Contents
Preface
The Ung Family Tree
Part I – Worlds Apart
1 Welcome to America 10 June 1980
2 Chou June 1980
3 Minnie Mouse and Gunfire July 1980
4 War in Peace August 1980
5 ‘Hungry, Hungry Hippos’ September 1980
6 Amah’s Reunion September 1980
7 Square Vanilla Journal September 1980
8 Restless Spirit October 1980
9 Ghosts in Costume and Snow October 1980
10 A Child is Lost November 1980
11 The First American Ung December 1980
Part II – Divided We Stand
12 Totally Awesome USA March 1983
13 A Box from America August 1983
14 The Killing Fields in My Living Room June 1984
15 Living Their Last Wind April 1985
16 Sex Ed September 1985
17 Betrothed October 1985
18 Sweet Sixteen April 1986
19 A Peasant Princess July 1986
20 Write What You Know November 1986
Part III – Reconnecting in Cambodia
21 Flying Solo June 1989
22 A Motherless Mother December 1990
23 No Suzy Wong January 1991
24 Eldest Brother Returns June 1991
25 Seeing Monkey May 1992
26 Khouy’s Town 1993
27 Ma’s Daughters May 1995
Epilogue – Lucky Child Returns December 2003
Resources and Suggested Reading
To Bobby Muller, my boss, mentor and friend: Bruce Springsteen’s description of you is right on – you are a ‘cool rocking daddy’! To my hero Senator Patrick Leahy, thank you for making this world a better place for all of us. Mark Perry, you are a great teacher. Tim Rieser, you are a true prince. And Emmylou Harris – who not only sings like an angel but has a heart of one – thank you for all your support with VVAF.
To my wonderful agent Gail Ross at Gail Ross Literary Agency, my fantastic editor Gail Winston at HarperCollins, and the talented Christine Walsh and always cool Katherine Hill, thank you for all your support and encouragement. To the super team of George Greenfield and Beth Quitman at Creativewell, Inc., thank you for helping me to spread the word about the Khmer Rouge. Finally, my deep gratitude to the absolutely fabulous Jenna Free – my reader, teacher and cheerleader. There would be no After They Killed Our Father without you all.
I am also blessed to have so many amazing people in my life both in Cambodia and America, without whom I would not be who I am today. A special thank you Lynn and Gordon, for giving life to such wonderful people. My love to all of the Priemers, because there is no bad apple in the bunch. To the Costellos, the Lucentis, the Willises, the Aleiskys, the Bunkers, Beverly Knapp, Ellis Severence and all my friends and teachers in Vermont – all of you helped to heal the hate and hurt out of this war child. To my friends Nicole Bagley, Wendy Appel, Michael Appel, Roberta Baskin, Joanne Moore, Tom Wright, Ly Carbonneau, Beth Poole, Rachel Snyder, Colleen Lanzaretta, Carol Butler, Erin McClintic, Chivy Sok, Kelly Cullins, John Shore, Noel Salwan, Sam McNulty, Paul Heald, Ken Asin, Mike Thornton, Lynn Smith, Jeannie Boone, Jess and Sheri Kraus, Chet Atkins, Terry and Jo-Harvey Allen, Bob Stiller, Youk Chhang, Heidi Randall and many others – you all inspire me to be a better person. To Maria and Tori, I love you infinity. And most of all to my husband Mark – I’m a happier person because you’ve kept me laughing all these years.
To the wonderful communities at Saint Michael’s College and Essex Junction, Vermont – a place where the beauty of the foliage is matched only by the kindness of the people.
Loung Ung’s First They Killed My Father is an unforgettable narrative of war crimes and desperate actions, the remarkable strength of a small girl and her family, and a triumph of human spirit over oppression.
Until the age of five, Loung Ung lived in Phnom Penh, one of seven children of a high-ranking government official. She was a precocious child who loved the open city markets, fried crickets, chicken fights and being cheeky to her parents.
When Pol Pot’s Khmer Rouge army stormed into Phnom Penh in April 1975, Ung’s family fled their home and were eventually forced to disperse to survive. Loung was trained as a child soldier while her brothers and sisters were sent to labour camps. The surviving siblings were only finally reunited after the Vietnamese penetrated Cambodia and started to destroy the Khmer Rouge.
Bolstered by the bravery of one brother, the vision of the others and the gentle kindness of her sister, Loung forged on to create for herself a courageous new life.
Now available as a Mainstream
paperback
www.mainstreampublishing.com
ISBN 9781840184150
‘So sharp with pain that when I read it, the words plunged into me like a knife’
– Jon Swain, Sunday Times
‘Ung’s memoir should serve as a reminder that some history is best not left just to historians but to those left behind when the terror ends’
– Booklist
‘There can be absolutely no doubt about the innate power of [Ung’s] story, the passion with which she tells it or its enduring importance’
– Washington Post Book World
My excitement is so strong, I feel like there are bugs crawling around in my pants, making me squirm in my seat. We are flying across the ocean to resettle in our new home in America, after having spent two months living in a houseboat in Vietnam and five months in a refugee camp in Thailand.
‘We must make a good impression, Loung, so comb your hair and clean your face,’ Eang orders me as the plane’s engine drones out her voice. ‘We don’t want to look as if we’ve just gotten off the boat.’ Her face looms in front of me, her nails working furiously in their attempts to pick crusty sleepy seeds out of the corners of my eyes.
