by Chileng Pa
Chea’s story terrified me. It had been four weeks since the Khmer Rouge had captured Phnom Penh and “liberated” Cambodia from the Lon Nol administration. Many of the two million refugees from Phnom Penh had found that the villages which they’d had to abandon years earlier during the war, and were now returning to by force, were in ruins. They had to keep traveling. Others, like us, had no village to return to because our home had always been Phnom Penh. So, we had decided to go to the little village of Prayap in Svay Rieng Province where my father-in-law was born. He thought his relatives were still living there, and we hoped they’d be able to help us get a new start.
Khmer Rouge yothea were now ordering all the people who’d built shelters along the road to be on their way. Although less threatening than they’d been on prior occasions, they made it clear they would harass any roadside campers who didn’t get moving. They wanted to move every refugee to a village where they could be identified, registered, and questioned. In addition, the planting season was nearly at hand, and the supreme Angkar wanted everyone to be permanently located so they could work in the fields. As soon as we heard the soldiers make the announcement to move, we began to pack our belongings once again. We were soon on our way, traveling southeast down National Highway One toward Svay Rieng Province, to my father-in-law’s old village.
We made better progress now because there were fewer refugees traveling the roads. In a week we had covered another forty-five kilometers and reached the river crossing at Neak Luong. During Lon Nol’s rule, this crossing had been heavily used, a ferry daily carrying people across the river, and it was a scene of bombing carnage shown in the movie, The Killing Fields. Following the Khmer Rouge takeover, the ferry dock was abandoned and the harbor fell into disuse. People had to hire villagers from nearby small villages to take them across in canoes, and the fees they charged were exorbitant, paid in rice, salt, or other commodities since the economy was in shambles.
We had a large family so we were glad to have the rice and salt we’d traded for fish paste to pay the crossing fee of twenty cans of rice, or fifteen cans of salt, the unit of measure being a Nestle’s condensed milk can.
When we reached the other side, we immediately resumed the journey to Svay Rieng Province. We had no idea how long we had to go. By late afternoon, we were far from the harbor. The wind came up suddenly, large dark clouds hovering over us and quickly darkening the sky. Along with our fellow travelers, we hurried to take shelter from the coming rain. We finally found a place to stop and made a quick refuge, using the cart and stretching a tarp between two nearby trees. The rain began falling in torrents just as we finished tying down the tarp. A huge blast of thunder shook the ground, and my baby son cried out in fear. Lightning, thunder, and wind prevented anyone from relaxing.
The rain fell in sheets of water that washed over the roadway but, after about an hour or so, the storm ended as suddenly as it had begun. To the east, we could still hear thunder and see bolts of lightning sizzle across the sky, but the air smelled clean and the breeze was cool. Frogs and insects filled the evening with their croaking and clicking, celebrating the end of the rain. It was a peaceful time, but I was unable to rest or sleep. I left our makeshift tent and walked down to the National Highway; there, I found my father-in-law sitting by the edge of the road, sunk deep in thought. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. As he blew smoke into the air, he turned and saw me approaching. I sat down next to him.
“Papa, how far are we from Svay Rieng?” I asked.
“Son, I’d guess we have another forty-five kilometers to go,” he replied.
“Ba, our supplies are getting short, now,” I said. “Do you know that?”
“Don’t worry, son,” he said calmly. “As long as we’re alive, we can’t lose hope. Don’t be too concerned with our lack of supplies. We were lucky enough to be able to carry some of our valuables with us. We can trade them for rice and other food, if we need to.” He put his arm around my shoulders and said, “Son, do you remember the Cambodian proverb that says, ‘When you step into a river, you must not try to swim against the current?’ That means you must know how to adjust to your circumstances, whatever they are. You saw what happened to the people who were unwilling to follow Angkar’s way. They were taken away to be imprisoned, tortured, and killed, without even being charged with a crime, much less given a trial. Now that Angkar controls our country, we must be willing to go with the current, and not swim against it.”
