by Chileng Pa
My teacher made a list of what we pupils had to know for each subject and when we had to know it. For example, in mathematics we had to memorize the times tables and, when the teacher asked a question, provide the answer immediately. If we failed to do so, the teacher hit us with a wooden ruler or a rattan stick across the palm of our hand or on our back. If we repeatedly failed to answer correctly, we had to write the correct calculation several hundred times.
We also had a schedule for memorizing other subjects, such as geometry, geography, history, science, reading, and writing. The teacher selected a pupil for recitation by examining our faces, and invariably chose the one with the guiltiest look to come up and stand in front of his desk. We were to recite the complete lesson without looking at the book. The teacher carefully recorded each student’s performance, smiling if the student was doing a good job. The teacher didn’t smile much at me. Our grades for the year were based on the average score of these recitals.
Cambodian school tradition required students to assemble each morning in the central courtyard in front of the flagpole and salute the blue and red flag of Cambodia, with the symbol of Angkor Wat in the center. Angkor Wat is part of the temple complexes in northwest Cambodia that are the pride of our country, reminding us of the time, centuries before, when our kings ruled much of Southeast Asia.
After saluting the flag, we stood in straight rows with our arms hanging limply at our sides, our eyes forward, remaining as still as possible. The teachers walked slowly down each row to make sure our fingernails and toenails were clean and neatly clipped, and our hair short and carefully combed. Teachers punished violators with a swift ruler whack across the fingernails. As a frequent violator, I can attest to the painful nature of this punishment.
When the teachers finished the hygiene drill, they ordered the students into the classrooms. We stood in front of our desks and performed the traditional Cambodian sampeah greeting of respect by pressing our palms together and bowing slightly. In unison, we recited, “We’re pleased to greet you, Teacher. Thank you for being our teacher.”
We didn’t dare move until he said, “You may now sit down.” These and many other daily rituals gave the teacher more authority over the students than even their own parents possessed.
My father, grandmother, and stepmother were so busy with their daily work that they didn’t have time to worry about how I was doing in school. None of them had received a formal education, so they couldn’t comprehend the lessons I didn’t study nor gauge the quantity or quality of the homework I wasn’t doing.
At the end of the fifth grade, in 1963, the sky fell in on me. My father received a summons from the principal to meet with him to discuss my academic progress, or lack thereof. My father was surprised, and asked me if I knew anything about it. I played dumb. At the meeting, the principal told him about my poor performance in class, saying I hadn’t met the class requirements, I’d failed some of the subjects, and I’d been absent too often. All of this information was prelude to the news that I would not be promoted to the next grade.
My father stared at the principal in disbelief. “He flunked his exams? He was absent from class?” he said, incredulous.
The principal smirked. “If your son had had any more absences this year, I’d have expelled him!”
As we walked home, my father’s anger was written across his face. Striding rapidly ahead, he shouted at me. “Chileng, come here, now!”
I quickly answered, “Yes, Papa. I’m coming.”
“Kneel down right here, damn you!” he commanded me, and I did so immediately. “What have you been doing instead of going to school? Because of you, the principal has shamed me,” he said through clenched teeth. “The principal blames me for your behavior. Do you understand what you’ve done? Do you have anything you’d like to tell me?”
“Sorry, Papa, I’ve made a big mistake. I promise I won’t let this happen again,” I said, sobbing. “I will be good in school. I’m so sorry I made Papa lose face with the principal.” I was scared to death.
I had never seen him so angry. He stormed into the back room, and returned with a rattan stick, saying, “I’m going to beat the laziness out of your mind, and teach you never to shame me again!”
He began hitting me with the rattan stick, pausing only to catch his breath and yell at me. “You need harsh punishment for your laziness, Chileng!” he said. Whack, whack, whack. He continued beating me unmercifully, as I pleaded with him, crying loudly. “Papa! Papa! Please don’t beat me! I won’t be lazy again! I won’t miss school again! Please, Papa, please give me another chance to correct my mistakes. I promise I will!”