‘Stop, you’re pulling out my eyelashes! I’ll clean my own face before you blind me.’ I take the wet rag from Eang’s hand.
I quickly wipe my face and wet the cruds on my lids before gently removing them. Then I turn the rag over to the clean side and smooth down my hair as Eang looks on disapprovingly. Ignoring her scowl, I ball up the rag, run it over my front teeth and scrub hard. When I’m finished, I wrap the rag around my pointing finger, put it in my mouth and proceed to scrape food residue off my back teeth.
‘All finished and clean,’ I chime innocently.
‘I do have a toothbrush for you in my bag.’ Her anger is barely contained in her voice.
‘There just wasn’t time . . . and you said you wanted me clean.’
‘Humph.’
Eang has been my sister-in-law for a year and generally I don’t mind her, but I just can’t stand it when she tells me what to do. Unfortunately for me, Eang likes to tell me what to do a lot, so we end up fighting all the time. Like two monkeys, we make so much noise when we fight that my brother Meng has to step in and tell us to shut up. After he intervenes, I usually stomp off somewhere by myself to sulk over how unfair it is that he takes her side. From my hiding place, I listen as she continues to argue with him about how they need to raise me with discipline and show me who has the upper hand or I’ll grow up wrong. At first, I didn’t understand what she meant by ‘wrong’ and imagined I would grow up crooked or twisted like some old tree trunk. I pictured my arms and legs all gnarly, with giant sharp claws replacing my fingers and toes. I imagined chasing after Eang and other people I didn’t like, my claws snapping at their behinds.
But no, that would be too much fun and, besides, Eang is bent on raising me ‘right’. To create a ‘right’ Loung, Eang tells Meng, they will have to kick out the tomboy and teach me the manners of a proper young lady, which means no talking back to adults, fighting, screaming, running around, eating with my mouth open, playing in skirts, talking to boys, laughing out loud, dancing for no reason, sitting Buddha-style, sleeping with my legs splayed apart – the list goes on and on. And then there is the other list of what a proper girl is supposed to do, which includes sitting quietly, cooking, cleaning, sewing and babysitting – all of which I have absolutely no interest in doing.
I admit I wouldn’t fight Eang so hard if she followed her own list. At twenty-four, Eang is one year older than Meng. This little fact caused quite a stir when they married a year ago in our village in Cambodia. It also doesn’t help that Eang is very loud and outspoken. Even at my age, I’d noticed that many unmarried women in the village would act like little fluttering yellow chicks, quiet, soft, furry and cute. But once married, they’d become fierce mother hens, squawking and squeaking about with their wings spread out and their beaks pecking, especially when marking their territory or protecting their children. Eang, with her loudness and strong opinions, was unlike any unmarried woman I’d ever spied on. The other villagers gossiped that Meng should marry a young wife who could give him many sons. At her advanced age, Eang was already thought of as a spinster and too old for Meng, a well-educated and handsome man from a respected family. But neither one cared too much for what the villagers said and allowed our aunts and uncles to arrange their marriage. Meng needed a wife to help him care for his siblings and Eang needed a husband to help her survive the aftermath of the Khmer Rouge war, Cambodia’s poverty and increasing banditries. And even though they got married because of those needs, I do think they love each other. Like the two sides of the ying and yang symbol, together they form a nice circle. Whereas Meng is normally reserved and quiet, Eang makes him laugh and talk. And when Eang gets too emotional and crazy, Meng calms and steadies her.
‘Thank you for the rag,’ I smile sweetly, handing it back to Eang.
‘Did you see what she did, Meng?’ Eang crunches her face in disgust as she rolls up the wet rag and puts it in her bag. On my other side, Meng is quiet as he pulls a white shirt from a clear plastic bag and hands it over to his wife. The shirt gleams in Eang’s hands, crisp and new. When Meng found out we were coming to America, he took all the money we had and bought us all new white shirts. He wanted us to enter America looking fresh and unused despite our scraggy hair and thin limbs. Eang kept the shirts in a plastic bag so they would stay fresh and unwrinkled for this very special occasion.
At twenty-three, Meng wears a sombre expression that makes him look many years older. The Meng I remember from before the war was gentle, with a ready smile and an easygoing manner. This new Meng seems to have left his sense of humour in Cambodia when we waved goodbye to Chou, Kim and Khouy nine months ago. Now, only deep sighs escape his lips. At the refugee camp, there were many times when I was in our hut, lost in my world of words and picture books, when suddenly I would hear this long intake of breath, followed by a rushing exhale. I knew then that Meng was hovering somewhere nearby and I would turn to find him looking at me with his long face and sagging shoulders.
When I ask Meng why we had to leave our family behind, he sighs and tells me I’m too young to understand. My face burns red by his put-offs. I may be too young to understand many things, but I am old enough to miss Khouy’s voice threatening to kick anyone’s bottom who dares mess with his family. No matter how far we leave them behind, I still miss Chou’s hand clasped warmly in mine, and Kim’s fingers scratching his ribs in manic imitation of a monkey, kung fu style. I am young, but sometimes when I would float alone in the ocean near the refugee camp, I’d feel old and tired. I’d sink to the bottom of the ocean, staring up at Ma, Geak and Keav’s faces shimmering on the water’s surface. Other times, as I bobbed up and down, I’d imagine my tears being carried by the waves into the deep sea. In the middle of the ocean, my tears would transform into anger and hate, and the ocean would return them to me, crashing them against the rocky shoreline with vengeance.