I disagreed with Ba’s advice but, out of respect for him, I remained silent. I wondered if he’d forgotten Chea’s story. Surely, Chea had no reason to lie about what had happened to him and the others. Ba must have known the dangers of cooperating with Angkar. We stayed up talking until after midnight, when we were sufficiently exhausted to sleep and try to regain our strength for the next day’s travel.
We arose before dawn. As soon as the birds’ singing told us that day had come, my mother-in-law and sister prepared food. At daylight, we continued our journey. We tried to stay on roads which were paved because there the cart was easier to pull. Sometimes, we were forced to use muddier pathways, some filled with potholes, some very slippery. We made slow progress but eventually arrived at the border of Kampong Trabek District in Prey Veng Province. Signs on both sides of the road boldly proclaimed this to be the Eastern Region of Khmer Rouge territory. District soldiers instructed all former town dwellers to proceed to the registration area for processing. Soldiers were everywhere.
Reluctantly, we moved forward toward an old marketplace that had been destroyed by bombing during the war. Khmer Rouge yothea came from behind a control post and began searching everyone’s belongings, asking questions without allowing any time for answers. While we waited patiently for our turn, I noticed some people negotiating with several soldiers who wanted to confiscate their bikes and other valuables.
“Open your suitcase. Angkar wants to search it!” the soldier told the group. Then, looking at one of the men, he shouted, “Take off your watch! A watch with a gold strap made in a foreign country is one of the rarest and most valuable of items.”
Suddenly, one of the soldiers came toward my father-in-law and me, and ordered us to meet with his superior to be questioned. He escorted us to a bombed-out building, past piles of partially burned debris on the sidewalks in front. We entered the building to find long lines of people waiting to be questioned. The line which we were asked to wait in was the shortest. At the front was a long row of tables. Khmer Rouge officers sat at the tables, each dressed in black clothes, a checkered krama, the Cambodian scarf, and Chinese-style caps. The flag of the Khmer communists was hanging on the wall.
The krama has become the distinguishing mark of the Khmer Rouge, another part of Khmer tradition they tarnished, for the krama has been ubiquitously and uniquely Cambodian. About two feet wide and five feet long, we Cambodians use the krama as a scarf, hat, skirt, shawl, baby holder, and towel, to mention but a few uses, and we wear it in many colors. The Khmer Rouge preferred red, but wore it in other colors, too. Now, they used it as their banner.
A man in his thirties was sitting at the table at the front of our line and was obviously the interrogation officer. With a scar across his forehead, he was larger and looked stronger and healthier than his fellow soldiers,. From his arrogant behavior and the way his comrades yielded to his commands and respected his space, it became obvious he was the one in charge. He sat, smoking a cigarette.
Papa and I slowly advanced to the front of the line. After questioning, some people were allowed to exit the building. Others were led away by soldiers. I began to worry. I had no idea what answers caused people to be released or retained.
Now it was my father-in-law’s turn to be questioned. He walked from the front of the line to the interrogator’s table. I couldn’t hear the questions they were asking him, but in a few minutes he was allowed to walk out and, as he passed me, he whispered, “Son, be careful with your answers.”
I walked up to t
he table and stood in front of the officer. I didn’t want to appear frightened when I answered his questions, so I tried to remain calm, but I was terrified. I stood there for a long while, my heart pounding in my chest, until the officer finally spoke.
“Mit, I just came here from the city,” he told me, implying that he knew everyone there who was educated. “Don’t even think about trying to deceive Angkar. Please, just tell Angkar the truth. If you don’t, you’ll regret it. I need to have your biographical information. If you are honest, and cooperate with Angkar, the supreme Angkar will forgive everything you did in the past, and you will be free to live with your family. But if you try to conceal your background and Angkar finds out, you will die.”
The interrogation officer sat looking at the table, waiting to see the affect his words had on me. He finally glanced up and stated firmly, “You know, of course, that Angkar has a list of all military and government personnel.”
“I know this is the method the Khmer Rouge use to trap people,” I thought to myself.
“Of course, of course, Mit Bong,” I said, referring to him as a person I respected.
