In four hours we had
traveled only about half a mile. My family was silent and
anxious as we moved slowly. While deep in thought, a Khmer
Rouge soldier crept up behind and jerked my father by the
arm.
"Are you a Lon Nol
soldier?", the soldier threatened with vengeance.
The world stopped during
that eternal three second pause, "No, I am a teacher" my
father reluctantly lied.
"What happened to your
eye and this band-aid?" he asked.
My mother trembled; "A
rocket landed in my school and debris hit my eye" my father
replied. As the soldier walked away, we sighed with relief.
It was almost 2 o'clock
in the afternoon, we were hungry and tired. My grandfather
suggested that we could take a short break in a small
abandon house along the road. The house was a beautiful
white house. A few of the windows were broken. Four or
five families were resting in the yard and no one was
inside. We walked into the living room; there was a family
of five lying there--dead. They died from multiple gun shot
wounds; blood covered their faces and bodies. We walked out
and joined other people in the yard. People's reaction to
this barbarous scene was not one of shock and horror but of
casualness and coolness. I would and will never forget that
living room.
At 3 o'clock, we were
only a block away from that house. My grandfather asked me
to get some water for my siblings. As I pushed my way
toward a house, I saw a boy who was not much older than I
was. He was wearing a large green camouflage army shirt.
The shirt was not large; it was just the boy was too small
for the shirt. A Khmer Rouge soldier walked up to the boy,
pulled him by the collar, put his pistol against the boy's
head, and fired.
On April 20, 1975, many
things had happened in the last few days besides sleeping in
the streets and escaping death. It would require many
hours to recount the horrors, the inhuman treatment, and the
unjustifiable killings--not that any killing of human life
is justifiable. The Khmer Rouge had propaganda requesting
professors, previous government workers, educated men and
women, and army officers to join the new regime, Onka (the
Organization) to rebuild Cambodia into an utopian state.
Having experienced enough suffering, many Cambodians
responded to this noble calling. For the love of his
country, my father joined thousands of other Cambodians on a
calling that ended all sufferings--death. On April 20,
1975, my father died so that my family might live.
In early 1976, after walking
90 miles, we arrived at my father's parents' farm in a small
village. My grandparents and my mother's three sisters who left
Phnom Penh with us lived in the next village, about two miles
from where we lived.
On the first day on the farm,
my father's youngest sister (my siblings and I did not know any
of my father's family; the last time I saw them was when I was
four years old) took me and my two brothers to take care our
family's water buffaloes. In the field many children came to
greet the newcomers. I was impressed with their vocabulary.
They were very nice and proper to each other; they addressed
each other "comrade".
One boy asked "Comrade, what
is your name?"
"My name is Mardi" I
replied. I pointed to my two brothers and said, "these
comrades' names are Sina and Lundi." They broke down and
laughed; we joined them in the laughter but we did not know
why. Later that day, my aunt told me that I should not address
my siblings as "comrades". I was embarrassed.
Continue..