At night at the refugee camp, I would gaze at the full moon and try to bring forth Pa’s face. I’d whisper his name into the wind and see him as he was before the war, when his face was still round and his eyes flashed brightly like the stars. With my arms around myself, I’d dream of Pa holding me, his body full and soft and healthy. I’d imagine his fingers caressing my hair and cheeks, his touch as gentle as the breeze. But before long, Pa’s face would wither away until he was only a skeleton of his former moon-self.
If Meng also could see Pa’s face in the moon, he didn’t tell me. I don’t know how or when it started, but Meng and I somehow have found ourselves in a place where we don’t talk about the war anymore. It’s not as though we sat down one day and decided not to talk about it; it happened so gradually we barely noticed it. At first he asked me questions I was not ready to answer and I would ask him for answers he could not explain, until eventually the questions and talking just stopped. There are times that I still want him to tell me more about Pa and Ma and what kinds of people they were before I was born. But I do not ask because I cannot bear to watch his face light up at the memory of them, only to see it dim and darken when he remembers they are no longer with us.
When Meng and I do talk, we speak about our present and future. Of my past, Meng says only that he thinks I am ten years old, but he is not sure. He shares that when he was a boy, Pa and Ma were so poor that they sent him to live with our aunts and uncles in the village. He says that each time he visited home, there was another little brother or sister to greet him until in the end there were seven of us. He tells me that what papers or records we had of our births, the Khmer Rouge destroyed when they entered the city on 17 April 1975. Without the papers, Ma and Pa were our only memories of our entrance into the world but now they’re gone, too. In Thailand, when Meng was required to pick a new birthday for me in order to fill out the refugee papers, he chose 17 April – the day the Khmer Rouge took over the country. With a few strokes of his pen, he made sure I will never forget Cambodia.
In the time that I’ve lived with Meng and Eang, it is clear to me that Meng’s thoughts are always focused on Cambodia and our family there. We have no way to send or receive word, so we do not know if Khouy, Kim and Chou are still with us. In the Ung clan, Pa was the first-born son in his family, and since Meng was Pa’s first-born son, he now holds the title role not only as the head of our family but also as the eldest brother to all the Ungs of our generation. Meng wears this title with pride and constantly worries about the well-being of the younger Ungs and how he can be a good role model. Before leaving Cambodia, Meng painted a bright picture of our future to our aunts and uncles to justify our leaving for America. Once en route and on the boat, however, Meng’s eyes brimmed with tears and his face fell.
On the plane, I climb on my seat and turn around to wave at my friend Li Cho, seated a few rows behind me. Only a year younger than me, Li is part of the seven-person Cho family also on their way to make a home in Vermont. Because Meng and Eang mostly kept to themselves at the Lam Sing Refugee Camp, they did not know the Chos before today. However, Li and I met the first night I arrived there. Behind the walled prison fence of the refugee camp and in the midst of the porous thatched-roof huts, Li and I explored our temporary homes together and became friends. We shared our secrets by the ocean while spying on grown-up women and making fun of their large breasts. Li told me she was born in Cambodia to a Chinese father and a Vietnamese mother. Her mother and her father passed away when Li was young and now she lives with her adult brothers, sisters and nephews. Fully clothed and with our sweaty hands clasped tightly together, Li and I would run into the ocean and talk about how much we wished we could buy a bottle of Coke and a bowl of noodles. I would tell her about how my father would hold my fried crickets for me at the movies, and she would tell me how her father used to read to her.
As the plane rocks and sways, Li looks green from motion sickness. Li’s small body slumps over in her seat as her sister Tee pats her fine black hair. Even in sickness, Li is pretty with her large eyes and a small chin. Watching her, I remember a time when I thought I was pretty, too. It seems unreal that only five years ago in Phnom Penh, Ma and her friends would coo and pinch my cheeks when I entered the room wearing a new dress or a bow in my hair. They would comment on my full lips, large almond eyes and wavy hair. To this, I’d smile and extend my hands until they emptied their purses of candies and money, before Ma shooed me away.
I turn back to look at Li. ‘Poor Li,’ I think. She has been sick and throwing up the entire plane trip. Awake, she is a sweet and mild-mannered girl, exactly the kind of girl Eang wishes I would be. With that thought, I sit down in my seat and open another bag of peanuts. Though Li cannot keep her food down, my stomach has no such trouble and like a good friend, I happily volunteer to eat her food.
As our plane begins its descent, the soft fluffy clouds part and open the world below to me. I lean over Meng to peer out the window and catch my first glimpse of my new home. Scanning the land, I am disappointed to see only mountains, trees and water. I guess we are still too high up to see the tall shiny buildings. My hands grip the armrest tightly and I daydream about the America I hope I’m going to. In their attempts to prepare us for life in the USA, the refugee workers would show us Hollywood movies, where each plot took place in a large, noisy city with big, long cars racing down crowded streets. On the big screen, Americans are loud-talking, fast-moving people with red, blond, brown or black hair, weaving in and out of traffic wearing heels or roller-skates. In my seat, I imagine myself walking among these people and living an exciting new life far from Cambodia. These images set my heart racing with anticipation until Eang’s nagging voice brings me out of my reverie. Eang brushes her hand over the front of my shirt and complains about the falling crumbs. Meng hurriedly primps his hair with a small black plastic comb just as the captain announces we are landing.
