would have made it.

A few weeks later, my uncle arranges a marriage for Meng. His bride's name is Eang and she is in her early twenties. Eang was in school during the evacuation of Phnom Penh and was separated from her family. She does not know where they are, or even if they are alive. Aunt Keang says not only is Eang Chinese but she is very clever and smart as well, and truly believes she is the right wife for Meng. Aunt Keang tells Meng he is the head of our family now and needs a wife to help look after us while he works. A week after they meet, they are married. There is no big celebration, only a small ceremony. It all happens in one day. Then it is over and life resumes as before.

Each morning, Meng, Kim, and the male cousins work with Uncle Leang on the small farm in back of their hut. They grow potatoes, onions, leeks, beans, and tomatoes. But the land is dry, having been neglected during the Khmer Rouge rule, and produces hardly any fruit. Khouy occasionally works as a laborer, helping people carry and load heavy bags of cloth, fruit, and rice from their wagon to the new market for a small fee. Eang and the female cousins stay at home and make crepes, sweet cakes, and cookies from corn and wheat, which we exchange for rice.

Chou, the younger cousins, and I sell what they make in the market. We have no stall, no chairs, no cart, and no tables. Balancing our wicker baskets on our hips, we walk barefoot around the new market in our blue outfits, yelling out our goods of the day. We sell mostly to other vendors, collecting twelve ounces of rice for five sweet cakes or ten cookies. When I see a well-dressed woman entering the market, I rush to her. Smiling widely, I lift my basket to my chest, hoping to catch her eye. I stare at the red ruby earrings draped from her ears and, for a moment, the wind is knocked out of me. "Ma," my mind whispers, and I walk nearer to her. The woman raises her hand and waves me out of her way. Ignoring me, she pa.s.ses by. My eyelashes moisten; my smile fades.

For three months, we live our lives this way in Bat Deng. Then one day, a lady comes in to town looking for Eang. She is Chinese and in her thirties. She says she has come from Vietnam to search for Eang. When Eang sees the woman, her face wrinkles up and bursts into tears. It is one of her sisters! They rush into each other's arms and hug for a long time. They stand there, crying and saying very little to each other.

"Mother and father are alive and well in Vietnam," she tells Eang, "as is your oldest sister. Our brother is missing and believed to be dead. During the evacuation, we went over into Vietnam and have been living there ever since. We thought you were dead!" The next day, Eang and Meng leave for Vietnam. The economy in Cambodia is bad and Meng thinks maybe there will be work in Vietnam. With or without Eang, he says, he will return in a few days.

The days pa.s.s slowly as we wait for Meng's return. Our family continues to live as before, with the men working on the farm and the girls selling food in the market. At night, Chou and I sit outside the hut looking at the road until the sky darkens and our aunt orders us in to go to sleep. Each day that Meng is gone, my anxiety grows, and I wonder if he will ever come back. Sensing my fear, Kim tells me the route Meng took to Vietnam is very safe, and does not cross any Khmer Rouge zones. Still, I worry. But true to his word, he returns alone four days later. Sitting inside the hut with the family, Meng talks excitedly about Vietnam, Saigon, and Eang's family. Most of all, he talks about leaving Cambodia and going to America.

Meng tells our uncles that many Cambodians are leaving the country for Thailand in search of new life and to escape the war. Furthermore, they fear the Khmer Rouge might come to power again and kill more people until no one is left. Many Cambodians are trekking on foot to the north, crossing dangerous mined fields and Khmer Rouge control zones, with little food and water, to go to Thailand. Many people step on landmines and die on the way or are captured by the Khmer Rouge.

He says the safer way to go to Thailand is via Vietnam. In Vietnam, Meng explains, the human smuggling operation, or leaving the country without papers, is illegal. If we are caught being part of the operation as either an abettor or a refugee, the Vietnamese government could take our gold and throw us in jail for five years.