My father ignored my pleas and beat me until there was nothing left of the rattan stick. When he discovered the stick was ruined, he went to get another, warning me not to move. My grandmother appeared, and tried to comfort and protect me. But my father returned with a new stick, and resumed the beating.
My grandmother rushed over to confront my father. “That’s enough!” she said angrily. She grabbed the rattan stick from his hand, saying, “If you won’t control yourself and listen to me, then here!” She handed him the stick. “Beat me instead!” She leaned over me, sheltering me with her body. As if coming out of a trance, my father stopped swinging the stick. He tossed it aside, stalked over to his motorcycle, and sped away.
My grandmother and sister helped me into the house, led me to the shower, and then helped me to my bed. Grandmother told Bunthy to bring medicinal oil to rub on my skin. I lay my head on my grandmother’s lap as she applied the soothing oil.
Sobbing softly, I spoke to her. “If Papa beats me like this, it means he doesn’t like me. Maybe I’m not one of his children. If I am his son, why would he beat me so?”
The next time I opened my eyes, I was alone in bed beneath the mosquito net my grandmother had made for me. It was past midnight. I was exhausted from my father’s beating, and I ached. Looking up at the ceiling in the dim light, I thought to myself, “Why did he beat me so hard?”
My tears flowed onto the pillow as I lay thinking about my grandmother, but my mind was made up. I was going to run away. I would miss my grandmother terribly, but I could not risk saying good-bye because I knew she would try to stop me. It was unkind for me to do this to her, but I was feeling very sorry for myself, thinking my father and stepmother treated me so differently from my sister and half-brothers. I prepared my things, taking only one change of clothes wrapped in a krama, a small Khmer scarf. I slept for awhile longer and awoke just before dawn. I quickly washed my face and grabbed the bundle of clothing, put it over my shoulder, and took off before anyone was awake.
I walked along the warm streets, filled with melancholy. After several hours, I realized I had no clue what direction to take or where to go. I stood on the sidewalk in a gap between two buildings and watched the morning traffic, listening to the noise of automobiles passing, their horns blaring, seeing the crowd of people filling the streets. On this weekend day, everyone seemed happy except me. I loitered, gazing in the windows of coffeehouses, restaurants, and shops. The hawkers and vendors were displaying an endless array of morning snacks on their carts: hog leg porridge, sweet porridge, pastries, and more. My grandmother and I used to buy these snacks on our excursions together. As I watched other people buying little cakes and feeding their children, I realized all I could do was look because I had no money in my pocket. My mouth began to water at the sight and wonderful aroma of all that food. I walked faster.
I came to Kirirom Theater and stood for awhile in front, resting. A boisterous crowd gathered as the theater was about to open, and I found myself surrounded by people. I watched fathers and mothers holding their children’s hands, happy little families. I felt jealous of the children who had parents who took them to the theater, and I became angry that my life was not better. I started walking, again in tears. I felt like an orphan, alone. What was I to do? Stand in front of a restaurant and beg for food? Why were my parents so much differen
t from other parents? Why was I a vagrant, loitering, with no place to go?
By eleven in the morning, my stomach was rumbling, and I felt weak. I thought of stealing some food to eat, but decided against it, because my grandmother had taught me not to steal. Nor would the Buddha like that. I thought of the Buddhist temple. Surely, I could beg a meal there! I strode rapidly toward Wat Mohamontrey, a temple located near my elementary school.
I passed through the wide entryway of the high whitewashed fence surrounding the temple compound, and walked up to one of the saffron-robed monks entering the building where the monks lived. I bowed my head slightly before him, pressed my palms together, and raised them in front of my face. After saluting him with the sampeah, I begged him for some food. He took me into the monks’ common hall, and told me to sit there with the monastery students who were waiting for the monks to finish eating. I waited there a short while. At last, the monastery students began carrying trays of food to the flat wooden platform floor. We all took our seats around the meal and began eating rice and several delicious meat and vegetable sauces. I gobbled my food quickly, and immediately felt better. I asked for and received permission to leave, and was soon on my way.