On the ground, my hands lock in Meng and Eang’s, and we enter the airport lobby to bursts of flashes and loud whispers. Bright lights blind and scare me, and I lose contact with Li as she and her family are swallowed up by the crowd. With white spots swimming in my retinas, I shield my eyes with my forearm and take a step backward. The room falls silent as the throngs of pale strangers shift their feet and strain their necks to take their first peek at us. From behind Meng, I focus on one woman whose long white neck reminds me of a defrocked chicken, all skinny and leathery. Next to her, another woman stares at us from a face so sharp and angular that I name her ‘chicken face’. Behind ‘chicken face’ stands a man with round cheeks and a big nose whom I identify as ‘pig cheeks’. Surrounding them are more people I can only distinguish with my special nicknames: lizard nose, rabbit eyes, horse teeth, cow lips and cricket legs.
‘Welcome!’ a man calls out and walks toward us. His body is sturdy like a tree trunk and he towers one head taller than Meng as they shake hands.
After him, one tall person after another gathers around us. Making use of his English classes in Phnom Penh before the war, Meng smiles widely and answers questions as he pumps everyone’s hand with vigour and energy. Standing beside him, Eang takes people’s hands limply and nods her head. Not wanting to be crushed, I step out of the crowd and stand alone until a red-haired woman walks up to me. Remembering to show her my respect, I bow to greet her; at the same moment, she extends her hand and hits me square on the forehead. The cameras stop flashing and the room grows quiet as I stand there rubbing my forehead. From his corner, I hear Meng laugh and assure everyone I’m OK. A few seconds later, the room erupts into laughter. Instead of casting my eyes on the floor, I stare at the crowd with anger until Eang tells me to smile. Weakly, I curl my lips upward for the crowd. Suddenly, the red-haired lady steps forward again and hands me a brown teddy bear as more cameras flash to capture the moment. In that instant, I realise that I’ve buttoned my shirt wrong, leaving my white shirttail jagged and crooked, and me looking like I’ve just got off the boat.
In the car, Meng talks with our sponsors, Michael and Cindy Vicenti. As Meng speaks, Michael nods his head while Cindy answers with a series of ‘uh-huhs’. Behind her, I stifle a laugh at her silly sound and pretend to cough. Sensing Eang’s warning eyes burning the back of my head, I stare out the window and watch the world go by. Outside, the scenery moves at a slow speed as short grass is replaced by thick shrubs and trees. Every once in a while, the rolling hills are dotted with small houses and running dogs. There are no tall shiny buildings in sight.
After twenty minutes, the Vicentis pull their car into the driveway of a small, two-storey apartment building. The building looks old and dreary with white paint flaking off its front like dead skin. And right next to it, on the other side of the driveway, is a large cemetery where, inside, the summer wind blows gently on the trees and makes the branches sway and the leaves dance as if possessed by spirits. My skin warms at the sight of the cold grey stones jutting out from the earth like jagged teeth. Beneath the stones, I imagine decomposed bodies trapped in dirt, waiting for nightfall before they can escape.
‘You’re home,’ the Vicentis announce.
Meng tells Eang and me to get out of the car as I direct a steely gaze at the back of Michael’s head.
‘Eang,’ I grab her hand, ‘it’s bad luck to live next to a cemetery. The ghosts will not leave us alone!’
‘The ghosts here cannot speak Khmer,’ she says. ‘They’ll make no trouble for us.’
‘But . . .’ I refuse to give up. ‘What if there is a common language all the dead use?’ Before I can continue, Eang orders me to be quiet and motions for me to hurry. Glancing back tentatively at the cemetery, I slowly follow the adults into the apartment.
The Vicentis climb the stairs to the second-storey apartment and wait for Meng, Eang and me to catch up. While the adults talk, I take in the layout of our apartment. With rooms connecting in a long row, our new home feels like a train, and its narrow rooms look like boxcars. To the left of the stairs, Meng and Eang’s room resembles a square tan box furnished with a simple wood dresser and a queen-sized bed. Walking up to its one window, I am glad to see that it faces the parking lot. To the right of the stairs, the kitchen is filled with all the modern amenities – a stove, oven and refrigerator. In the middle of the room sit a small metal rectangular table and four matching chairs. Next to the kitchen, the bathroom is clean from the top of its ceiling to the white-yellow linoleum tiled floor. A few steps forward take me into the dining room.
‘This will be your room,’ Cindy tells me cheerily.
With my hands clasped together in front of me, I turn in a full circle to inspect my room. A frown forms on my face when I notice that the walls are not made of actual wood but a glued-on brown paper designed to look like fake wood. I have never seen such wall coverings before and reach out to slide my hand over its slippery surface. Suddenly I think of Chou living in a wooden hut in Cambodia. In an instant, I feel heavy and drag myself to the corner of the room where there is a small walk-in closet. Though I spy hinges on the frame, for some reason there is no door for the closet. My room is empty except for a small twin bed against the wall. I walk over and sit on the bed, testing its bounce with my weight while gazing quizzically at the drawings on my sheet. The drawings appear to be of girl and boy mice, ducks, dogs, elephants and other animals, each playing or holding a musical instrument. All the characters are dressed in red, white and blue costumes and are smiling broadly. Covering my mouth with my hands, I giggle at the animals.
