In the Shadow of the Banyan

by Vaddey Ratner

  The last person entered. The door slammed shut, a giant mouth closing on us. No one would hear us again, I thought, panicking. No one would know we existed. I opened my mouth and screamed at the top of my lungs.

  • • •

  “Feel better now?” Papa asked, once I’d quieted down.

  I nodded.

  “That’s good,” he said, ruffling my hair. “You scared me.”

  • • •

  By the time the ship docked, it felt as if we had spent the entire night inside. We stumbled out onto a makeshift pier next to a small floating village. There were thatched huts on stilts rising from the water, boats with woven rattan canopies, and sampans with wing-like sails. Lights glimmered here and there, and in the half-lit dark I could see silhouettes of people moving about their nightly tasks—a fisherman cleaning his net, a woman bathing with her child on the inundated steps of their hut, a family sitting down on the floor for dinner under the bluish glow of a kerosene lantern. They watched us from afar, silently curious and aware, as if all along expecting our arrival. Yet no one waved, no one called out a greeting or welcome. Still, I was grateful to be outside again. There were stars in the sky, fresh air. People. Trees. Grass. It was as if we had been swallowed by a sea creature and were being spit back out, whole and alive, all our senses intact. I could smell the river now when I hadn’t been able to before, and it carried with it a faint scent of the monsoon. Had it rained while we were inside the boat? I wished it would now. I wanted to wash the odor of manure off my body and clothes.

  A pair of torches lit our way as we walked down the wooden gangplank. I proceeded slowly, cautiously, clinging to Papa’s arm for support, as I stepped onto the uneven ground. Without my metal brace, my corrective shoes were practically useless, and the sandals I wore now did not help at all with the limping. Without support, my right leg tired easily. Even so I was ecstatic to be released from the cattle boat and be outside again.

  On the shore, more Khmer Rouge soldiers waited for us, guns slung on their shoulders, swarthy as the night. We would have to spend the night here, they said. The soldiers led us away from the floating village to a clearing interspersed with coconut trees. Pointing to the darkness beyond, the commander of the group said, “No one leaves this area. Runaways will be shot on the spot. If someone tries to escape, then the whole family will be shot. You’re not to fraternize with the locals. We will decide whom you can make contact with and where you will go. If you disobey, you die.”

  People quickly began to lay claim to the area closest to the river. There was no fighting, no arguing. “It isn’t worth getting shot for,” a man told his wife. “It makes no difference what spot we choose. Everybody’s sleeping on the ground.”

  We found a place just a few yards away from the water, by a coconut tree that stretched horizontally toward the river. Papa and Big Uncle put down their heavy loads and immediately went to work pitching camp. They cut down thorny bushes and shrubs using a pair of kitchen cleavers we had brought along. They pulled out vines and cleared away what might be poisonous climbers, stomped on the grass, and checked for scorpions and tarantulas. Big Uncle recruited the twins to help him haul away the cut debris. While all this was going on, Grandmother Queen and Radana sat among our sacks and bundles clucking at each other like a pair of wild pheasants, curiously contented to be still. Papa unfurled one of the sleeping mats on a space he’d just cleared so that Grandmother Queen would have something to lie on. A few feet away Mama was busy starting a fire. She broke some dry branches, stacked them in a little mound, and lit the mound with a match. Flames leapt up, sparks flew, crackling with life, and as the bigger branches caught on, embers began to glow. She placed three stones in a triangle around the fire, filled the kettle with the water she’d brought from the river, and perched it on top of the stones. Again, she’d taken charge, figuring out what we could eat from our limited food supply and how much. She’d assigned my aunts specific tasks so as not to overwhelm them. Except for Mama, all of us had had servants our whole lives, and suddenly we were simultaneously without help and home.

  Tata was now preparing the rice for cooking. She untied the rice bag, measured into a pot the number of cups Mama had suggested, and rinsed the rice with water. Beside her, Auntie India was occupied wiping excess salt off dried fish with pieces of a banana leaf. Mama showed her how to place a strip of the fish between the fork of a small branch, tie the ends with a piece of vine, and lean it against the kettle to grill. When Auntie India got the hang of it, Mama started another fire for the rice.