"It will be very costly," he informs us. "We cannot all afford to go. It costs ten ounces of gold to buy a seat on a small boat that will take us from Vietnam to the Thai refugee camp. He says Eang's family knows the person running this human export operation. With money from the rest of the family and after selling Ma's remaining jewelry, we only have enough money for two to go."

Uncle Leang puts his hand on Meng's shoulder. "Your Pa is gone, Meng, so you are now the head of our family. Your life is not your own anymore. You have a family to take care of," he says quietly.

"Uncle, I am am doing this for the family. I will take Loung with me. She is still young enough to go to school, get an education, and make something of herself." Though the younger children studied French in Phnom Penh, Pa made Meng and Khouy study English. As a result Meng is already fluent in English. Once in America, Meng's plan is to work hard and send money to the family. He will save and build a home, and in five years send for the rest of the family. Uncle Leang still has his doubts, but it is decided that Meng and I will leave at the end of the week. doing this for the family. I will take Loung with me. She is still young enough to go to school, get an education, and make something of herself." Though the younger children studied French in Phnom Penh, Pa made Meng and Khouy study English. As a result Meng is already fluent in English. Once in America, Meng's plan is to work hard and send money to the family. He will save and build a home, and in five years send for the rest of the family. Uncle Leang still has his doubts, but it is decided that Meng and I will leave at the end of the week.

At the rooster's cry, our family gathers outside the hut to say good-bye to us. While Meng says farewell to our relatives, I stand with Chou, holding on to her hand. One by one, our aunts and cousins come up to me and touch my hair, my arms, and my back. Meng ties our bags onto the backseat of his bicycle and lifts me up onto it. I straddle our bags, finally as tall as the adults, and look down at Chou. She stares up at me and cries, her lips quivering and her face crumpled. Our hands reach for one another and we hold on a few seconds more. I do not know how to say good-bye, so I say nothing. No matter what, I am determined not to cry. Chou has this luxury; everyone expects her to. I am strong, so I cannot cry. I will never understand how Chou ever survived the war.

Meng gets on his bike and slowly begins to peddle, breaking Chou's hold on my hand. They are all in tears now as they wave good-bye to us. I do not turn around. I know they will not leave until we are out of their sight. I grit my teeth and fight back the tears. "Five years," I think as we ride away. "In five years I will see them again."

from cambodia to Vietnam

October 1979

I return to Phnom Penh on the back of Meng's bike, my heart beating wildly as I absorb the sights and sounds of the city. Nothing looks the way I remember it. The buildings are charred from fires and their walls riddled with bullet holes. The streets are covered with litter and filled with cavernous potholes. There are many bicycles and cyclos but few trucks. Gone are the tall, leafy, l.u.s.trous flowered trees that lined the wide boulevards. Instead, tall brown palms and coconut trees provide little shade for the dry, crumbling city. Though the palm trees are heavy with fruit, I see no people climbing to get it. People say the Khmer Rouge buried corpses next to them and now the palm milk is pink like thin blood and the fruit tastes like human flesh. Makes.h.i.+ft tents, no longer confined to the poor areas, sprout all over the city. There are people living everywhere, in alleys, in streets, in crumbling buildings and tents. Many are farmers and rural villagers. They moved to the city to look for work because their land is littered with landmines. They come to Phnom Penh to escape the Khmer Rouge, who still control parts of the countryside. They arrive and take up residence in the deserted homes. The memory of our life here comes flooding back to me.

"Eldest brother," I call out to Meng. In the Chinese culture, young children never call their elder siblings by name as it is considered improper and disrespectful. "Eldest brother, will you show me our old house?"