‘Those are cartoon characters,’ Cindy offers. ‘See, they’re at a circus.’
‘Gao-ut taa ay?’ I ask Meng what she says.
With Meng as our interpreter, Cindy then goes on to tell me their names and that they belong to the Disney family. Tracing my finger over the mouse’s large round ears and the duck’s protruding fat beak, I smile and think what fun it would be to belong to such a family. When I imagine myself dancing and playing with these funny creatures, my insides swirl and unexpectedly giggles burst forth out of my mouth. As another chortle breaks to the surface, I think of Chou, who always thought it was silly that I remember people by giving them animal names and characteristics. I wish Chou were here with me so I could show her this great new world where animals do look like people.
I get off my bed, cross my room and enter through another large doorway into the living room. With its three bay windows, the living room is bright and attractive. Filling up the space is a couch and chair set, both covered in tropical floral prints. Standing in front of the middle window, I flatten my hands on the glass and stare at the traffic below before heading back to my room. It occurs to me that, with no doors separating my room from the kitchen or the living room, there will be no sleeping in late for me with early riser Eang. I drop my shoulders in resignation and walk back to my room, then cringe at what I see – my window looks directly onto the cemetery.
‘I am home,’ I whisper. I have travelled so very far and for so long to reach America and now the journey is over! I close my eyes and breathe a sigh of relief, expecting feelings of calm and contentment to flow into my body.
‘I’m home!’ I tell myself urgently, but the world remains strange to me.
I lie in bed with my arms wrapped around my belly and glance out the window at the dark sky. Outside, the wind sleeps and the air travels quietly as if they, too, are afraid to disturb the spirits. It is a silence that I find unnatural; in Cambodia, night is always accompanied by the shrill mating songs of crickets. I turn my face to the wall and pull the blanket over my head. Eyes closed, I wait for sleep to come and make me unconscious until the time when the living can reclaim the world. But instead of sleep, the mouse and the duck dance on my sheets in their full circus regalia and top hats. Beside them, their female counterparts twirl their batons and parade to tunes I cannot hear. Soon the other Disney family characters begin to come to life, but I blink them away and force them back into the cloth.
The clock on the wall says it’s 11 p.m. This is bad news. It is now close to the dark hours – the hours when spirits and ghosts roam the world and walk among the living. A long time ago, Kim told me never to be awake from 12 a.m. to 5 a.m., but I couldn’t help it. He warned that if I needed to pee, then I should do my business quickly and quietly and get back to bed. He said the more noise or movements I made, the more I would attract the spirits and ghosts. And once that happens, they won’t let me go. Kim didn’t tell me what he meant by the ghosts not letting me go. He never finished his story but preferred to let the ending form a life of its own in my mind. I used to get so mad at him for this that I would chase him, my arms swinging karate chops at him. Thinking about Kim makes my heart feel tight, as if too many things are being pushed into it.
In the dark, I sit up and lift the blanket off my body. I take the flashlight out from under my pillow, shine a beam on my ankle and locate the black X on it. Kim told Chou and me that by marking Xs on our ankles and the soles of our feet, we let the ghosts know that our bodies are taken. It is our mark of ownership. Satisfied that the Xs are still there, I tuck the sheet back under my feet and pray the ghosts will not unloose them. Ghosts are very fond of bothering people by tickling their feet with the purpose of waking them.
When sleep does not come, my mind drifts off to find Chou. It is eighteen months since the Vietnamese defeated the Khmer Rouge and chased them into the jungle, and nine months since I pulled my hand out of her grasp. Though she is two years older than me, Chou had the luxury to weep openly at our separation, as was expected of her for being the more fragile sister. But I had to stay strong and smile for her.
In Vermont, alone in my bed, I grind my teeth knowing that I now have to stay strong for myself.
Across the ocean in the tropical land of Cambodia, Chou stirs inside the hut where she has lived with Ma’s brother, Uncle Leang, his wife, Aunt Keang, and their five children since the end of Khmer Rouge. Suddenly, a heavy arm flings across her chest and Chou grunts and pushes it off. Beside her, in the female net, cousins Cheung and Hoa sleep soundly facing each other, their breath inhaling and exhaling in synch. Under the same mosquito net, on the far side of their wooden plank bed, toddler Kung curls up with her back to them, her tiny arms and legs wrapped around a rounded long body pillow. Next to them under another worn grey-pink net, Aunt Keang lies with her arm above her baby girl Mouy. Snorting loudly across the room on their own plank bed, Kim, Khouy, Uncle Leang and the two male cousins lay sprawled out like fallen logs in their nets.
‘Bzzzzz,’ the mosquito whispers outside Chou’s net, but she does not hear it.
Under her closed lids, Chou’s eyes follow the faces of Ma, Pa and Geak. In her dream, they sit together at a teak table in their home in Phnom Penh as Ma serves freshly steamed pork dumplings. As she smiles, Ma’s full lips crack open to expose her teeth and gums. Like large, white square pearls, Ma’s slightly buck teeth line up evenly, as if to present a uniform team. Chou’s stomach churns hungrily, but instead of staring at the food she is fixated on Ma’s mouth.
