by Chileng Pa
After his death, my family had a sad and difficult time. When my father was alive, he relied on my grandmother to run the family finances, making decisions on how to spend our funds. After he died, my stepmother took over. She immediately established new rules of housekeeping, and took control of all financial decisions. I decided it was time to start a family of my own.
Out of respect for my father, I waited until January of 1974 to bring up with my grandmother and stepmother the subject of marrying Devi. Of course, both were aware of my father’s opposition to my marriage to Devi. To honor him, then, they wouldn’t support my proposal. But neither would they withhold their support from me, so tradition left the decision to me.
I immediately went to Devi’s parents and obtained their consent to the marriage. And finally, to complete this process—which to western culture must seem like placing the cart before the horse—I formally proposed to Devi. She didn’t say anything, just smiled her agreement. Months earlier, she had demonstrated her feelings for me on the riverbank. Since then, she’d evidenced her increasing love and trust for me. The growing turmoil of the war and the declining economy caused both of us to fear the uncertainty of the future. We both worried that if we didn’t marry, we would lose each other.
We scheduled the wedding for Saturday, February 4, 1974. Traditionally, a marriage ceremony took place over three days and three nights. But war had forced a change to this tradition, as it did to so many others. Our wedding ceremony was shortened to one day.
As the day approached, Devi and I found the wedding to be more of a struggle than we’d imagined. Because my family’s side couldn’t support my marriage, my grandmother, sister, and stepmother couldn’t attend. Knowing that I would not have any family present, I invited many of my friends. Unfortunately, on their way to the ceremony, several were seized by the military police in their increasingly frequently raids to fill the ranks of the army. Despite the setbacks, the ceremony went forward and, by the end of the day, Devi and I were married. After the ceremony proper, my grandmother and sister joined us in the celebration.
As is Cambodian custom, I moved in with my wife’s family, and my grandmother and sister accompanied me there. My stepmother and three younger brothers remained in the family home, just houses away. So, my family now included my wife, her parents, three younger brothers named Rann, fifteen, Samnang, twelve, and Vibol, nine. Devi also had a baby sister just six years old. Devi’s family was kind to my grandmother, my sister, and me, and we were all happy to be together.
Being married to Devi was wonderful. Being married and being a policeman was not. This was especially true for me because I worked undercover. My father-in-law soon realized my difficulty. He and I had become much closer to one another after the death of my father and my marriage to his daughter, and he was always trying to make life better for Devi and me. Since his eldest daughter was married to an army captain, he suggested that I speak to him about joining the army. Since I was also increasingly frustrated by the corruption in the police department, I acted on my father-in-law’s suggestion immediately. I went to meet Captain Thanh, and we quickly became friends as well as brothers-in-law.
Soon, I was a soldier in the Cambodian army, a member of Thanh’s unit, the 1st Brigade of the 69th Division, stationed in the Chamkar Mon section of Phnom Penh. With my experience as an undercover policeman, I was assigned to military intelligence. In the summer of 1974, Thanh’s battalion was ordered to Kampong Cham Province. My brother-in-law was the battalion paymaster, in charge of paying the soldiers, and he had considerable power. He arranged for our wives to be with us. Because of the prevailing corruption, he did very well for himself as the paymaster, keeping the pay of soldiers who’d died, deserted, or never existed in the first place.
Now, I worked regular hours, and Devi was very happy with my new situation. I had a title but, in actuality, I didn’t work much at all. Because my brother-in-law held a position of importance, he handed me few assignments and kept me from the front lines. Corruption was still a part of life but, in this time of war and turmoil, I didn’t think too much about it. Instead, as a young healthy man, I was grateful to be in a relatively safe environment, with a protective boss and a lovely young wife. Because of Captain Thanh, I did no fighting as my country was brought to ruin. I did a little reconnoitering around the city, looking for terrorist activity, but that was the extent of my soldiering.