  All around us everyone was doing the same. Before long the whole camp became alive with movements and sounds. People borrowed one another’s pots and pans, dishes and cups, baskets and knives. They exchanged dried goods—a can of condensed milk for a cup of rice, a clove of garlic for a spoon of sugar, salt for pepper, dried fish for salted eggs. There was an atmosphere of gaiety, like at a market, and the glow of cooking fires only made it feel more festive.

  Even the Khmer Rouge soldiers, who paced the periphery of the camp, guarding and watching, didn’t seem as threatening as they had initially appeared. They divided into smaller groups and, from a distance, looked like us, like families gathered to prepare their meals. While I couldn’t hear what they were saying, I could tell they were joking with one another. Every now and then laughter broke out, thunderous, like birds flapping their wings. I felt a mixture of fear and curiosity.

  Papa came toward us, a coconut in his hand, grinning from ear to ear. “Look what I’ve got! Appetizer!” He sat down next to me and, with his cleaver, hacked the outer shell, pulling the hard, wiry brown husk off until he got to the hard inner shell. Then, with one clean whack, he cracked it in the middle, poured the juice into a bowl, took a sip, and gave the rest of the juice to me.

  Just then a frog the size of my fist leapt out of the grass from under Mama’s bottom and onto the leaning coconut tree. Papa and I looked at each other, eyes wide, and broke into a laugh. Mama frowned with embarrassment. She turned her back to us, pretending she didn’t know what we were laughing at. Papa and I roared. “If it were under my bottom, that frog would’ve been dead meat!” he exclaimed, hooting like a gibbon. “To think we almost had stuffed frog for dinner! A fine delicacy!”

  Mama snapped, “You’re so crass!” But in spite of herself, she also started giggling uncontrollably.

  Papa rolled over, delirious with glee, as if being here, in the wild, he was becoming wild himself. It was contagious. Pretty soon the others—Grandmother Queen, Auntie India, Tata—were chuckling too. Even Radana, who I was sure didn’t understand a word of this whole exchange, was chortling. She bounced up and down, as if she alone grasped the irony, the last innuendo Papa made, and this of course only sent another peal of laughter through him.

  Finally, breathless, he pulled himself together and sat upright again, sniffling and wiping tears from his eyes. He picked up the coconut, which had rolled to the side during the course of his laugh attack. “Would you like some, darling?” he asked Mama, in a voice as serious as he could muster. “It’s delicious—I don’t mean to toot my own horn!” Again he hooted, but with a glare from Mama quickly got control of himself. He turned to me instead. “You want some?”

  I nodded, the coconut juice whetting my hunger.

  During the journey across the island, we’d been allowed only a quick meal: a packet of rice and broiled fish the soldiers had handed out to everyone. They’d said the food was from the Organization, and I’d imagined the Organization was a rotund cook like Om Bao sitting in some kitchen wrapping rice and fish in lotus leaves, tasting everything, surrounded by mounds of packets. Where was she now, this gluttonous deity? Was she gorging on food meant for us?

  Papa peeled the hard white meat from the shell, broke it into chunks, skewered each chunk on a stick, and handed one to each of us. We held the skewered coconut pieces over the flames leaping from under the pot of rice now set to cook. The smell was exquisite. I inhaled until my l
ungs hurt. When it was done roasting, I pulled my coconut off the stick and bit into it, huffing and puffing with renewed hunger.

  Big Uncle emerged with two more coconuts, followed by the twins, each cradling a fruit in his arms. We attacked those as well while we waited for our dinner to cook.

  • • •

  “Listen up!” the Khmer Rouge commander called out. He stood in the middle of the camp, backed by his whole troop, light from fires and shadow flickering across his face like alternating masks. People moved closer in to better hear him. “Tomorrow you will be taken to your next destination—”

  “Next destination?” someone from the crowd interrupted. “What about home?” The man stood up, shaking with suppressed anger. “When will we go back to Phnom Penh?”