By mid-afternoon, the temperature was over one hundred degrees and, as I continued walking, I realized I was in the same condition as before lunch, with no food, no money, and no place to go. I was still very young, only twelve years old. I walked awhile, then rested in the shade. By late afternoon, I had arrived at an urban area called Toul Svay Prey in the south central section of Phnom Penh, where I decided I would go begging door to door until I found a family who would allow me to stay the night and take a meal.
But before I arrived at the first house, I met an older man driving an ox cart. He appeared to be a farmer, but he wasn’t from my neighborhood. I approached him and respectfully performed the sampeah greeting. He pulled the cart to a stop beside the road, climbed down, and returned my sampeah.
“Hello, Nephew. Where are you going in such a sad state?” he replied. Then he added, “My name is Chung.”
In keeping with tradition, I addressed him by bu, meaning “uncle,” the term Cambodians use for men in their father’s generation. “Bu Chung, my name is Chileng. I have no place to go, and I was looking for a family who would take me in for the night,” I told him.
Bu Chung asked me to explain my situation, and I did so. When I pleaded for shelter for the night, he quickly agreed to let me stay with him. He said he was a farmer but April in Cambodia is the hottest time of the year. Temperatures can reach one hundred and twenty degrees, much too hot to grow crops. So he left his village to find temporary work elsewhere in order to support his family until the next growing season. Like many poor farmers, he and his wife had come to Phnom Penh. There, they’d found a profitable enterprise loading dirt onto an oxcart and selling it to people who needed to fill potholes or replace soil washed away by the monsoons.
I jumped aboard the oxcart and, shortly after sundown, reached Bu Chung’s hut. He introduced me to his wife, whose name was Kanika. She went to fix dinner while Bu Chung sat down to talk to me.
“Nephew Leng,” he called me, using a common nickname for my name. “You have no destination in mind. How would you like to learn to drive an oxcart? My wife and I could use your help, and it appears you could use a home with food to eat, eh?”
“I would like that very much, Bu. You’re right. I have nowhere to go.”
“I guess you should have thought of that before you left. But from what you told me and from the looks of you, with all those bruises on your body, you didn’t have much of a choice,” he said kindly.
“I guess not,” I said and, though I tried to fight the tears, they came anyway. “But Bu Chung, I’ve never driven an oxcart before. I would be of little use to you.”
“Don’t worry, Nephew Leng,” he said. “I will teach you. Besides, the work is hard, our shelter is poor, and the food is meager. You may decide to leave us very soon.”
“I am grateful to you for taking me in, Bu. I’ll learn to drive the oxcart. I’ll help you. I will not leave you,” I told him, almost convincing myself it was the truth.
Bu Chung smiled, and I stopped crying. His wife served dinner which we ate sitting on the low bamboo platform. Bu Chung had been right. The food was meager. This was the life of poverty-stricken peasant society. But I enjoyed the meal, and I felt like I had a new family. Aunt Kanika agreed with Bu Chung’s proposal that they provide me with shelter and food in exchange for helping them haul dirt. We ate under the light from an oil lamp as Bu Chung explained the responsibilities I would have as an oxcart driver.
After we finished eating, Bu Chung handed me an old mosquito net and said, “Nephew Leng, before you go to sleep, would you help Bu make a campfire to chase the mosquitoes from the cattle?”
“Yes, Bu!” I replied. I hung my mosquito net and arranged a bed for myself on the bamboo platform where we had eaten our dinner. As soon as I finished, I went to build a campfire with Bu Chung. It was the first campfire I had ever tried to make. Bu Chung was patient and kind to me as I made one mistake after another. Never did he raise his voice in anger. We finished the task quickly, and went to bed.
After I crawled under the mosquito net and lay down, I couldn’t sleep. My mind was racing a mile a minute, trying to make sense of the day’s events. Every aspect of my surroundings was new to me. I could see the stars and the waning moon through the holes in the roof of Bu Chung’s hut. All around the hut, insects in the grass and bushes were chirping to one another. Occasionally, songs of the night birds echoed from the trees near the hut.
