Escaping the Khmer Rouge

by Chileng Pa

  Some patients still had IVs in their arms. They stumbled into one another, and many fell down and were literally crushed to death. Many had bleeding wounds, and blood flowed freely. Death was everywhere. I was witness to it because the street was so crowded that people could hardly move.

  Cambodians crowded the street from one side to the other. Most were on foot, but some had cars, bicycles, motorcycles, scooters, or carts. These vehicles were grossly overloaded with families’ belongings, no one wanting to leave anything behind. The street was a slow-moving glacier. Patients continued to die. A man carrying a mountainous load of possessions suddenly collapsed in the midst of the crowd. When the people pushing past him discovered he was dead, all his possessions disappeared. Soon people began ignoring the bodies of the dead because there were so many. It was impossible to move around them, so the people and their vehicles simply went over them.

  Meanwhile, the screams of people in pain, the shouts of others searching for one another, the wails of young children who had lost their parents, the barks of Khmer Rouge yothea over loudspeakers, the honks of cars, the pops of gunfire—all of it was so loud that individual sounds could not be distinguished. There was only noise. My ears were of no use to me and what my eyes beheld, I wish I had never seen. It was more human suffering and misery than I could ever have imagined.

  Cambodians are a compassionate people. We are quick to show kindness and mercy and to assist one another whenever there is a problem. Now, there was no kindness, no mercy, and no assistance. The instinct for survival was the sole motivation driving the people out of Phnom Penh. People were forced to let their own parents die in order to save their children. The helpless and hopeless were abandoned by those able-bodied enough to save their own lives.

  One hundred meters from the hospital, I passed by the Banteay Seh barracks that housed many of Lon Nol’s soldiers and their families. Yothea were pouring into the building just as they had at the hospital, shouting at everyone to get out of the way. Those Lon Nol soldiers who were injured or lame or unable to move fast enough to satisfy the yothea were shot, along with anyone attempting to escape. Those who surrendered and quickly followed orders were arrested, and put aboard a large truck to be taken away for what the Khmer Rouge were calling “re-education.” In the process of killing so many of Lon Nol’s soldiers, many family members were also killed. The Khmer Rouge made a point of allowing several Lon Nol military officers to make it out of the barracks and onto the street before shooting them in full view of the crowd. I am certain the Khmer Rouge were ordered to kill as many Lon Nol soldiers as possible to show the people there would be no mercy for those associated with the Lon Nol administration.

  Watching the Khmer Rouge in action was a frightening thing. I could not imagine the hatred, rage, cruelty, and revenge they demonstrated. I tried to move faster by riding the bicycle, but I couldn’t because the crowd was so thick. All I could do was to keep pushing it slowly along.

  Eventually, I could see Stung Mean Chey Bridge, which I needed to cross in order to reach my home and family. I noticed that the traffic on the other side of the bridge was light, and I thought that at last I could ride the bike rather than push it. But, as I got nearer to the bridge, I realized that people were bunched up because the Khmer Rouge had strung barbed wire across the entrance. They were allowing no one to cross.

  “Why?” I wondered. “Why are they blocking the bridge? Don’t they realize the bridge must be opened so that we can get to our families and leave together?” The answer could only be that they wanted to search people first, to flush out any Lon Nol soldiers and their families.

  There were hundreds of people waiting to cross. The yothea guarding the bridge refused to listen to anyone, pointing their rifles and shouting at those who approached them. I was in despair. The thought of never seeing my wife and tiny son again was more than I could bear. I forced my way to the sentry who stood nearest the gate.

  “Mit Bong, could you please open the gate and allow us to cross?” I implored the sentry. “We need to get our families so we can leave, as Angkar has ordered us to do, so your soldiers can clear out the imperialists.”

  “No,” he replied firmly. “A high-ranking Angkar officer has ordered that no one can cross the bridge. If you want to cross the river, you’ll have to find a boat or you’ll have to swim!”

  He looked me over from head to toe, and I caught him looking hungrily at my wristwatch. Then he asked, “Mit, what were you doing in Phnom Penh?”

  “I’m on my way home from work in the Deum Kor Market,” I replied. Of course, this was a complete lie.

  “And just what is it you do there, Mit?” he asked.

