Escaping the Khmer Rouge

by Chileng Pa

  I still managed to study, but it was a difficult time for students.

  American aid allowed Lon Nol’s government to institute new regulations that increased the number of soldiers fighting the Khmer Rouge. One Sunday afternoon, my friend, Sokram, and I went to see a movie at a theater in central Phnom Penh called Chenla. As we exited at the end of the movie, we encountered a group of military police waiting outside. People immediately scattered.

  Just as we turned to ask one another what was happening, the military police grabbed us and herded us to a large truck. Other young men already in the truck, many of whom were students, told us the military police had set up similar ambushes throughout the city to commandeer as many military recruits as possible. As soon as the trucks were full, we were driven to a large compound nearby, Chamkar Mon, a recruitment center for the infantry.

  We were held there to await medical examinations. Those who were medically cleared were going to be transported immediately to a military training camp, without the knowledge of their families. Sokram and I grew worried, certain that we wouldn’t see our loved ones again. Soon, however, we noticed that a few young men were leaving the camp before their medical exams, and found out that their parents had bribed camp officials to release them.

  The day passed slowly as Sokram and I waited for our names to be called. His was called first. We said our goodbyes, hoping we’d see one another again. But it was not for the medical exam that Sokram had been called. His father, a captain in the army, had come for him. Sokram persuaded his father to request my release, also, and it was granted for a bribe. As he left the compound, Sokram’s father told us both that we should be very careful not to get caught up in another military police ambush. “It won’t be easy to get you out next time,” he said somberly.

  I continued attending college but it became increasingly difficult. I was ambushed by the military police several more times, but eluded them by hiding in a sewer. I missed a number of classes while evading the police. In order to study, I was forced to ignore the circumstances around me, at least to an extent. I finally managed to earn my degree in June 1972.

  My classmates and I were constantly discussing the war in the country, and what careers we were going to choose. But all of us continued to face the threat of being forced to join the infantry. Sokram suggested that we try to get help from his father. One day he said to me, “Since my father is a captain in the army, we should ask him to take us on. I’m sure he would! If we were in his unit, we could easily be lieutenants. And we could stay in Phnom Penh.”

  I told Sokram that I didn’t want to be a soldier. Our friend, Noch, said, “You’re right, Pa Chileng. Many of our friends have died or been badly wounded on the battlefields.”

  I explained, “I’m not afraid to join the army, and I’m confident that I have the courage to go into battle.” My friends felt the same way. I continued, however, saying I was reluctant to sign up because I knew it would mean being away from my family for a long time, possibly years. My grandmother was having health problems, and I felt the need to be close to her. I loved her very much. I couldn’t break her heart by going off to war.

  My friends and I debated what to do. Then I heard that the government was looking for people with associate or bachelor degrees to be police officers. I told my friends about this, and tried to get them interested. We were tired of running from the military police who chased us toward their trucks as if they were prodding cattle into a livestock truck. In addition to solving our worries about the draft, we would earn a good salary and be able to help our families.

  My friend, Sokram, was initially against the idea. He was concerned about the rumors he’d heard of corrupt police officers. Noch agreed with him. But my friend, Dara, and I were able to convince them that, as long as we did our jobs and didn’t take bribes, we would be fine policemen. I was anxious to have a job near home, and I wanted the opportunity to work among civilians. I was certain my friends and I could help people because we were familiar with the problems they faced.

  We finally agreed. Sokram, Noch, Dara, and I went to the police department at Toul Kok, Phnom Penh, located near our college, and applied for jobs. We soon discovered that three hundred applicants were competing for one hundred and fifty positions, so there was going to be an entrance examination. Fortunately, all four of us passed the exam. We also passed the medical exam and were admitted to the police academy for training. Thus, was my schooling in Phnom Penh ended.

  At seven o’clock on the morning of Monday, August 7, 1972, we appeared at the police department compound. Lieutenant Chum blew the whistle calling for the attention of the new officers, and instructed us to form lines and wait for the trucks which would take us to the Kompong Chhnang Police Academy. Soon the trucks arrived, and we were on our way, traveling up National Highway Five. When commuters on their way to work in the city saw the trucks approaching them, they stopped their bicycles and moped scooters and stood on the side of the road cheering and waving at us. We were surprised and encouraged.

  After that, we were in good spirits. We sang songs and laughed at one another’s jokes. My seat in the truck was high enough so I could see the countryside as we traveled. Cambodia is small, but it is beautiful and the scenery on this morning was picturesque. This was the rainy season, and the color green, in a multitude of hues, flourished everywhere. Cattle grazed on the dikes, which were lined with sugar palm trees. The dikes were low earthen causeways built to hold back water from the large rice fields. Some farmers were repairing their dikes, while others relaxed, having a smoke. Naked children played in the narrow irrigation ditches, bounded by the dikes. Everyone waved as we drove by.

  My thoughts were interrupted by our truck’s sudden slowdown, accompanied by much bouncing up and down. The road ahead was filled with bomb craters, and construction workers were busy filling the holes. In some places, the damage was so severe that bridges had been built over the damaged sections. It was mid-afternoon when we finally arrived at the police academy. We climbed out of the trucks and hurried to form ranks, as the officer in charge barked orders at us. We marched into the compound and formed a couple of lines, and were then sent on to the mess hall where we were fed a much needed meal.