As a result of incompetent leadership, a corrupt system, and the number of absent or non-fighting soldiers like myself, the war was closing in on us. Our camp was located near enough to the frontlines of the battlefield that we constantly heard and felt artillery, mortar, and rocket fire. These shells launched from the air and the ground were much larger and more dangerous than small arms fire from rifles and pistols, and caused explosions, vibrations, and destruction that was terrifying, whether or not one was used to it. Devi became very depressed. She was so frightened most of the time that all she did was cry, pleading with me to take her back to Phnom Penh. But I was reluctant to let her return on her own, and I couldn’t leave.
After about three months of battling the Khmer Rouge, our troops had gained little advantage. We were forced to sleep in bunkers dug into the ground to protect ourselves from the constant barrage of shells. These bunkers were dug about four feet into the ground, and had walls of sandbags and a roof of sandbags laid over boards. They were surrounded by the brush and trees of the area. One evening, as Devi and I were falling asleep, I heard a strange sound coming from just beyond her side of the mat on which we were sleeping. I propped myself up on my elbow, trying to see what it could be, but the only light was from a single candle we always left burning, and I could see nothing.
Just as I was about to dismiss it as my imagination, I heard the sound again. Quickly, I grabbed a flashlight, pointed it toward the strange sound, and turned it on. I was confronted by a black cobra with an opened hood the size of my palm, raised and ready to strike just inches from Devi. I grabbed her arm and jerked her away while I used the flashlight to club the snake to death. Devi screamed that I was hurting her until she saw the dead cobra. Then she hugged me tightly, and said, in a shaking voice, “Thank you for saving my life, and being so brave.” I didn’t feel very brave, just weary and wondering about the future.
She again pleaded with me to get her away from this horrible place. I kissed her forehead, and said, “We are both lucky to have survived a black cobra.” I told her of the Cambodian legend that says a cobra loses its power when it encounters a woman who is pregnant for the first time.
She gazed back at me and, with a dry grin and the term wives use to address their husbands, said, “Congratulations, bong. You’re going to be a great father. Tonight, you saved the life of your child, as well as your wife.” As we held each other, we began to cry. We were so happy.
Each day and night that passed brought more fire from the Khmer Rouge. The enemy was winning the battle in the most important district in Kompong Cham Province, and their artillery shells were coming closer and closer to our base camp. We were ever hopeful that the tide of battle would shift in our favor, but it did not. One morning before dawn, shells began landing on our camp. Devi and I scrambled up off our mat, hearing the terrible noise of exploding shells, and feeling their impact. We heard shells destroy the bunker next to ours. Then, a shell landed directly in front of our bunker. Devi grabbed me and held on tightly, shivering, screaming, and praying to the Buddha, begging me to get her out of this terrible place. She was hysterical, and tried in a panic to run out of the bunker. I pulled her back down to the ground and tried to cover her body with mine, as more shells landed, shaking the ground around us.
In those terrifying moments, our troops did not lose courage, as they launched 105mm artillery and 85mm mortar shells at the enemy. But, the Khmer Rouge continued firing on our camp. The battalion commander called for an air strike from province headquarters to assist our troops.
As the shells continued to rain
down, we huddled in the bunker, terrified that the next shell would land on us. After another twenty minutes or so, we heard the explosion of bombs dropping on the enemy. Soon after, the shelling stopped, and a ceasefire was called. Soldiers were crying out in pain, bleeding from shrapnel wounds. I told Devi to stay in the bunker and stepped out, where I spotted two soldiers I knew, both so badly wounded they died within a few moments. I found three other soldiers who were badly wounded, but still alive. I ordered other men to help me load them into a military ambulance to take them to the provincial hospital.
For three days following this attack, all was mysteriously quiet. I decided to acquiesce to my wife’s wish to return to Phnom Penh. We both agreed that we didn’t want to risk her having the baby during another attack. So, I sent her back to Phnom Penh on the next military helicopter. Devi’s sister, Captain Thanh, and I remained with the troops.
