by Chileng Pa
The guerrillas burst into laughter, telling her, “Mit Neary, do you really want to die now?”
With her remaining courage, she answered, “Yes! Yes, you bastards! I’m not afraid! I’m very happy to die with my son rather than live under your brutal regime!”
The guerrilla struck her several times while I was forced to watch, the guerrilla’s foot planted firmly on my back. I was able to rise up enough to see my wife’s battered face. The guerrilla then allowed me to stand. As he poked his rifle muzzle into my back, I gritted my teeth in silence. My heart was on fire. I prayed that we would be killed quickly, and I thought about how much I would give for the opportunity to take revenge on these demons in black clothes. Even in death, I would remember each moment of this night. It was engraved on my heart.
My thoughts shifted, wondering if there was a way to hurt them now. My hands formed into fists. I wanted revenge now. I wanted to kill them all! In the instant before these thoughts turned into action, a soldier hit me in the stomach with a thick bamboo stick. As I bent over in pain, a rifle butt smashed into the back of my neck. I lost consciousness before I hit the ground. When I awoke, I felt a gun barrel pointed to the side of my head.
“Mit Thy, don’t try that again,” the guerrilla said threateningly. “Otherwise, you’ll die with your son, before daylight.”
I forced myself to stand. Every movement caused me pain. I tried to visualize the next opportunity I might have to at least injure one of them before I died, but meanwhile, I remained silent and compliant.
A guerrilla dragged my wife by her shirt back to the edge of the pit and ordered her to kneel on the ground. The pit was larger than I thought and Sokhanarith’s body was not alone. Many other bodies bearing the marks of being recently killed were lying in the mass grave. The guerrilla pulled a dagger from a sheath at his waist and the blade glistened in the moonlight. He suddenly leaned forward, grabbed Devi’s hair, and jerked her head back.
“Please let her go! I implore you, Mit Boss!” I shouted in despair.
My desperate wife was weeping. Each of her tortured screams was a stab to my heart. Sensing what I was thinking, the guerrilla holding me said, “Mit Thy, be very careful. I warn you, don’t try to stop the revolutionary wheel of history from turning. You’ll get yourself killed!”
I felt a heavy fist land on the back of my neck and I again fell to the ground. Then he said, “When the wheel of history spins and you try to use your feet to stop it, you’ll break your feet. If you try to stop it with your head, you’ll end up with a broken neck. It’s better to save your own life than hers. She has been disloyal to you. She told Angkar that you were part of Lon Nol’s military.”
Devi shouted, “You barbarian bastard! You wild animal! You’re all such idiots. You’re too stupid to realize you’re just being used by Pol Pot and his gang of thieves. Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge keep you uneducated so you’re too stupid to know what truth is when you see it. Now, you’re all out of control, and you can’t even follow your own rules.” I couldn’t believe her bravery.
Distraught beyond description, in pain and fury, my beloved wife continued screaming at them. “You’re such cowards that you separate husbands and fathers from their wives and children. That way, you don’t have to worry about them fighting you when you rape and kill their women. If you’re reported, you claim these poor, innocent women behaved immorally. Not only are you bastards and cowards, you’re hypocrites!”
Looking straight at one of the soldiers, she said, “What’s wrong? Are you too stupid to understand me, you dumb bastard?”
A fist slammed into her jaw and she cried out as the soldier said, “Stop your yammering, Mit Neary. I’m tired of listening to your blather!”
Devi continued to berate and insult them, breathless and sobbing. The guerrilla suddenly grabbed her by the hair and viciously slashed her with his dagger, starting near her cheek, curving down her neck, and then across her chest. Blood gushed from her body as she dropped from his grasp. The other guerrillas watched as she collapsed on the ground, her eyes wide in pain, her tears flowing. I was horrified beyond words and called out her name. She looked up at me and tried to speak, but she couldn’t make a sound. Blood poured from her body and pooled on the ground beneath. Lines furrowed her forehead as she tried to force words from her lips.
I stood in the grasp of the soldiers, tears soaked the front of my shirt. I cried out to her again, “I’m sorry, Devi love!” Looking at her, I thought to myself, “I couldn’t do anything to save you and our beloved son tonight, love. Pol Pot and his tormentors have savaged our lives like animals, but I will have vengeance for your lives one day!” I knelt to the ground in silent prayer.