"It's not what it used to be. It is broken down with bullet holes everywhere, but we will go there," he answers and continues peddling. He tells me he went to see it when he came through the city with Eang and her sister on their way to Vietnam. He says someone is living in our apartment now. There are no doc.u.ments kept on people's property from before the takeover in 1975. So whoever arrived first and set up residence in houses or apartments can claim them as theirs. He says it is no longer our home. Still, I want to see the place where I remember feeling joy and happiness. I want to ask him more about our former home, but Meng is quiet now, lost in his own thoughts. The stench of the city and its trash seeps into my nose making me want to pinch it, but I do not. Instead I hold on tight to Meng as he steers the bike abruptly left and right to avoid the holes in the road.

We arrive at the water port late in the afternoon, but the sun is still hot and beats down on us. Meng holds the bike for me to jump off and tells me stay where I am as he disappears into a crowd of people with his bike. Vendors yell out their products to people pa.s.sing by. In the sun, the fish scales on the seafood vendors' arms and faces sparkle and s.h.i.+mmer, reflecting the sunlight. On the rows of tables, big and small fish alike flap their tails on blocks of ice underneath them. It is October: the end of the rainy season and start of the dry season. Meng says that when it's hot, the water in the ocean goes down, so the fish move farther out to sea and are harder to catch; therefore, the fish displayed here are more expensive than usual.

Meng returns a few minutes later with a Youn fisherman, and they quickly usher me onto a small boat. Once in the boat, he hands the fisherman the small gold nuggets he received selling his bike and we take off. The boat looks no more than fifteen feet in length and perhaps five feet wide. Its wooden body is worn and old as the small engine chugs slowly along the Mekong River. As far as my eyes can see, there is water covering much of the land. The bright sun transforms the otherwise green lush scenery into a magical land of silvery lakes. In it, long black canoes slither like alligators, navigating themselves gracefully on the water. On the other side of the Mekong River, I see orange and gold pointed temple roofs and towers erected on muddy red topsoil. The fisherman sits beside a small pile of fish, steering the boat. I sit in the middle with my hair whipping about my face in all directions, the wind cooling my skin. My eyes drift toward the port and all its cacophony. I am leaving Cambodia on a Youn boat, with a Youn fisherman, going to Vietnam. Meng forgot to show me our old home. Then suddenly, a picture of Met Bong lunging at the fisherman's throat with her sickle flashes before my eyes. I quickly shake my head free of the image. I'm leaving all this behind.

Many hours later as we approach Vietnam, the fisherman, in broken Khmer, tells us to lie on the floor and keep our heads down. He unrolls a sheet of blue plastic and covers us with it, leaving a small opening for our heads to stick through, and then piles fish on top of the plastic sheet and motions again for us to keep low. Underneath the plastic sheet, covered with fish, I enter Vietnam. I fight to breathe without choking on the stench of the fish. Once near the port of Chou Doc, the fisherman peels back the sheet and allows us to breathe in fresh sea air. Once we dock, Meng finds a bus station and buys our fares with the Vietnamese money he has saved from his last trip. We are on our way to Saigon!

From the windows of the bus, Saigon is a prosperous and bustling city. The streets are crowded with men and women in straw cone-shaped hats. The women are wearing red lipstick and colorful snug-fitting long dresses that split at the side over loose, flowing pants. In the streets, they talk openly to one another and laugh without covering their mouths. They do not avert their eyes nor do they glance from one side to another. Their shoulders are not slumped and their arms not held close to their sides. Taking long, casual strides, they walk without fear as we did in Cambodia before the Khmer Rouge. On every block, there are stores displaying wrist.w.a.tches with flowered bands, black radios blasting Vietnamese songs, televisions projecting hand puppets talking to happy young children, and red traditional dresses on headless mannequins. The streets are crowded with many more bicycles, motorcycles, and compact cars than in Phnom Penh. The food stalls and carts look bigger, cleaner, and are painted in brighter colors than what we had in Cambodia. As in Phnom Penh, people sit in alleys and side streets slurping noodle soups, biting into crispy fried spring rolls and egg rolls wrapped in lettuce. I only wish that someday Phnom Penh will be as happy and rich as Saigon.