  “I’m a bike repairman, Mit. Here are my tools,” I said, trying to be as convincing as I could. He looked at me skeptically, then suddenly changed the subject.

  “You have a very nice watch there, Mit! What kind is it?” he asked, appearing genuinely interested.

  I knew he could see that my watch was an expensive brand with a nice gold band, but I said, “Oh, it’s an Orient, Mit Bong. It’s a cheap brand.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Mit! I’ve heard yothea saying that’s a good one.” Then he tipped his hand. “Eh, Mit, you should let Angkar have that watch. You’ll have no need for one from now on. Under the Communist regime, you can tell time by looking at the sun. Besides, this watch is a symbol of what’s wrong with your society. Under the new regime, there’ll be no possessions like this watch. Everything belongs to Angkar, and must be given up. Anyone caught wearing a watch like yours will be considered an enemy of Angkar.”

  He had now recited three reasons I should give him my watch. First, I wouldn’t need it. Second, it was a mark of the old regime. And third, it showed I was an enemy.

  “You’re not an enemy of Angkar, are you, Mit?” He continued, and slowly lowered his rifle to my chest.

  I pretended to misunderstand his words. I continued to beg. “Mit Bong, please let me cross the bridge. My home is near Stung Mean Chey Market, just past Wat Ta Prom Mean Chey. I can almost see my house from here, please, Mit Bong,” I lied.

  The sentry stabbed his rifle at me and, with his finger on the trigger, shouted, “What’s wrong with you, Mit? Are you stupid? Don’t you understand the Khmer language?”

  I cowered, and retreated into the crowd. I quickly discovered that many in the crowd had been listening carefully to my chat with the sentry. Several men came over to me, and we decided to try to bribe the soldier with several of our watches. With five in hand, I approached the sentry again.

  “Mit Bong, here are watches that people are giving to Angkar. Would you be so kind as to make sure Angkar receives them? And, Mit Bong, would you also be so kind as to open the gate so we can cross the bridge to reach our families?”

  The soldier snatched the watches from my hand and, with undisguised arrogance, said, “Good! All of you must learn to be loyal to Angkar. I’m glad you have made the correct decision to give your possessions to Angkar. Wait here a moment, Mit. I’ll be back.”

  The sentry strode off to a bunker made of sandbags to talk with his fellow soldiers. Another sentry quickly ran up to take his place, pointing his rifle at me. I prayed to the Buddha to grant me a blessing and allow me to cross the bridge. I prayed that I would again see my family and grandmother. Fifteen minutes passed as I waited. I realized how exhausted and hungry I was. At last, the sentry returned from the bunker, looking quite pleased with himself.

  “Are you sure your home is just across the bridge, Mit?” he asked.

  “Yes! Yes! Mit Bong,” I hastily replied. The sentry looked back toward the bunker and gave a little nod; then opened the gate just wide enough for me to squeeze through with my bike. But when the others who’d given their watches started through the gate, the crowd noticed the open gate and pushed forward, knocking the sentry over and opening the gate wider. The mob began pouring across the bridge.

  I jumped on my bicycle and began pedaling furiously. Shooting began
behind me. I looked over my shoulder, but didn’t stop pedaling. Bullets were zipping past me, and people were falling down as the soldiers roared out of the bunker, shooting wildly. I faced forward again, and pedaled even faster. I heard the screams of wounded and dying people behind me, but there was nothing I could do. I started down the opposite side of the bridge just as the sentry there began to close the gate. I brushed by another sentry as he was trying to get his rifle unslung from his shoulder. Before he had time to deal with me, he saw the mob approaching him, and began shooting into the crowd.

  Dozens of people died on the bridge that day. I was lucky not to be one of them. After crossing the bridge, I was again forced to push the bicycle along because the crowds were thicker than it had appeared on the other side. It was two more hours before I finally drew near my house. During that time, I prayed continuously to the Buddha, thanking Him for sparing my life and praying that my family was safe.