In January, 1975, the battle against the Khmer Rouge resumed in earnest. My family sent word to me that Devi was doing fine, and that the baby was due any day. When I received that information, I was anxious to be with my wife. I immediately made plans to take the next flight out of the camp, but Khmer Rouge artillery and mortar fire forced us back into our bunkers. I tried to get ground transportation, but was informed that all the major highways had been ruined by shelling, and the Khmer Rouge had placed ambushes along the route.
I was disappointed not to be with Devi for the birth of our child, but my spirits were lifted when I learned that on January 19, 1975, my wife delivered a baby boy and both mother and child were doing fine. They named my son, Sokhanarith. I quickly wrote a short letter to Devi, telling her how happy I was at the birth of our son, how sorry I was that I couldn’t be with her, and how much I loved and missed her. I assured her that if it was possible, I would have been there at the birth, but that the on-going battle with the Khmer Rouge did not allow me to leave camp. I explained to her that all the major transportation routes had been cut, and that I would be home to see her and Sokhanarith as soon as possible.
What I didn’t tell my wife was that the Khmer Rouge had increased their artillery and mortar attacks on our troops, and had completely surrounded our camp. Each time we added reinforcements and managed to take back a little ground, the Khmer Rouge fought back, resulting in more dead and wounded troops. Each day, the enemy threatened to overtake our camp. I was deployed on several reconnaissance missions behind enemy lines to gather information about the size and position of the Khmer Rouge forces, during which I witnessed many atrocities. I saw Khmer Rouge gather up our defeated soldiers and torture them, tying them to trees and disemboweling them or sawing off their heads with jagged palm tree leaves. I knew then that the Khmer Rouge we were fighting had a capacity for violence that we didn’t have.
In February 1975, Captain Thanh and I were ordered back to Phnom Penh. I was thrilled to be going home, and I was up at dawn to pack my belongings. The morning birds were singing from the treetops, the sun was already bright, and the sky was turning a grayish blue. There was a bit of coolness in the air, but no clouds were visible. By ten o’clock, the sun was high in the sky and heat was heavy on the ground. Captain Thanh, Devi’s sister, and I left camp for Kompong Cham airport to wait for an airplane and, a few minutes later, a C-130 military transport plane arrived to unload supplies and ammunition. When the unloading was completed, we boarded, and I was suddenly aware of how lucky I was, as dozens of wounded soldiers were also loaded on board.
When we arrived at the Phnom Penh airport, the three of us headed straight for home in a military jeep. I was so happy to see my beautiful baby boy and my wife. Devi was harboring resentment against me because I had failed to return in time for Sokhanarith’s birth. She believed I had put her a lower priority than my work. Being a traditional wife, she didn’t talk back at me. She just didn’t talk at all. I endured this silent treatment for some months, until the tragedy that soon overcame us was obvious in its horror and inescapability. It wasn’t until April 1975 that Devi began understanding how serious the situation was. The Khmer Rouge were about to take the city of Phnom Penh.
At around nine o’clock on the morning of Saturday, April 12, 1975, I heard helicopters coming toward the military division headquarters where I worked. As the noise grew louder, I went out to see what was going on. There were a number of Huey helicopters hovering, waiting to land at the stadium to evacuate the ambassador and embassy staff. The Americans were leaving, and taking a few Cambodians with them. When a friend of mine, Sokun Pin, saw me, he ran toward me, and began speaking excitedly. He worked at the American Embassy as a liaison, and he told me that he knew some staff members and one of the helicopter pilots. He had already made arrangements to leave the country with the Americans, and he urged me to immediately join him.
Sokun was sure I would leave the country with him, but I explained about my wife and newborn son. I told him about my beloved grandmother, who was elderly and in poor health. I couldn’t leave them, my sister, and the rest of my family. Before he left, he told me, “Chileng, please tell your family to get out of Phnom Penh quickly, and not wait until it’s too late!”