We live in Saigon for two months with Eang's mother and father in their small one-bedroom apartment. Meng, Eang, and I sleep in the attic. Eang's sisters live in their own place in the city. With no job, Meng and I live off of the generosity of Eang's family. Eang and her parents speak fluent Vietnamese because they lived in a Vietnamese community in Phnom Penh. They are now able to meet people, go shopping, and not be so isolated. Eang's family is very nice to us. Unlike Meng and me, they are raucous and laugh loudly when they eat, and especially when they drink alcohol. Meng and I do not speak Vietnamese, so spend our days watching people, and trying to learn the language.

A week after we get there, Eang tells me we are going to the salon to get our hair permed. It has been many months since Aunt Keang in Krang Truop cut my hair. Sharing a cyclo with her, we weave around the city as the driver maneuvers us through the traffic. I laugh and point out to Eang the neon signs and billboards of movies, and giggle in antic.i.p.ation of having my first professional haircut in many years.

Finally the cyclo stops in front of a salon. While Eang pays the driver, I stare at the poster-sized pictures of beautiful women and men with curly brown hair, straight jet-black hair, short wavy hair, and hair piled high in a braided bun on top of their heads. Inside, the walls are covered with mirrors and more pictures of beautiful people. Vietnamese music plays continuously on the radio as women snip and clip at their customers' hair. One woman seats me in a chair and proceeds to put my hair in small rollers. Then she pours acidic-smelling lotion onto my hair. After twenty minutes, she removes the rollers and leaves me with a head full of small ringlets instead of my old straight hair. Staring at myself in the mirror, I laugh and pull at the curls, thinking they are beautiful. That night I sleep on my stomach, afraid to crush the curls, and I dream about Keav.

In the evening, I sit on Meng's lap as he reads and translates to me stories about America from an English book he bought in a nearby store. He describes how snow falls in flakes covering the land in a white, soft blanket. I cannot envision snow because the only two kinds of ice I have ever seen are either the blocks we use to cool our meat or the crushed ice we use for snow cones. He says it is more like the ice for snow cones but softer. I see myself making snow cones and getting rich selling them to American children. Then I can help send money home too. Meng tells me I should call the Youns by their proper name, Vietnamese. He says Youn is a derogatory name and since we are living in Vietnam, we should not use it. In Saigon, Meng's face grows fuller each day from the spring rolls and soups that Eang makes. My body is also filling out my clothes everywhere, though my stomach is still bigger than my hips.

In December, Meng tells me we will relocate to Long Deang to live on a houseboat with one of Eang's sisters and her family in the lower end of the Mekong Delta. When we arrive at the port, Eang's sister picks us up in a small boat to take us to our new home. On the water, there appears to be a city of houseboats with many hundreds of them docked closely together. Some are forty feet long with two levels, st.u.r.dy wooden walls, brightly painted roofs, and strands of colorful beads hanging over the doors. Others look like makes.h.i.+ft cloth tents or small thatched-roof huts floating on the water. Out on the decks, women cook food in clay ovens and converse loudly with their neighbors. Little children sit on the decks with their feet dangling in the water as the boats rock gently back and forth. Laughing, one little girl splashes water into the faces of her siblings who bob up and down in the water beside their boat.

I stare at the girls with envy, and think about waiting another five years until I can see Chou again. The small boat slows as we approach our destination. Our two houseboats are twenty feet long and ten feet wide and are docked side by side. The wooden walls and roofs are aged and gray from the rain and sun but otherwise sound. Eang's sister and her five boys live in one boat. Meng, Eang, and I live in another with a Vietnamese man who is part of the operation. His job is to watch us and keep us safe. As our front man, he speaks for us whenever our neighbors ask about our background, why we are there, or what other part of the river have we lived at. He is in his early twenties and seems nice enough, but still I don't quite trust him.