  “There’s no going back,” the commander growled. “You’ll start a new life—”

  “What do you mean a new life?” someone else asked, and then others started speaking as well, barking with fury. “What about our home? What will we do here, in the middle of nowhere? We want to go back to the city! We want to go home!”

  “The city is empty!” the Khmer Rouge commander thundered. “There’s nothing to go back to! Your home is where we tell you!”

  “But we were told we could go back!” challenged the man who had started it all. “Three days, you told us. Three days! Well, it’s been more than three days! We want to go home!”

  “Forget your home!” the commander thundered. “You’ll build a new life out here—in the countryside!”

  “This is nowhere! Why should we leave our home for a life here?”

  “It is the order of the Organization!”

  “The Organization, the Organization!” another voice shouted from the throng. “What or who is this Organization?”

  “Yes, tell us who they are! Give us a face! We want to know!”

  “Tell us something we can believe!”

  “Yes, stop telling us your Khmer Rouge lies!”

  BANG! A bullet resounded in the night sky.

  The voices stopped. No one stirred. The commander put down his pistol. “You will stay and go as you are told, understand?” He waited.

  No one responded. A defiant hush all around.

  “UNDERSTAND?” he roared, his gun sweeping across the wall of people in front of him.

  The crowd murmured and nodded submissively.

  “GOOD!” The commander lowered his weapon. He made as if to go but then turned and faced his challengers once more. “We are Revolutionary soldiers, and if you say ‘Khmer Rouge’ again, you will be shot.” He marched off.

  The whole camp fell silent. A long time passed before anyone fell asleep.

  • • •

  An army camion trundled into view, looking like a giant metal scrap heap, smelling of gasoline and burnt rubber. Once again the commander emerged from his post, a bullhorn held to his lips, announcing, “In a short while, you will be divided into two groups. Those of you with relatives in the surrounding areas must declare yourselves. You will be taken to your respective town or village. If your town or village is far, then you’ll go by oxcarts. If it’s close, you will walk. Those of you without any connection whatsoever will be taken by truck. You will continue your journey until further orders come from the Organization.”

  We quickly ate our morning meal, packed, and readied ourselves. The other Revolutionary soldiers came around again with their guns and started dividing people into two groups, as the commander had instructed. As our family had no connection or ties to the area, we were in the group bound for the camion, which, up close, was even scarier than its silhouette had suggested. It had a mud-covered floor, dented metal benches, burnt canvas top, sides punctured by bullet holes, and missing front doors that might have been blown off by rockets or grenades. The thing looked as if it had gone through hell, and I imagined it would likely go there again, taking us with it this time.

  “Don’t worry,” Papa said, lifting me up, holding me still to him. “I’m here.”

  As we climbed in I looked back at the row of oxcarts we’d passed, which seemed preferable to this machine with its battle wounds and scars. Others began to board. First one family, then two, then three, and then a countless horde simultaneously. Finally, with everyone squeezed in tight, the camion trumpeted, like an ancient war elephant coming to life, and charged forth.

  seven

  Flame trees in full bloom blazed our trail, like offerings of fire to the gods. The trees gave way to denser, greener growth, and eventually all we could see were forests and sky and patches of water. Sometimes we’d come upon a sapling growing in the middle of the road as if it had been months since any vehicle had driven through. Our driver and the four Revolutionary soldiers accompanying him—two in the front and two on the roof—would take turns getting out and clearing the young saplings with an ax. If a patch of growth was especially stubborn or unruly, then everyone would get out and help clear away the vines. When we passed rice fields, quite often we would have to wait for a whole herd of cows to cross the road, and always one of the animals would stop and stare stupidly, refusing to budge until the herder—usually a little boy who seemed to be the only person around, a sprite appearing out of nowhere—came along and pulled it out of the way. As we moved on, a village would appear and disappear in the blink of an eye.