“Yes, Sokun,” I replied. I said goodbye to him, and he told me again he hoped it would not be the last time he ever saw me. I watched the helicopter take off. Moments later, another landed, and more people ran to climb aboard.
When the next day, Sunday, April 13, 1975 dawned, the Americans were gone. It was the beginning of the traditional Cambodian New Year three-day celebration. Rumors about the impending fall of Cambodia to the Khmer Rouge were running rampant through the suburbs. Like many of my fellow countrymen, I couldn’t believe it would happen. I especially didn’t want to believe that the Cambodian communists or Khmer Rouge would invade the city of Phnom Penh itself. Yet, day and night, throughout the entire New Year celebrations, I heard artillery shelling and gunfire on the outskirts of the city. The government increased its security forces around Phnom Penh while most of the people who lived and worked in the city simply went on with their activities without much worry.
On Sunday, my old friend, Sokram, invited me and a few others to a potluck New Year’s party at his home in Toul Kok, in northeast Phnom Penh. Devi stayed home with our baby, just a few months old. We each brought our dishes to the table, which soon was covered with food, and chatted amongst ourselves as drinks were served. The war was the only topic. As we sat down to dinner, Sokram proposed a toast. “To my friends, for being together tonight at this dinner party.” As we sipped our wine, he added, “It may be the last time we will have the chance to be together like this.”
“Sokram!” I stopped him. “Why would you make such a stupid remark?”
“I think Sokram may be right,” said Dara, another friend. “I’ve been hearing constant gunfire, artillery, and rocket fire just outside Phnom Penh.”
I interrupted Dara. “All of you, don’t lose hope! It won’t be easy for the Khmer Rouge to take our city. Our army will fight to the death, to the last, to protect Phnom Penh.” I picked up my drink and tried to look convincing, seeking approval from my friends.
One of them, Noch, looked up after taking a sip, and said, “We should be careful not to underestimate the enemy.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Dara, and talk about the war continued until the party wound down.
Finally, Sokram said, “Everyone, it’s almost six o’clock, and you should be going now. With the new regulations in place, they won’t allow traffic after seven.” We drank the last of the wine in our glasses, then slowly set them down. “I guess I’d better get going, Sokram. I have a lot of work to do tomorrow,” I said.
Everyone said their goodbyes in the same manner as if they expected life to remain the same. Sokram and his wife accompanied us to the door and wished everyone a safe trip home and a good night.
The evening was warm and humid. I sped my Honda down Oknha Tephon Street near Depo Market, hearing horns honking and sirens wailing as ambulances transported the injured to the h
ospital. When I arrived at Depo Market, I encountered a mob of people spilling into the street in front of the market where pedicabs and taxis were parked. I immediately parked my motorcycle, and yelled, “What’s going on?”
A man from the crowd told me he’d seen two youth driving a red Honda past the market. As they passed, they tossed a grenade into the crowd, and then sped away. The grenade killed three people and injured a dozen more. I told the man to call the police, who arrived within minutes. Then I began collecting statements, names, and addresses from the witnesses, information needed by the intelligence bureau for its investigation. The investigation never happened.
When at last I left the scene, it was eight o’clock. As I did so, I was thinking that maybe Sokram was right.
He was. I never saw my friends again.
6
“Liberation”
On April 17, 1975, I went off to work at seven in the morning. I didn’t have to report to my office at the military headquarters building until nine, so I had plenty of time for breakfast. I stopped at one of the many restaurants along my route and was surprised at how loudly everyone was talking. Breakfast was not usually a time for much socializing but, on this day, the restaurant was buzzing with speculation about the Khmer Rouge. People were saying the Khmer Rouge had already encircled Phnom Penh. Others were denouncing the current government as hopelessly corrupt. Some were saying the Cambodian people were tired of being poor and hungry, and they would welcome an opportunity to live in peace and prosperity under a new regime. Yet others spoke of how they yearned to return to their villages in the provinces, to live without fear.