The howls of neighbors’ dogs gave me goose bumps. I remembered my grandmother telling me that when dogs howl, it means ghosts are traveling through the night. I tried to close my eyes and ignore all the sounds, but my mind wouldn’t stop humming with thoughts of my past and my uncertain future. My eyes kept flying open. I’d close them again, and they’d spring open.
When I felt able to sleep, I blew out the tiny flame of the oil lamp, and everything went dark. I tried to pull the blanket up over my head to hide from my fears, and muster a little courage. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, I was awake and helping Bu Chung feed the oxen and prepare them for the day’s work. While the oxen ate, we had breakfast, after which Bu Chung began the task of teaching me how to control the oxen and drive the oxcart. With the same manner he had explained making a campfire the night before, Bu Chung patiently suffered through my mistakes, never becoming the least bit angry. In fact, he seemed to enjoy watching me fumble my way through the tasks, often laughing at my clumsiness and ignorance. By the end of one week, I could drive the oxen by myself and I knew the entire route.
Each day, Bu Chung and Aunt Kanika filled the oxcart, and I made deliveries. There were numerous other oxcarts on the roads I traveled, carrying dirt just like me. The dust created by the carts made it difficult to breathe, but I didn’t care. I wore a krama, or checkered scarf, to filter the air and breathe more easily. I got gloriously dirty and didn’t mind staying that way all day.
I was happy to be free from the blame of my stepmother and the beatings of my father. I no longer went to bed with tears in my eyes and rattan stick cuts and bruises all over my body. I loved my new life. I was secure and safe under the protection of Bu Chung and Aunt Kanika. They treated me with love, patience, and respect, like their own child. It felt good to be helping them earn a living.
While driving the oxcart each day, I often thought of my beloved grandmother. I missed her and longed to pay her a visit. I knew I couldn’t, because she would insist that I remain home and I wouldn’t be able to disobey her. What I didn’t know is that she had forced my father to search for me. She told him that if he was unsuccessful in finding me, she would kill herself. As a result, my father had been searching for me everywhere. Eventually, my father spoke to some of Bu Chung’s neighbors, who told him how Bu Chung had taken me in and made me an oxcart driver.
> One morning similar to many others, I was driving the fully loaded oxcart when I spotted a man sitting astride a motorcycle on the side of the road ahead. Could it be my father? My heart began to beat faster. When I drew nearer, my suspicion was confirmed. It was my father. I tried to evade him by turning the oxcart around, but heard him shouting to me. “Chileng! Chileng! Son!” he said excitedly.
I pulled the oxen to the side of the road, and stopped. I heard him call again, “Chileng! Son!”
I was shocked and frightened, speechless. I finally managed to say, “Yes, Papa?”
He leaned the motorcycle on its stand, and approached me. My first thought was that he intended to beat me again. To my surprise, he was smiling. He gave me a long hug, and said, “I love you, Son. I’ve missed you. More than anyone else, your grandmother misses you. Son, I beat you, not out of hatred, but out of love. Every son must be taught to obey his father. Don’t worry, Son. There will be no more beatings.”
I began to cry, not from sadness, but from joy. My father said, “Son, you ought to return home and continue your education. Don’t you agree?”
I nodded my head in agreement, but told him that I must return the oxcart to Bu Chung and thank him and his wife for sheltering me.
“We must not return it until it’s empty, eh?” my father said. “Come! Show me what you have learned about driving an oxcart!” My father and I then made the dirt deliveries together. We returned to Bu Chung’s hut earlier than expected, and Bu Chung knew instantly what had happened when he saw my father. I thanked Bu Chung and Aunt Kanika for their kindness, and told them my father would be taking me home.
They both cried as Bu Chung said, “Nephew Leng, don’t hesitate to visit Bu Chung and Aunt Kanika whenever you have time. You will always be welcome in our hut.” He gave a look at my father which there are no words to describe, but his expression softened when he saw my father smile and place his hand on my shoulder. I was sad to leave them. I knew the likelihood of my ever seeing them again was small, since they would soon be leaving the city to return to their farm.