Living on these boats allows us to blend in with other people since it is not unusual for the houseboats to change locations often. It will not arouse suspicion if we disappear one night and head for Thailand. While sitting outside on the deck, we are not to speak Khmer or Chinese-only Vietnamese-and we cannot make friends or form bonds with anyone outside the family.

Day after day with nothing to do, I learn to fold origami and to speak Vietnamese. On the small deck, the boys and I make paper kites and fly them in the wind. When it gets hot, I dive off the houseboat into the murky water, taking care not to drink it. The water looks yellowish and often I swim away from the dead animals, garbage, and feces that float by.

For three months, we live slow, uneventful lives with our boats docked in the same spot. Then, in February 1980, another Vietnamese man joins us on our boat. One night the Vietnamese crew directs us to go inside, and in the dark we sit nervously as the boat moves slowly away. Suddenly, loud voices call out to us, asking us to stop. My heart lurches to my throat.

"We're only a fis.h.i.+ng boat," our front man says.

"We want to see what kind of fish you have," the voice persists. After a few minutes of exchange, our man succeeds in bribing the intruder to go away with his gold watch, and all is quiet again. Our boat continues to move steadily, and I fall asleep. Hours must have pa.s.sed, for when I wake up again, we are in the middle of the ocean. All around me I see nothing but miles and miles of water. Soon, many hands pick me up and lead me to a rope ladder hanging off the side of a larger boat floating alongside ours. Quickly I climb the rope onto the other boat. On the deck of the thirty-foot boat, seven crewmen are busy pulling people onto the boat and hustling them under the deck. All through the morning, many more small boats arrive to deliver their pa.s.sengers and by late afternoon, ninety-eight people are onboard, each having paid for their escape in five or ten ounces of pure gold. They crouch underneath the deck, ready to make their way to freedom.

For three days and two nights we ride the ocean waves in the Gulf of Thailand, swaying and rocking as if in a wooden coffin. A crew member sits by the small doorway that leads to the deck, to make sure people stay below. "The boat must stay bottom-heavy," he says, "or it will tip over." Beneath the deck, the lucky ones sit leaning against the side while the unlucky ones crouch in the middle, their heads between their knees. The air is stale and smells of sweat and vomit. Wedged between Meng and Eang, I hold my breath as people retch all around us. Soon it grows dark and through the deck opening I steal glances at the bright stars as they twinkle gaily at me. I crawl over to the opening and stand, basking in the glow of the moonlight.

"Sir, please, may I come up?" I whisper to the guard. His face peers down at me, then nods his head. Slowly I climb the steps and sit beside him. The breeze is cool as it fans my body. The guard smiles at me and points his finger at the sky. It is so beautiful: black, never ending, and brightened by billions of stars. It is so breathtaking I wish I could stop time and exist in this dreamland forever. Everywhere around us the sky meets the water, creating a clear separation of heaven and earth. Somewhere up there in heaven, I hope Pa, Ma, Keav, and Geak are watching over me.

I wake up in the morning to the loud voices of the crewmen. "Sharks!" they exclaim. "If they crash into our boat and put a hole in it, we are all dead!" Sliding to the edge, I catch a glimpse of the bodies of a group of silver-skinned sharks, as big as I am and swimming straight for our boat. They duck under at the last second. I quietly pray to Pa to chase them away. After a few minutes, the sharks become bored and stop following us. When the water is safe again, the crew allows a small group of people to come up to the deck for air. After a few minutes, they are sent back down until everyone has had a chance to go up on deck. Because the crewman likes me I am allowed to stay on deck all day.

The next day, the sky turns black with angry storm clouds. Bursts of rain and thunder crash into the ocean and create large waves that threaten to swallow our boat. The captain sends all but the crew below deck and shuts the lid tightly on us. The pa.s.sengers huddle closely together and pray. Yet the sea becomes rougher and the boat rocks from side to side like a pendulum, and with each swing the waves violently slap against the side of the boat. People vomit and moan loudly, afraid of their imminent deaths. The cries echo and bounce into each other in the dark, deafening me. Leaning against the wall, I push my index fingers deeper into my ears to attempt to block out the sound. With my ears plugged, I hear only the soft whizzing of my breath going in and out.