  At last, I reached my home. When I opened the door, everyone was there, and they were safe. They were happy that I was finally home because they had been worried about me, and they had no idea what was happening in the center of the city. I fell into a rattan chair, exhausted. My father-in-law and mother-in-law came to sit by me, and my wife brought me a cold drink. My father-in-law, whom we called Ba, wanted to know what had happened to my motorcycle, why I was home so late, and if I knew how worried they’d been for me. Everyone listened intently as I described the events I had witnessed during the day. I told him what I’d experienced: how I escaped from the compound at the military headquarters and inched my way home through a horror show of Khmer Rouge yothea cruelty. Ba wanted to know the details, and as I related them to him, he constantly expressed surprise and disbelief. He couldn’t understand why the yothea were so eager to butcher Cambodians and he was deeply saddened to learn of the deaths of my friends and fellow officers, Mr. Eng and Mr. Thom, for he had also known them well.

  After a few more minutes of Ba’s questions, my mother-in-law asked us to come to the dinner table and have something to eat. She had prepared the lunch meal much earlier, but was waiting for my return. Now we ate together. I was grateful for the interruption for I was growing tired of the questioning.

  After eating, I slipped out to the porch to sit in the cool evening air as I watched the beautiful magenta sunset. But I was deeply distressed by what I had witnessed this day of “liberation.” I tried to think of other things, but these thoughts were just as depressing. My brothers and stepmother were only a few houses away, but I knew my stepmother would not come with me nor let my brothers leave her. In the months since my marriage, my stepmother had made it clear that she was glad I was out of her house. I saw my brothers when she was gone, and left quickly so as to avoid her anger. Whatever happened, wherever we went, it would be without them. I wondered when I would see them again. Meng was thirteen, Mhang nine, and Leang only seven. They were so young. What would happen to them?

  The evening was quiet when, suddenly, my two brothers-in-law came running up to the house, shouting for Ba.

  “Ba! Ba! We just saw lots of red Khmer soldiers! They were yelling at the street vendors and shop owners, telling them to close up their shops and leave the market immediately!”

  “Don’t worry too much, brothers,” I interrupted. “Let’s not panic. Let’s just calm down, wait a while, and see what happens. After all, it would be silly of the Khmer Rouge to win the war, and then turn around and chase all the people away from their homes, wouldn’t it?” Everyone agreed, and calmed down. We’d wait for what was next to happen.

  I went to my room to rest. I sprawled on the bed, trying to avoid all thoughts of the day, but all I could do was lie there, my hands behind my head, staring at the ceiling. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d seen during this most horrible day. Still unable to sleep at seven that evening, I turned on the radio to hear the news. Instead of the familiar voice of the newscaster, I was shocked to hear a Khmer Rouge broadcast. I was surprised again by the speed with which the Khmer Rouge had taken control of everything, even the radio station.

  The Khmer Rouge spokesman spoke arrogantly. “We have taken control of the capital city, Phnom Penh, so we now control the entire country of Cambodia. Our mit yothea, our brave revolutionary forces, have been victorious over the corrupt Lon Nol regime. Our glorious Angkar revolution is safe from any anti–American activity. We have fought and spilt our blood for Angkar, and removed all imperialist influences of the Lon Nol regime. From now on, you people will no longer have to bow to him!” The declaration of victory was followed by a series of songs glorifying the Angkar revolution.

  I quickly grew tired of them and turned off the radio, but I still couldn’t sleep. Questions raced through my head. “Should we wait here and see what happens next? Should we leave home? Where would we go? What kind of life could we expect if we stay? If we go? What will the yothea do to us if we stay?” Despite all these thoughts, I still had hope for Cambodia. I chose to think that what I had heard on the radio was mostly propaganda. I remembered the old Khmer proverb, “Don’t bend in the wind, don’t drift in the water.”

  I began thinking about the supreme Angkar, or the Supreme Organization, which had so rapidly vanquished Phnom Penh. Angkar would benefit by immediately restoring real tranquility and establishing a new economy. I envisioned a return to normal life, just under a different government. Restoring peace quickly seemed the most logical step for Angkar to take.

  My thoughts returned to our immediate problem. Should we leave or should we stay? Then, I remembered another proverb: “He who leaves first is unlucky. He who leaves before it’s too late is lucky.” I guessed we should keep waiting, but be careful about how long.