After a few seconds, I regained enough strength to stand up and try to run to my wife and son. A gun butt hit me in the back and, as I was falling forward from the impact, I heard the guerrilla say, “No, no, Mit Thy!” Then, as I began to get up again, he said, “If you want to see the sun rise in the morning, you’d better not try anything else, Mit Thy. My finger is on the trigger and your life is only a squeeze away. So, Mit Thy, you’d better just stay where you are and stop trying to help your wife. It’s too late. She must die tonight in the light of the moon. Do you hear me, Mit Thy?”
I said nothing.
His anger flared and he continued, “Mit Thy, there’s plenty of room in that grave over there. We need many more people to fill it up. If you don’t follow our commands, you might be going to sleep tonight, along with your wife and son. Do you understand me now? If you do, back off!”
“Yes, respected Mit,” I replied, thinking “You damned bastards! You’ll pay for this some day!”
The three guerrillas laughed with one another in mock debate over whether or not to kill me, and how. I remained silent, but rage welled up within me. I bit my lips and gritted my teeth, my hands clenched into fists. If only I had a weapon! Then at least I could kill the three bastards before I died.
My wife lay still, dying in a pool of her own blood. I knew she would soon be gone. I said to them, “Respected Mit, I’m sorry. Would you please allow me to pray for my wife before she dies? Since I am also to die soon, I would ask this last request.”
The guerrillas actually argued with one another, trying to decide whether to grant me my request. I continued to beg for the right to pray.
Finally, one of the soldiers said, “Okay, Mit Thy, we’ll give you a couple of minutes to pray for her. Hurry up!”
I quickly moved to my wife and knelt beside her. Her eyes flickered open and, with tears still flowing, she again tried to speak to me. The only sounds she was able to make were bubbling, gurgling sounds from her slashed throat. I whispered, “Devi love, I’m sorry that I couldn’t defend your life. I love you.”
She was gone, her hands still tied with the guerrilla’s scarf.
“Mit Thy, get up! That’s enough praying for you!” the guerrilla commanded.
My wife’s executioner stepped up and kicked Devi’s body into the pit. My eyes grew wide in horror once more as I watched her body tumble down to rest alongside my son’s and the others. I forced myself to breathe. The Khmer Rouge soldiers began joking with one another again. They prodded me with their rifles, as we marched quickly back to my hut. With their duties apparently completed, the black clothed demons continued laughing as they walked away into the darkening night.
I stood at the door of my hut, staring at the meager belongings of my family. Although my heart was pounding, sobs shook me, and I was breathing heavily, I replayed the brutality I had witnessed this night. I watched the moon, like the light in Devi’s eyes, fade on the horizon. As the moonlight disappeared the landscape descended into darkness, as Devi’s death at the hands of the black-clothed demons dragged me down into the dark depths of despair.
I hoped the guerrillas were finished with killing for the night. Never had I felt so empty inside. I was overwhelmed. I had no way to deal with what had happened to me and my powerlessness over my own lif
e. I was overcome with the awareness that I was alone. There was no one to talk to, no one to help me, and no reason to live. Depression crashed over on me like a huge wave, and I wept with a grief I had never known.
I had always thought of the Khmer Rouge as darkness: the black of their clothing, the black of their deeds, the black of their hearts. But never had the darkness seemed as thick as it was now. I was consumed by gloom, a nugget enclosed in ebony. All was dark, within me and without, darker than the deepest black dye. Lying on the straw floor mat, I stared at the tattered roof of my hut. Then, through the holes, I spotted Venus shining brightly above my head. I focused on the faraway planet which seemed to be trying to penetrate the cover over my head and join me in my blackness. I felt Venus trying to call to me, beckoning to me.
As I listened to the planet or to my imaginings, I heard footsteps outside my hut and realized Sean’s soldiers had me under guard. My thoughts turned again to revenge. The guerrillas deserved to die for what they’d done, and I longed for the opportunity to be their executioner.
I finally managed to fall asleep. I dreamed of Devi. It wasn’t a dream filled with despair and horror but rather of wonderful travels and hopes. Devi was magically flying me around the world to places we’d never been to before. We did wonderful things together. She was beautiful and radiant. She was my Venus. She told me to be strong and never lose hope.
I heard my name being shouted. It was Devi, saying, “Be strong, Bong love! Be strong, Bong love! And listen to the sound of innocent people crying for help.”
Then I became aware that someone else was shouting from outside the hut: “Mit Thy! Mit Thy! Don’t sleep! Wake up, Mit Thy!” Reluctantly, I left my beautiful dream behind and woke slowly. It was one of the guerrillas, about my age. “Mit Thy! Get up! Angkar wants you to go fix the rice field dike,” he commanded.