  In the land of rubber plantations, where the trees stood scarred and bleeding milk-white blood, we crossed small wooden bridges that looked as if they would collapse under the weight of our truck and avoided others the soldiers suspected were rigged with land mines. When one of them jokingly clapped his hands and made an explosive sound with his lips, his comrade elbowed him disapprovingly in the ribs, to which he responded in kind. They continued like this, playfully hitting each other, as we looked on. I thought how ordinary they seemed, horsing around like that. At some point they started talking with us and we learned they were village boys who’d joined the Revolution because—as one put it—“guns were a lot lighter to lug around than plows.” They seemed in awe of the driver, who knew how to maneuver the camion. They said most of their comrades, until recently, had never seen any car or truck or motorcycle, let alone knew how to handle one. But some, like our driver, had had to learn quickly when they started capturing these vehicles from the enemies. When asked if they missed their families, they shrugged, feigning indifference, and for a long stretch after remained silent with melancholy. But then a bump in the road caused them to knock shoulders and once again they became animated, pushing each other back and forth, playing with every leap and lurch that came our way.

  Mama, noticing me staring at them, gently pulled my head down to her lap. I didn’t resist, but curled up on the tight space between her and Papa, my head on her lap and my feet on his. For a long time I lay there, closing and opening my eyes, dozing in and out, the landscape rippling past me like a windblown sheet.

  When the sun shone high above our heads, we stopped at a village by a small stream to eat another meal of rice and fish, brought by a group of Revolutionary soldiers who, like the others before them, seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. There wasn’t a lot of talking. We ate quickly and hurried to cool ourselves in the stream. We rolled up our pants and shirtsleeves, splashing water on our faces and bodies. Mama scooped water with her hand and wet her hair and Radana’s. Papa soaked his kroma and gave it to me to put on my head. He took off his shirt, soaked it as well, wrung out the water, and put it back on. Big Uncle grabbed the twins and dunked them, clothes and all. The driver sounded the horn. Dripping wet but rejuvenated, we rushed to the camion.

  Once more we resumed our journey. Again and again, forests, rivers, and rice fields came into view, then rolled away as soon as they’d appeared, swallowed by the horizon. My head throbbed; I tried to sleep but couldn’t. Each time I nodded off I was jolted back to waking by my own breathlessness. It was suffocating, with all the arms and elbows around me, the smell of sweat, the thick layer of red dust that coated my lips a
nd tongue, my nostrils, the whorls of my ears.

  Finally, when it felt like we’d traveled to the edge of the world, one of the soldiers announced that we’d reached Prey Veng, a province whose name means “endless forest.” An archway lettered with the name “Wat Rolork Meas” in fancy old-Khmer script appeared on the left side of the road. Our camion turned and trundled through the narrow passage, its sides scratching against the cacti hemming the road. Passing a series of sugarcane fields and cashew orchards, the road brought us to a small town, where a throng of wooden houses rose in the distance and a Buddhist temple gleamed nearby, like a dream in the late afternoon sun.

  • • •

  At the entrance to the temple, a statue of a Walking Buddha lay on its back as if Mara, the god of desires, tempter of man, had come along and knocked it off its stone pedestal. Two small figures rose, waking from their nap under a gigantic banyan near the entrance. They ambled sleepily in our direction, stretching and yawning, their long-barreled guns hanging from straps on their shoulders at a slight angle to keep the tips from brushing the ground. Our soldiers jumped out, slapping dust off their bodies. The two sides spoke, and confirming this was the place we ought to be, the driver nodded for us to come down.

  • • •

  Everyone kept a respectful distance from the fallen Walking Buddha statue, avoiding the ground above its head. Some of the elders, their palms in a sampeah, bowed and muttered a prayer. The boy soldiers leading us showed no such deference. Earlier one had spat on the trunk of the banyan tree and now the other was blowing his snot on the ground just as he passed the statue. We followed them toward the main open-air prayer hall that stood not facing the road as was common of temples but parallel to it, rising higher than all the surrounding structures. The prayer hall had a roof of painted gold and gables carved with upswept tips resembling wings or flames. A pair of glass-tiled naga serpents encircled the outer pillars of the hall, their heads guarding the entrance to the front steps and their tails intertwined in the back. In the middle of the stenciled tile floor sat a large Buddha statue painted in gold, legs crossed, eyes gazing past a lotus pond to the distant marsh and forest.