  After we ate, we were issued uniforms and bedding, and given dormitory assignments. Noch and Dara were assigned to the same cubicle in the same dormitory to which Sokram and I were sent. By the time we finished making up our beds, we were exhausted. We slept for two days and then began our training.

  Each day began at 4:30 in the morning with the obtrusive sound of a bugle. We dressed in our new long-sleeved khaki uniforms and put on our black neckties and shiny black shoes. Physical exercises began at 5 sharp. Anyone not lined up had to do push-ups or crawl on the ground for a hundred meters or more. The drill instructor, Sergeant Sina, a no-nonsense officer, ran us through drill after drill for two solid hours each morning. He didn’t listen to anyone who complained, and he showed no mercy. Then, we had to shower, eat breakfast, and dress for class at 8:00 A.M.

  Lieutenant Yann then arrived at the lecture hall to face us, all of us dressed in our new uniforms. At the first lecture, the lieutenant informed us that our class would be rushed through the academy in only thirteen, rather than the usual twenty-six, weeks because of the war and the tremendous increase in crime. We were the tenth class of police recruits, so he called us his tenth promotion. He warned us not to talk while he was lecturing, and to raise our hands if we had questions. He asked if any of us had been forced to become police recruits.

  No one moved a muscle. The lieutenant then explained the basic concepts of crime prevention and police tactics. He told us he would be teaching us all he knew from many years as a police instructor, and told us to take notes.

  For the next nine weeks, we learned, taking notes furiously. We were taught the philosophy, theory, and practice of police work. What I learned during the day, I dreamed of at night. The weeks passed quickly. Never once was there a problem with
discipline. All of us were well aware that if we failed at the academy, we would be sent directly to the infantry.

  During the last four weeks of training, we learned basic martial arts techniques, the theory and practice of self-defense. Practicing on one another, we learned the proper methods for making an arrest, controlling a suspect, conducting searches, and protecting ourselves and others. We also learned how to use and care for a variety of weapons, and we practiced for hours at a time on the shooting range. The last four weeks also passed quickly and, presently, it was time for graduation.

  This occurred on Monday, November 6, 1972, and the ceremony was scheduled to begin at 9 in the morning. It was like any other day of the thirteen weeks of training, but without the unending, exhausting, and painful hours of standing and working under the hot sun. Instead, although we still arose early, most of us used the time to iron our uniforms and shine our shoes.

  At 9 o’clock, we stood in rank in the center of the academy compound, below the flagpole that now flew the blue flag of the Khmer Republic with a white image of Angkor Wat in a red square in the upper left hand quarter of the flag and three white stars on the upper right hand side. The chief addressed us, welcoming the guests of the graduating class. My friends and I had no family or guests present because of the time and inconvenience involved in traveling to the academy. The chief complimented us on our efforts, saying we were under more stress than other graduates because our training was compressed into half the normal schedule. He congratulated us on our endurance, and urged us to adhere to the principles of law enforcement we had learned. He wished us all good luck, and told the audience that the country would be well served by its new police officers.

  The next speaker was our feared instructor, Lieutenant Yann. As he spoke, we were surprised to see him smile for the first time. He said he was confident we would use the strategies and techniques he had taught us and become responsible, effective policemen. He thanked us for being such good students, and then made way for the final speaker. Captain Tak, the commander of the troops, stepped forward to administer the oath of allegiance. Then, as music began to play softly, he called each of us by name to step forward and receive our certificates of rank and achievement. This was done while the audience applauded continuously. The ceremony ended, and we all congratulated one another and departed, eager to return to our families.

  I got home late that afternoon to the waiting arms of my father and grandmother. They were happy to see me, and they had a special dinner to celebrate my graduation. I was delighted to be home and to see my beloved grandmother in such good spirits. Both Father and Grandmother had a hundred questions for me, and I spent hours answering them. I had my father laughing so hard I thought he would cry when he heard about the pushups and crawling I had to do when I was late for morning exercises. I told my father there were many candidates who did more pushups and crawling than I did, but he was just happy hearing about me. I will always remember that dinner as one of the happiest moments of my life.

  I went to work immediately as a police officer. By January, 1973, Noch and I were working with the secret police. My friends, Sokram and Dara, were assigned to work as patrol officers in the Toul Kok section of Phnom Penh. I was assigned to work undercover in Phnom Penh, posing as a taxi driver and riding a motorcycle pulling a small trailer. My task was to conduct undercover investigations of criminal activity, such as robbery, rape, and kidnapping without revealing my identity as a police officer. Thus, I wore civilian clothes rather than my police uniform; in this case, the shorts and short-sleeved shirt of a taxi driver.

  By 1973, one of the many problems that created the need for more police officers was the rash of crime being committed by youth the Cambodians referred to by the American term, “hippie.” With long hair streaming behind them, these children of the wealthy, high-ranking elite rode their Honda motorcycles through the city robbing tourists, picking pockets, and running illegal gambling operations. Occasionally, they kidnapped someone and demanded a ransom. I wanted to arrest as many of them as possible.