All of a sudden, a deep itch pierces her ankle and wakes her from her dream. In the dark, Ma’s face and teeth slowly fade as a pang of sadness spreads over Chou. Not yet fully conscious, her mind struggles to stay on Ma’s mouth, the only feature Chou believes she has inherited from her. Since the Khmer Rouge soldiers took Ma away two years ago, Chou has tried hard to keep Ma’s face in her heart. But as hard as she tries, with each passing moon, Ma’s face slowly darkens until only the brightness of her teeth remains.
‘Chou, do not be so sad,’ Aunt Keang told her when she spoke of her worries about this. ‘Loung may have your mom’s face, but you will always have her mouth.’
‘Yes,’ seventeen-year-old cousin Cheung chimed in. ‘Your top lip points up like two mountains like your ma.’
‘And when you laugh, you can see all your teeth and gums!’ eight-year-old Hoa agreed.
‘Your ma,’ Aunt Keang added, ‘she was such a talker! She could talk about anything. Her lips were so big she could never keep them properly closed.’
‘Stop pursing your lips together,’ the cousins ordered and broke into laughter. Chou hadn’t even noticed that she was trying to pull her lips over all her teeth.
Back in her bed, Chou is about to fall asleep again when her ankle begins to burn and itch. At first, she senses invisible ghosts scratching at her feet. Kim has told her that ghosts are very mischievous and like to scare people for fun. Not wanting to see them, she covers her lids with her hands, too scared to even peek through her fingers. But as conscious thoughts return to her, Chou realises her foot has escaped the net and is now being feasted on by mosquitoes. Quickly, she pulls it back into the net and out of reach of the hordes of hungry bugs. Fully awake now, she is suddenly aware of her throbbing full bladder. She wants to wake up one of the cousins to accompany her to the outhouse, but she knows better. The last time she did that, they almost pushed her off the bed.
Reluctantly, Chou sits up, quickly throws the mosquito net over her to prevent any bugs from entering and drops her bare feet to the dirt floor. Guided by the moonlight shining through the slits of the wooden walls, Chou makes her way to the back door. Beneath her, small pebbles dig and grind into her soles, but her calloused feet do not feel them. The last time she owned shoes was before the war.
At the door, she lifts the thick wooden board off its hinges, unlocks it and pushes one panel open enough to squeeze her body through. The door whines and creaks, but it lets her through. Outside, the air is cool and fresh, but she knows that by mid-morning, the June sun will burn hot and humid. Thirty feet away, the wooden outhouse sits, dank, dark and partially hidden by thick bushes. Too scared to venture that far, Chou walks a few feet away from the door to a low brush area. There, she hitches her thumbs at her pant waist and swiftly pulls them down. As she squats to release her bladder, her urine splatters on the grass, bounces onto her leg and warms the grass beneath her feet. With her eyes half closed, her hands automatically fan her bottom to scare away mosquitoes. Once she is finished, she walks over to the large round water jug and reaches for the plastic container floating on top. She scoops a bowl of water and pours it on her hands and feet before walking inside.
Back in her bed, Chou tries to return to sleep but finds herself staring at the top of the mosquito net. Her gaze passes through the porous net to the wooden house frame and then the layers of palm leaves to the big outside world. Out there beyond the village and Cambodia, she pictures America, a place filled with rich white people and big buildings. Though she has never seen pictures of it, Kim once told her they have buildings that are fifty, sixty and even seventy storeys high!
‘Seventy storeys!’ she’d exclaimed then with disbelief. ‘People must look smaller than ants from that height!’ To this, Kim could not answer.
She tries now to imagine what it must feel like to live that high above the earth, to be able to open a window and reach out to touch the clouds. For a moment, her thoughts shift to Loung and her heart squeezes tightly in her chest.
Chou closes her eyes and laces her fingers on her stomach. She wonders if Eldest Brother and Loung live in one of these homes in the sky. She hopes Eldest Brother doesn’t let Loung lean on the railings the way Pa let her climb them in their home in Phnom Penh. Chou knows her sister can be bad and reckless sometimes, but she still loves her. Loung doesn’t know how much time Chou has spent worrying about her and all her antics. Like the time she went to see the public execution of the Khmer Rouge soldier in Pursat Province. Chou cried and screamed for her not to go, and even threatened to tell their brothers about it, but Loung didn’t listen. Chou worries about her now and hopes she’s not making trouble for Eldest Brother and Eldest Sister-in-Law, wherever they are.
Since the day they left, Chou’s heard so many stories of other refugees who were kidnapped by Khmer Rouge combatants, captured by Thai pirates and injured by landmines in their attempts to escape Cambodia. Chou’s dark thoughts spiral like a tornado, sucking all the light out of her eyes. Quietly, she repeats her constant prayers to the gods to protect her family.
A few days before they’d left, surrounded by the uncles, aunts and family, Eldest Brother explained that they had only enough gold to buy two seats on a boat to take them to Thailand. The family reacted to this news with nods. Hidden behind the cousins, Chou held her breath in her stomach. She knew she would be separated from one of her siblings. She turned and stared at Second Brother Khouy, Kim and Loung. When Eldest Brother told the family he would take Loung, Chou’s breath turned to ice that sent shivers through her veins. Eldest Brother then went on to describe the dangers of the journey, his feeling that Loung’s fearlessness would allow her to adapt better in a foreign country and, more importantly, that her young age would allow her to get a better education. Chou didn’t hear many more words after that. She did not feel angry at not being picked. She simply accepted his decision no matter how heavy her heart felt. She never second-guessed Eldest Brother and believed that Khouy and Kim felt the same way. But on the day they left, she did not remember Eldest Brother’s talk. She wanted to run after them and beg Eldest Brother to take her also. As she stood there with the family and watched Eldest Brother and Loung leave, her body felt like an old dead tree, her insides hollow and her toes dug into the dirt like roots. While she cried silent tears, Kim stood beside her with his shoulders folded inward and his stomach concaved into his body. But when she leaned against him, his slim frame was steady and strong.