After what feels like many hours, the boat gradually decreases the violent rocking and all is quiet again. After the storm, the crewman opens the lid and fresh air rushes back into the cabin. Stepping over sick bodies, I climb up onto the deck before anyone can stop me. The clouds part and out comes the sun from behind them, s.h.i.+ning brightly on us. The deck is wet and soaks my pants as I sit down and inhale the fresh sea air. While the crewmen pa.s.s out our food ration-two b.a.l.l.s of rice and six ounces of water-I sit and watch the sunset in the middle of the ocean. The clear blue sky is the perfect setting for the orange, red, and gold pallet of the G.o.ds. The colors s.h.i.+mmer majestically before disappearing with the sun into the water. I squeeze my eyes shut, not understanding why such beauty torments me with pain and sadness.

On the third day, the captain spots another s.h.i.+p in the distance. He has made many trips before and knows they are pirates. On previous trips, the pirates have stolen valuables, killed people, raped and abducted girls. They know well the route of the boat people and travel the sea looking to steal their valuables. We, on the other hand, know the pirates' intentions and have devised plans of our own. Eang's sister made candies and hid bits of gold in them. Some families sewed gold and jewelry into the linings of their bras, the waistline of pants, in sleeves, behind b.u.t.tons, or in underwear. Others wear their gold as teeth and some swallow diamonds and other jewelry, knowing they can make themselves throw up or get diarrhea and retrieve the items later.

The captain speeds up our boat and tries to outrun the pirate s.h.i.+p but to no avail. It is much bigger and faster than ours and rapidly gains on us. Meanwhile, the women work frantically to ugly themselves up by smearing black charcoal paste on their faces and bodies. With ashen faces, some of the younger, prettier girls reach into the bags we have vomited into and scoop out handfuls of it to smear on their hair and clothes. Following Eang's lead, I grab the charcoal paste and cover my face and body with it. As the pirate s.h.i.+p comes nearer and nearer, the captain sends everyone but the crew under the deck.

Crouching between Meng and Eang, my stomach churns from fear and the putrid smell. I do not know what to expect and only know of them from the pictures in books I've seen. Flashes of ugly flags with skulls and bones, swords slas.h.i.+ng at people's throats, and long knives cutting out our hearts edge their way into my consciousness. Slowly our boat stops and my heart leaps as heavy footsteps jump aboard. Seconds later, the door to the deck flings open.

"Come on out. It's okay," the captain yells to us. "These are just friendly Thai fishermen." His voice does not sound to me as if his throat has been cut. The pa.s.sengers refuse to come out and stay hidden beneath the deck. "They only want to help us. They have invited us all to their s.h.i.+p for food and to stretch for a few minutes." The captain a.s.sures us there is no harm in doing what they ask. Breathing a sigh of relief, I climb out with Meng and Eang. To my surprise, the pirates do not look scary at all. They have no swords, wear no eye patches, and hang no skull flags anywhere on their s.h.i.+p. They are dark-skinned and have facial features very much like us Cambodians.

The boat is maybe ten times the size of ours, with room enough for ninety-eight people to walk and stretch. True to their word, they give us rice with salted fish to eat and allow us to drink as much water as we want. Afterward, I walk and find a toilet. A real toilet with flus.h.i.+ng water and seats like the ones we had in Phnom Penh. While on the boathouse, when we had to go we squatted in a hollowed-out weaving basket hovering over the water at the edge of the boat, and had to hold onto a pole so as not to fall in the sea. As soon as I begin to relax, the captain announces that we are to return to our s.h.i.+p. Before we can get back onboard, however, we have to file into a single line to "meet" our new friends.