  Most people in the city had a poor opinion of the police, believing they were corrupt. This opinion was particularly prevalent when it came to undercover officers. But I didn’t care what people thought. I had a job to do, and I was determined to do it honestly. Most important to me was to maintain my cover. I was young, idealistic, and naïve.

  One day, I followed a hippie whom I’d driven many times on my taxi. He unknowingly led me to a place I suspected was a gambling site. I watched the place for several days, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. When I was certain there was illegal activity taking place there, I reported this to my chief and arranged for a raid to be conducted at a time when I thought most of the criminals could be caught. I participated in the raid, and most of the leaders of the gambling ring were arrested. I was proud to have the credit for busting the operation.

  My happiness was short-lived, however, because the very next day all of those arrested were released on bail. As soon as they reached the streets, my identity as a police officer was revealed to everybody. My cover was blown. Normally, the men who’d been arrested would have been held until they went to trial. In this case, there was no explanation for their release. When I questioned my superior officers about this, they quickly chastised me, telling me to stop asking so many questions. After that day, my enthusiasm for the job was never the same.

  By 1973, President Lon Nol had no idea what was happening on the battlefields, and his staff had no control over the generals commanding his armies. Corrupt generals were quick to take full advantage of a stroke Lon Nol had experienced in 1971, which left him increasingly senile and confused. They cheated the troops out of their pay, and sold weapons and ammunition to the enemy. Battalion and company commanders cared so little for their men that they embezzled the monies that should have been used to pay benefits to the families of soldiers injured or killed in battle. Instead, the commanders hid their money for their own use, and the soldiers suffered constant shortages of food, supplies, and pay.

  Because of the corruption in the military chain of command, there was no discipline. Lack of food and supplies (and knowledge of the reasons for this) left the infantry with low morale and little desire to fight. Those who actually fought in battle returned to their units to find no food, no supplies, and paychecks two months in arrears. Many low-ranking soldiers became so desperate they simply walked away from their units.

  Determined to survive and support their families and still in uniform, fully armed, with hand grenades hanging from their belts, many became terrorists against their own people. Some entered the crowded marketplaces and demanded money and food from the vendors. If their demands were not met, they splayed bullets into the market, sending people scattering in panic. Security police were often quick to respond, but when they encountered the gruesome, heavily armed run-away soldiers, they also panicked and fled for their lives.

  In a few minutes, squads of military police inevitably arrived, since they were organized to respond to these marketplace raids. The deserter soldiers hated the military police, and the military police hated the deserters. The military police considered them traitors, lacking knowledge of the conditions under which they had lived. The deserters considered the military police pampered babies who had never fought in a real battle and who spent every night home surrounded by their contented families.

  The confrontations between these soldiers-turned-terrorists and the military police were heated and caustic. Both sides cursed the other and shouting matches often ensued. Most often, the deserters intimidated the military police to the point of inaction by threatening to use their hand grenades if they were captured. Eventually, however, the military police learned to wait, and call for more backup. When reinforcing police arrived and the fugitive soldiers were surrounded, the deserters had to give up. Those who refused to do so were shot. The rest were arrested, loaded into trucks, and hauled away to be imprisoned in metal cages.


  4

  Serendipity and Separation

  In March of 1973, I was one of ten officers selected by Cambodia’s chief of police to take part in a deployment to Battambang Province that was to take several months. I was given two weeks’ leave to pack my things. I tried to spend time with my father and grandmother but, being a sociable young man of twenty-two and in spite of the restless times, I spent most of my time cruising through Phnom Penh on my Honda motorcycle.

  One warm, sunny morning, I was riding slowly down Mao Tse Tung Boulevard. The street was packed with commuters, students on bicycles, and pedicabs loading and unloading passengers. Pedicabs are modified bicycles with a wide seat behind, allowing the driver to transport several people at a very reasonable price. Traffic inched along and, as frustrations grew, so did the honking of horns. I drove past the Olympic Stadium, and stopped at the next red light. As I sat waiting for the light to change, I glanced over at a famous Chinese restaurant on the corner, called Ngon Ngon. When I was a student, my classmates and I used to have breakfast there nearly every day.

  I noticed an attractive young girl waiting on the corner, and found myself staring at her. Her arms were full of books and, although she was wearing the standard white blouse and blue skirt of Cambodia’s school uniform, I could see that she had a great figure. She turned her head and looked directly at me. I nearly fell off my motorcycle when I realized who she was. It was Chan, my classmate for many years! It was the girl I had been in love with for so long.

  “Is this really my girlfriend, Chan, or am I dreaming?” I said to myself. Then she smiled, and I knew she recognized me. I immediately shouted, “Hello! Mademoiselle. How are you?”

  She responded, “Yes! Monsieur Pa Chileng.” She answered in the Cambodian way, using the French salutation for “mister” and the Cambodian habit of saying the family name first, followed by the personal name. Then, she glanced from one side to the other as if looking to see if anyone was observing her forwardness and, acting more reserved, said, “I am fine, thank you. How are you, Monsieur Pa Chileng? Where are you going?”