“Then, Mit, you’ll be sure to tell Angkar the truth, won’t you, Mit?” he said.
“Yes, Mit Bong,” I replied. Then the interrogation began.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
I didn’t hesitate too long, as I thought about what to say. I knew better than to tell him the truth, but I had no idea what my father-in-law had told him. Should I follow my father-in-law’s advice? Either way, if they discovered my identity I was in trouble. I remembered Chea telling me, “Don’t trust the Khmer Rouge. They are liars.” And, I had been witness to their first day of liberation. So, could I lie and make them believe me? I decided to be deceitful.
“Eh, Mit! What’s your name?” he repeated, shouting at me. “Why don’t you answer? Don’t you know your own name, Mit?” He threatened me again. Now, other soldiers were mocking me, laughing at me.
I meekly replied, “I’m sorry, Mit bong, but I’m a little nervous. I’ve never spoken to a man of your importance before. My name is Thy, Thy,” I stammered.
“Mit Thy, I remind you again. Angkar liberated people from the persecution of Lon Nol’s regime. Now, Angkar is merciful to people. Don’t be nervous. I want you, Mit, to be honest with Angkar and me. How long were you an officer for Lon Nol’s American capitalist regime? What was your rank? Angkar needs officers of rank, like you!” he said, then forced a smile.
I thought the officer must truly be an idiot if he expected to trap me or any of my fellow officers by this type of questioning.
“Sorry, Mit Bong. I was not a military officer or government official, and I had no link to Lon Nol,” I said to him.
“Mit Thy, I don’t believe a word you’re saying. I warn you, don’t lie to me! I can tell by your movements that you’re an educated man, not an ignorant peasant. You must have been at least a lieutenant. Or maybe you worked for the American CIA. Tell me. Who was your commander? What was his name?” he asked threateningly. He watched me carefully for any reaction, staring at me as he lit his cigarette. As he exhaled, he laughed in disgust. I exhaled, also, seeking to appear poised and relaxed.
“Mit Bong, I don’t have any knowledge about the CIA or Lon Nol’s infantry. I’m a street bicycle repairman. That’s what I do,” I said, with as much humility as I could summon.
“You, a bicycle repairman? A bicycle repairman?” he repeated. “Mit Thy, your father-in-law just told me he was a retired captain in the infantry. Would he allow his daughter to marry a bicycle repairman? How do you expect me to believe this story you are telling me?” He held his hands apart, and stared at me sharply.
I was shocked at the reference to my father-in-law. I couldn’t allow myself to think my father-in-law was foolish enough to divulge his background to this idiot Khmer Rouge. My heart was pounding as I searched for some way to convince the officer. As I stared back at him, it suddenly occurred to me that at no time during his questioning had I seen him write anything down. I was almost positive the same had been true for my father-in-law’s interrogation. This fool was acting as if he was making notes of my answers to his questions, but all he had on the pad of paper in front of him was scribbles, not actual writing.
He interrupted my thoughts, calmly continuing. “If I find out you’re being untruthful to Angkar, Mit, you will discover the consequences of lying. Angkar will kill you and your family. Do you understand? I’ll reward you if you tell me the truth now, Mit.”
“Yes, Mit Bong,” I replied softly. “It’s an honor to speak with Mit Bong. If I have lied to Mit Bong, I deserve to die.”
The interrogator was not convinced. I was beginning to think he wasn’t an idiot officer, after all. His questions continued.
“Mit Thy, can you explain to me and my yothea why your wife’s parents allowed her to marry someone of such low social status? You don’t seem to be her type, Mit Thy. You’re nothing but a low class bicycle repairman,” he said. And, as I considered my reply, he repeated that he would kill me if he discovered I was lying.
There was no way for me to change my story. I continued to lie for another few minutes in response to his questions, which he interspersed with death threats. Finally, I think he just got tired of me and gave up.