That was nine months ago and they have been as silent as the dead. Again, her throat aches at the thought that something bad might have happened to them. A lot has changed in nine months. She’s thirteen years old now. Her frame is still small, her stomach protrudes from lack of food and her limbs are short and thin. She turns to her side and stares at the men’s plank bed where Kim sleeps soundly.
At fifteen, Kim is a gentle old man in a child’s body. A head taller than Chou, Kim’s wiry body is muscular and strong from hard work. To the aunts, Kim is like a willow tree that can sit in dirty water and still grow beautiful and provide shade for the family. But to Chou, he’ll always be Ma’s little monkey who stole food and endured beatings to feed them all. On the other hand, Second Brother Khouy will always be the family’s tiger. At twenty-one, Khouy walks with the graceful stride of a cat but will quickly pounce on his prey if he has to protect his territory and family. Even when he is relaxed, he is full of lightning and thunder, especially when he’s had too much to drink. When he is drunk, he’s like fire, temperamental and burning everything in his path. In the morning after all the alcohol has left him, he claims that it took away his memories of the night before. No one dares to question him; the war and lack of food did not take away Khouy’s intimidating black-belt karate-trained body. When he is not angry, Khouy can tell funny stories that keep everyone laughing for hours and everywhere he goes, family, friends and girls are drawn to him.
Still, once during the monsoon season, Chou saw Khouy standing in the rain, a lone figure in the midst of the swaying palm trees. The warm rain had soaked his clothes to his body and his bangs flopped over in his face as small children played around him. Every once in a while, a few children grabbed his hands and kicked up mud around him. He didn’t seem to mind them and stood quietly. Chou wondered if he was thinking of Geak. But they don’t talk about her. They don’t talk about Pa, Ma and Keav either. They also don’t talk about Phnom Penh, the markets, the movie theatre in front of their house in the city, the noodle shops they used to go to with Pa and Ma, Geak’s red cheeks, their home in the city and so many other things Chou remembers vividly.
She cherishes all these memories, even the ones in which Kim and Khouy teased her with stories that Pa had found her in a trashcan. They said she was so dark and ugly that Pa felt sorry for her and adopted her. They said that was why she has the darkest skin of them all. While the others laughed, tears flooded her eyes and slid easily off her cheeks. Since then, her tears always flow easily when she is sad, angry, sleepy, hungry or scared. They flow especially freely when she is missing her family. And after the war, there were so many people to miss that her face was rarely dry. In the beginning, the family was wary because they never knew when the tears would start or stop. They looked at her with fleeting glances when she pulled the corners of her sarong to wipe her eyes. She wiped so hard and so often that her eyes became itchy and infected, and instead of tears, yellow mucus came out of her ducts. But as the days turned to months, the busy task of surviving stopped her eyes from leaking and slowly she began to heal.
As Chou’s thoughts drift and float in her head, the moon disappears and the sun climbs above the horizon, painting the sky pink, red and orange. As if on cue, the neighbours’ roosters crow loudly and the dogs bark everyone awake. Tied to a tree beside the hut, the pigs snort in annoyance at having to wake so early. Inside the hut, the family answers the animals’ calls with yawns, coughs and cries as they slowly come to life inside their mosquito nets. One by one, the cousins wake and saunter to the water jar. While the boys take turns washing their faces, Chou and the girls take down the mosquito nets, roll them into small balls and stuff them in wooden crates under the bed. Then Chou walks to the front door, removes the wooden bar and pushes the door open.
In front of the family’s hut, a small, red, dusty wagon trail passes their home and serves as the only road in and out of Chou’s village. Over forty families have built their homes in the thick forest of this remote town. Half a day’s walk to the east is Ou-dong, a thriving village of over three hundred families. Though Ou-dong has more people and a large market, the uncles feel it isn’t a safe place to be if the Khmer Rouge return to power. The uncles continue to believe that the Khmer Rouge would kill and target city people and leave the farming peasants alone. After Meng and Loung left, the uncles packed everyone up and moved them into the woods, hoping to be left alone by the continuing civil war.
Chou steps out of the hut to feel the sunshine. Across the trail, her neighbours are already up and putting a heavy wooden yoke on a pair of cows. The cows moo at the burden but stand fairly still, only swishing their tails at the hovering bugs. A few feet away in another hut, a young woman balances her naked baby on her forearm and with her other hand pours water on the child’s bottom. The child screams and cries as the mother gently washes her cheeks and legs. When the baby is clean, the woman unfolds a black-and-white checked scarf from her neck and wraps it around the wet baby. Beside them, a young child sits on the steps, rubbing her eyes awake as her mother places the baby in her arms. In their small town, everyone knows one another.
During the day, the neighbours’ conversations are easy, friendly and full of superstitious tales and outrageous gossip as they collect water and work together. At night, the voices are quiet and the villagers quarantine themselves in their homes, afraid to go out for fear of being kidnapped by Khmer Rouge. Every once in a while, even though they are not in power, the soldiers still come down from their hideouts to raid a village and take women, men, bicycles, cows, pigs, ponies and rice.