From out of nowhere the pirates seem to pop up all around me, and they increase in number so that now there are many more of them. Eang quickly hands me a small matchbox. In it is a small jade Buddha pendant in a gold frame that was Pa's. I shake as a pirate walks up to me. He bends down so his eyes meet mine. My throat swells as he looks into my eyes. I have what he wants in my pocket.

"Do you have anything for me?" he asks, smiling, in broken Khmer. Looking down, I slowly shake my head, not daring to look at his face. My heart pounds so hard that I think it will burst through my clothes. He does not believe me and reaches into my pocket, pulling out the matchbox. I hear him shake the box and the Buddha moves around inside. He slides open the box and takes out the Buddha.

"Can I have this?" he asks.

Meekly, I nod my head.

"You can go back to your boat." He takes Pa's Buddha and puts it in his pocket.

Fighting back tears, I walk toward the boat.

While the pirates body-search everyone onboard, other pirates ransack our small boat, taking diamond rings, sapphire necklaces, gold nuggets hidden in sacks of clothes. On the deck, people hand over their valuables without protest. Our family does not have any gold for them to take. Meng had antic.i.p.ated the Thai pirates and left all of Ma's jewelry with Khouy in Cambodia. Though they took the one thing that means the most to me, the captain tells us we should consider ourselves lucky. When we are all back on the boat, the pirates offer directions to the Thai refugee camp. Our captain thanks them politely, seemingly bearing no grudges or anger, and the pirates wish us luck and wave good-bye as we sail on.

"Land! Land!" someone yells many hours later. I am bolt upright in no time. After being on the ocean for three days, I am at last staring at the glorious sight. Real land with green trees and gra.s.s. We have heard that many boats get lost coming to Thailand and end up in the Philippines or Singapore with the refugees...o...b..ard starving to death before they are picked up the by the ocean police.

"Not just land but the Lam Sing Refugee Camp," the captain says confidently. A crowd of people are gathered at the port waiting to see if their relatives or friends are onboard. Everyone rushes up on the deck at once, causing the boat to sway and dip heavily to one side. The boat pa.s.sengers wave wildly, laughing and yelling the names of friends and family. The captain screams for everyone to stay calm or the boat will tip over, but I do not pay attention to him.

"We made it!" I holler, my arms flapping up and down like wings.

lam sing refugee camp

February 1980

Surrounded by a large crowd of refugees, we line up on the pier in single file waiting to be registered. Around me the newly arrived boat people talk excitedly to their friends and family, and deliver them news of relatives in Vietnam. They are happy to be reunited. "Five years," I say to myself.

It takes us many hours before we reach the registration table and give the workers all the necessary information. While Meng talks and answers questions, I become conscious of the charcoal on my face, the knots in my oily hair, and my flaky skin. The refugee workers have Meng fill out many papers before sending us off to the camp's church, where we are given clean clothes, bedsheets, and food. Newcomers without friends or family spend their first night in Thailand in the hollow, wooden church.

That night our family and Eang's sister with another friend remove the gold nuggets from their bras, waistlines, and the hems of their s.h.i.+rts and pants. They pool the gold together to buy a bamboo hut from another refugee who is leaving for America in the next week. With what little money we have left, we buy pots, pans, a few utensils, and bowls, and set ourselves up for a long stay. The refugee workers tell us it can take a long time to find a sponsor. They say a sponsor can be a person, a group of people, an organization, or a church group who will take responsibility to help us settle in our new home in America. The sponsors will help us find a place to live and schools to teach us English, and they will help us adapt to life in America. Our sponsors will also show us how to buy food from grocery stores, visit doctors and dentists, buy clothes, go to the bank, learn to drive, and find a job. They caution us that while waiting for sponsors many refugees get married and have children, and each time that happens new paperwork must be drawn up, which prolongs their stay. We're told we can do nothing to bring us closer to America other than to wait. Meng says there are approximately three or four thousand refugees in Lam Sing, so our wait will not be too long. He tells me in some camps, there are more than a hundred thousand refugees living there, so the wait is much longer.