“All right, Mit Thy. I’ll let you pass for now, but you should remember that our Angkar has eyes like a pineapple: we have eyes watching in all directions. If you’ve lied to me or Angkar, you’ll be found out and, don’t forget, if you’ve lied and you decide to tell Angkar the truth, Angkar will forgive you and reward you.”
As he said this, I thought to myself, “Thanks to the Buddha,” breathing deep sighs of relief.
“Thank you, dear Mit Bong. Have a good day,” I said, and quickly made my way out of the building.
My father-in-law and the rest of the family were waiting by the cart. When they saw me approaching, I could tell they were as relieved as I was. They had become quite anxious because I had been in the building for such a long time. With few words, we began our journey again. As we traveled along, my father-in-law and I did not speak about the interrogation. I think we were both so grateful to have survived it that we dared not tempt fate by talking about it.
We were now traveling on National Highway One toward Svay Rieng Province and the Vietnamese border. The road was old and virtually in ruins. The only traffic we encountered were other families like us. Our progress, however, was slowed because of the number of checkpoints on the outskirts of each village and district. Each time we arrived at a checkpoint, the yothea rummaged through our belongings, ostensibly searching for weapons and documents that linked us to the former government. When they found something of value, they confiscated it. The soldiers threatened those who dared to argue with them, accusing them of being enemies of Angkar and threatening them with re-education. The soldiers labeled anything they wanted a symbol of Lon Nol’s administration, saying it had to be added to Angkar’s common property. In short, the soldiers’ searches were nothing short of stealing. We quickly learned to conceal our valuables in secret pockets, on the bottom of the cart, or on our persons so they wouldn’t be found.
We passed through a region where the roads, bridges, and surrounding areas had been heavily cratered by artillery shelling and bombs. I saw chain gangs comprised of Lon Nol soldiers working on the roads. In groups of four, they pulled oxcarts carrying dirt to fill in the craters. All were skinny and some were so weak they could hardly pull the carts. Some were spitting out blood. If the prisoners stumbled, the guards kicked them until they regained their footing. I saw several who had fallen get trapped by the ox yoke and trampled by the oxen.
As I pulled the cart past the prisoners, my heart was breaking. I wanted to help them, but there was nothing I could do without risking the lives of my family. I vowed to avenge the brutality I had witnessed, but that was a misty dream because I had less power each day under this regime. The view of these prisone
rs and the cruelty inflicted on them silenced us for some time. I tried not to even think about my time as a Lon Nol soldier and how, if the yothea knew this, I’d be on one of those chain gangs, if not dead.
We made good progress and soon arrived at the boundary of Krol Kau District in Svay Rieng Province. We were once again stopped by district soldiers to be searched and questioned. But this time, they ordered the adult travelers to register in the new Angkar district. Every head of family was taken to a different location, a good three hundred meters from the National Highway. Papa and I feared we would never see any of our possessions again.
A middle-aged man claiming to be the district governor spoke over a loudspeaker, ordering people to register at one of the intake stations. We realized that this registration applied to everyone who came from the city. The Khmer Rouge called these people Town People or New People. All of us who had fled Phnom Penh after April 17 were called New People, and were hated by the Old People and the revolutionaries who had supported the Khmer Rouge overthrow of Lon Nol’s regime. New People included everyone in the district towns as well as the newly arrived urbanites, like us. Old People referred to the peasant villagers who’d been living under the Khmer Rouge. The governor ordered everyone to declare themselves either members of the former military or government, educated people, students, or commoners. He said Angkar would reward the person who identified a former Lon Nol soldier or employee, or anyone with an education. I couldn’t help but nervously scan the crowd to see if there was anyone I recognized who could turn me in.
As I waited in line, I spotted my younger sister, Bunthy, returning from her interrogation. I was thrilled to see her face, glad she was still okay. Then, it was my wife’s turn. She stood before the official seated at the table, looking nervous. The soldier questioning her was in his mid thirties with a brutish physique. It was no wonder my wife was frightened. When he began to speak, it was obvious by his accent and poor grammar that he was an untutored peasant dressed in a fancy uniform. The only skill he possessed was the ability to intimidate New People.