For even though it has been almost two years since the Khmer Rouge’s Angkar government was defeated by the Vietnamese troops, Chou is not sure who rules Cambodia in their place. Outside their small village, there is much talk about the Vietnamese intentions and whether they invaded or liberated Cambodia and are now refusing to leave. But here in the village, Chou revolves her life around the family, farming, fishing, collecting water and firewood, and running from bullets during raids – whether the gun-bearers are government soldiers or Khmer Rouge. Sometimes, while she serves the men their dinners, Chou listens to the men discuss the ever-changing Cambodian government. Their faces snarl like rabid dogs when their talks turn to the Khmer Rouge still daring to leave their mountain hideouts to raid the surrounding villages and towns.
Back inside the hut, the other family members prepare their food for another day in the field. Chou reaches over the bed and retrieves two large metal pails and a thin, flat wooden board. She carries the wood on her shoulders, holds the pails in her hands carries leaves to collect water from the pond. On the short walk, her eyes search for thick brushes and bushes where she can hide in case of an attack. She wonders why Ma ever named her Chou. In Chinese, Chou means a beautiful gem or precious stones. Chou feels neither beautiful nor precious. Every day, she wakes up with her heart pounding and wonders if this will be the day she’ll see a Khmer Rouge gun in her face.
Last night I dreamed I was in the middle of gunfire. There were people running after me, trying to kill me. I ran and ran, but they were always nipping at my heel. I woke up sweating and full of fear. But in my closet, I am not afraid. The day after we moved in, Meng put up a curtain, gave me a chair and turned the three-by-four-foot space into my own private world. Here, I am the creator, taker and giver of life. My sun, the one light bulb above my head, shines brightly at the flick of my wrist. At my command, it illuminates my box and bestows life on the shadow creatures on my floor. Like mischievous ghosts, they beg me to play with them. But I ignore them and bend my head closer to my sketchpad, my hand busily drawing away.
Outside my sanctuary, Eang clangs our pots and pans as she scrubs them spotlessly clean in the sink. I suppose I should be a good girl and go see if she needs my help, but for now the bad girl wins and I stay put. I tug my curtain to close it tighter and focus on my paper. In my closet, I know things and things are known to me. Outside of it, the world is big and bright and so full of things I need to learn that sometimes my brain feels like the cream-filled doughnuts Meng sometimes brings home, all crammed up and mushy. I envision that if I squish the side of my head with my hands, the overstuffed filling will shoot out of my nose. But inside my closet, my world is controlled and my brain pulses firmly and gently under my skull.
I lean back on my chair and stare at my creation. My brows furrow with frustration and my teeth gnaw at a thumbnail. Under my blue pyjama pants, the grey metal pull-out chair cools my bottom, sending a chill up my spine. Involuntarily, I shake out my shoulders to let loose the energy before returning to my task. My left arm cradling my small pad, I finish the mouse by adding its circle ears. Once I finish, I place the pencil behind my ear and observe my drawing at arm’s length.
My feet start their rhythmic tapping on the hardwood floor. Normally, if Eang is within visible distance, I stop my feet by resting my hands on my knees. When my legs are still, my thighs and calves tingle as if hundreds of millipedes and their thousands of legs are crawling on my skin. Their friction creates static electricity, making the hair on my body stand up. From my knees, the millipedes’ microscopic legs travel down my feet until their electrical current becomes a tickle in my toes. At this point, I imagine if I don’t twitch to release the energy, the voltage will explode like ten tiny rockets out of my toes.
But Eang cannot see me in my closet, so I let my knees knock and my feet tap to their hearts’ content. I take my No. 2 pencil and shade in the pants, shirt, ears and nose. My pencil presses down on the shape, darkening the circle ears, taking care to shade within the lines. Then I place the tip of the pencil in my mouth and wet the lead with my spit. With the wet tip, I blacken my figure’s eyes until they stare back at me like two black coals. Sitting back on my chair, I observe my drawing with a smile of satisfaction.
‘Minnie Mouse,’ I roll the name off my tongue. The name floats in the air like a catchy song.
‘Minnie Mouse,’ I repeat. Minnie does not answer me. Staring at her, I daydream about how fun it must be to look like a cartoon character and make people smile. I wish people would like me the way they like Minnie. When people look at Minnie, they are happy. I wonder what people see when they look at me. Eang says I look like a street kid, all dark and thin with my spindly arms and legs and bloated belly. Meng is afraid my growth may have been stunted because of the years of starvation and malnutrition. When I look in the mirror, I don’t see the girl they see. Instead, my hands pinch and pull at my features to bring forth Ma’s nose, Pa’s eyes, Keav’s smile and Chou’s lips. I crave to hold their image in my hand and stare at their faces until their imprints are permanent in my brain. But we do not have a single picture of them and my face is now the only image I have to remember them by.
From the white sheet, Minnie stares up at me with her wet eyes and pleads for friends. As I begin to draw her some friends, Eang’s voice booms above me. I lift my head to see her standing in the doorway of the closet, my tan cotton curtain all bunched up in her hand.
‘What are you doing?’ she demands, sounding irritated.
‘Drawing,’ I reply nonchalantly.
‘I’ve been calling you for the past fifteen minutes. Didn’t you hear me?’