  One by one, each member of my family yielded to sleep, except for me. My fears of what life would be like under the Khmer Rouge continued to torment me. I must have finally slipped into sleep, for I awoke to the sound of roosters crowing. I looked down to my missing watch for the time. Suddenly, memories of the previous day cascaded over me. I shuddered, and looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was three o’clock in the morning, but I knew I’d be unable to go back to sleep, so I got up and walked out to the porch. There, I found my father-in-law sitting in a chair, smoking a cigarette. He looked tired and apprehensive.

  As I sat down next to him, I looked up to the sky and saw a sliver of the moon encompassed by a dark cloud bank. I breathed in the cold air, deep in thought. Then, I asked, “Ba, what are you thinking about?”

  He drew on his cigarette, exhaling through his nostrils. Without expression, he said, “Son, we must leave this house as soon as the sun rises.” We discussed our plans until just before dawn, when Ba woke everyone up. He told us, “We need to pack only what we can carry with us. Everything else, we must hide. Hopefully, we’ll be able to return to our home one day.”

  My mother-in-law and sister went to cook a meal for our journey. My grandmother tended to my newborn son, while my wife began wrapping everyone’s clothes in blankets. When my mother-in-law finished cooking, she packed the kitchen utensils in a big fishing basket for easy carrying. Ba was busy assembling a cart to carry our possessions. Meanwhile, I was collecting all the valuables we couldn’t carry with us, such as deeds, diplomas, identification cards, and photographs. We already suspected that the Khmer Rouge hated anyone with money, social status, or education and, if they discovered any of these things, we could be killed. I buried them, along with our weapons.

  By nine o’clock in the morning, we had everything loaded on the cart, and were ready to leave. I ran to the road to check out the situation, and stopped in shock. The road was covered with people, all pushing south. I saw soldiers force their way into the crowds of people to urge them to move faster, causing huge jams on the roads. There were so many people that the traffic at the intersections was slowed almost to a crawl.

  People were still hurrying out of their homes to join the now familiar sea of people trudging along, hauling their belongi
ngs. Women carried large bundles on their shoulders. Many pulled or pushed overloaded carts, bicycles, motorcycles, and all sorts of homemade vehicles. The street was as crowded as the day before. The yothea used bullhorns to shout at the mob, urging everyone to hurry up because the American imperialist planes would be coming soon to drop their bombs.

  As I stood there watching the stream of refugees go by, I knew my family would soon be part of it. I wondered where my brothers were. I was so sad and depressed to see the good-hearted people of my beautiful country suffering such humiliation at the hands of the Khmer Rouge. What angered me most was that they called this “liberation.” Suddenly, I was startled by a sound behind me.

  “Bong!” It was my wife storming up to me. Angrily she said, “Bong, how long were you planning to stand there watching the crowd? You know our neighbors have already left their homes. Come on! Let’s leave now!”

  When I walked into our house, my father-in-law joined my wife in castigating me for my delay. “Son, we’d better leave now! We can’t risk a confrontation with the damn yothea,” he warned me. Hurriedly, I lifted my lame grandmother onto the cart and handed her my baby son. I locked the doors and gate as we left the house, although I was certain of the futility of doing so. As I pulled the cart into the street and merged with the crowd, I was overcome with nostalgia. All around me were people with sweat and tears streaming down their faces.

  My family followed behind the cart. My sister carried a basket on her head. My wife carried a small bag of medicine and baby pads to use as diapers, all she could carry since she’d just given birth to our son three months prior. I had a place fixed on the cart for her to ride, but she said she would walk for awhile, until she became tired. My father-in-law and two brothers-in-law carried bundles, and pushed the cart from behind as I pulled. Periodically, we exchanged pulling and pushing positions to ease our work.

  As the distance from our home increased, the number of travelers on the roads with us started to thin out, with people moving off in different directions. As we made our way into the countryside, the street became a narrow road, little more than a path used by ox carts for farming. The path was worn and poorly maintained, and our progress was slow and tiring, especially as the rays of the sun grew hotter. We passed small hamlets from time to time, and sometimes paused to allow my wife to rest and breastfeed my son. With little stamina, she tired easily. She occasionally burst into tears, crying out, “Oh, Buddha! Why have the Khmer Rouge done this to the Cambodian people?”