Every morning a row of trucks carrying bags of rice, fish, and tanks of fresh water comes blaring into Lam Sing. The refugee officials then divide and ration us salt, water, rice, fish, and sometimes chicken. All other supplies-including soap, shampoo, detergent, and clothes-we have to find for ourselves. When the food ration is reduced, we supplement it by buying food from the Thai market at the edge of the camp. Otherwise, routine life in the camp consists of standing in one line after another for our food and water rations.

One day I watch as a long line of people edge toward the ocean. The hot February sun beats down on them, causing beads of sweat to collect on their upper lips. From the shade of a tree, I laugh as one by one they walk into the water to face "the Father." I stare at the Father with fascination, and wonder at how he could stay so white under our hot sun. The Father's eyes are blue like the sky, his nose long, his hair brown and curly. He looms big and tall above the men and women standing before him. One hand slowly makes some crosses while the other gently guides the heads of his subject backward into the sea. My eyes open wide when I see Meng standing in a group at the side dripping wet.

"Eldest brother!" I call, running up to him. "Did you also get dunked in the water by the Father?"

"Yes, he has made me a Christian." Meng chuckles with his friends.

"Why? I thought we were Buddhists."

"We are, but being a Christian will help us get sponsors faster. Many refugees are sponsored by church groups. Christians like to help other Christians." I do not understand, but Meng has already turned his back on me.

Day after day, with nothing to do, the cousins and I walk to the beach. In my shorts and T-s.h.i.+rt, I run to the water for a cool swim. From the water, I catch sight of something red from the corner of my eye. I turn and gasp with horror, not believing my eyes. A young woman walks into the water wearing nothing but a small bright red bathing suit! The stretchy material clings tightly to her body, allowing everyone to see her voluptuous figure. The suit has no pant legs or skirt, leaving her white thighs uncovered. The V-neck top exposes her cleavage, which bounces as she runs into the water. I know she has to be one of "those" Vietnamese girls everyone always gossips about, because no Khmer or Chinese girl would wear such a thing. Khmer girls swim either with their long sarong wrapped tightly around their chest or are fully clothed.

A few weeks later, I am awakened by a loud scream in the middle of the night. There are a lot of angry noises coming from the hut of one of our neighbors. After an hour, all is quiet again and I fall back asleep. The next day the whole camp is talking about it. We are told that while we were sleeping, one of the Vietnamese girls woke to some guy sitting on her stomach. He held a knife up to her and told her not to scream, but she did anyway and he ran off. Waiting in lines for their ration of food, the women prattle about how the girl brought it upon herself. "After all," they say, "she is Vietnamese. These Vietnamese girls are always laughing loudly, talking, and flirting with men. They wear s.e.xy clothes with long slits up their skirts and swimming suits. They bring bad attention to themselves." My face burns with rage; I run away from the gossips. Are they right? Those people who are always so quick to blame the girls.

Days turn into weeks, weeks into months. Soon it is May and still we have no sponsor. Many more people have arrived by the boatload to our camp while others leave for other countries. It has been eight months since we left Cambodia. We have no way of reaching Chou and our family to let them know we are well. For all they know, we could be missing at sea or dead. My heart weighs heavily at the thought of our family worrying. Though many of the refugees are poor, we are by far among the poorest. Day by day, Meng and Eang have to borrow money from her sister and friends to supplement the low food ration we are given. While the other girls wear pretty dresses and eat delicious food from the Thai market, I eat rice gruel, and fish when we can afford it. As a result of continuing malnutrition, my stomach stays swollen while the rest of my body is small and thin.

Then on June 5, 1980, Meng returns from the camp officials' office with his face flushed with excitement. He announces that we have found a sponsor. "We're going to America!" Eang and I scream and cry with happiness.