I quickly got up and peered through a crack in the doorway of my hut. I saw the guerrilla standing there and recognized him as one of Devi’s murderers. I momentarily returned to my dream, with Devi saying, “Be strong, Bong love! Be very, very careful!”
“Hurry, Mit Thy! Angkar wants it done quickly!” the guerrilla yelled.
“Yes, respected Mit, I’ll be right out,” I said. There was no doubt in my mind that although my execution had been postponed once, it would not be now. It was my turn. I thought about trying to escape through the back of my hut but, without a weapon, I wouldn’t last long. I walked out of my hut determined to act as if I was unaware of the real purpose of this trip, that I probably wasn’t going to repair a dike in a rice field. I was also determined not to reveal the depths of my despair and hopelessness.
As he handed me a hoe, the guerrilla ordered, “Here, take this, Mit Thy! Take this with you to work!”
I knew that I was going to use the hoe to dig my own grave and not to perform any repair. I knew this would be my last chance to live on this earth. Not even Buddha would be able to save me from death this time.
The soldier ordered me to walk ahead of him up the path leading to the top of the rice field dike. He carried his AK-47 assault rifle on his shoulder.
I carried my hoe on my shoulder, too. As I walked, I thought of the Khmer proverb, “If your life doesn’t end, you don’t deserve to die yet.” I kept walking and silently prayed.
This day, the morning sun rose like an orange fire ball, filtering through the leaves of the trees, glistening off the stubble of the rice fields, warming the dew of dawn. The guerrilla and I were engaging in idle chatter, although I kept my replies terse and polite. I was calm on the surface but beneath I seethed with hatred and a desire for revenge. I hated him and his regime for what they had done to my wife, my son, my family, and everyone else I knew.
I walked, I thought, I plotted. I had to kill this bastard before he killed me, but how?
I asked the guerrilla, “Respected Mit, in which field am I supposed to do the work?”
“Oh, Mit Thy, don’t worry. It’s a few more rice fields ahead, up there by that big bamboo bush. You can see it from here,” he said, pointing his finger in the distance. I knew he was pointing to my grave. I was terrified, but continued to conceal it. I had to think of something quick. We continued past a few guerrillas who were guarding a work party, even in the predawn hours. I waited a couple of minutes as we crossed several more rice fields, until we were at some distance from everyone else.
Then I said to the guerrilla, “Respected Mit, I’m sorry, but I need to piss really bad. Please, let me stop a moment.”
He stared at me. “Are you serious, Mit Thy? You have to piss?”
“Yes, respected Mit. I need to go bad. I can’t hold it any longer!” I made up my mind that I would kill the bastard, or die trying. This would be my one and only chance to catch him the least bit off guard. I had little to lose.
“Don’t try running away, Mit Thy! If you do, I’ll shoot you! Or my comrades will kill you when they see you away from here,” he said roughly.
I prayed to the Buddha on the souls of my wife and grandmother, asking for His protection and His forgiveness for taking the life of the demon in black clothes. Then I said to the soldier, “Yes, respected Mit, you’re holding your weapon in your hand. And I know your mit are everywhere. I know you and your mit can kill me or arrest me at any time if I try to escape.”
“Okay, you can go into the bushes by the side of the path, here,” he said cautiously, pointing.
As I turned to leave the path, he released his hold on his AK-47 and reached into his pocket for a cigarette. I grabbed the hoe handle tightly in both hands, and spun around, swinging it with all my might. The blade of the hoe head smashed into the back of his head. He went down, screaming in pain. His body jerked in convulsions on the ground as I quickly moved to take his rifle. Grunting and squirming, he had no control over his movements and blood gushed from his head. I struggled to force the rifle from his grip. As I was finally able to do so, his arms fell limp to his side and he grunted one last time. He convulsed once more and then stopped moving.
He lay on the ground in his own blood, his eyes staring into mine. I had killed him. I was horrified.
It took me a few moments to gain control of my thoughts. Had his screaming alerted other soldiers? What should I do now? In which direction should I go? I picked up the rifle and started running across the open fields toward a line of trees in the distance and safety in the forest. The familiar yells of “Chase!” and “Enemy!” and the popping of AK-47 rifles reached my ears and shortly after bullets began pocking the ground around me, sending small plumes of dirt into the air.
Hearing the shouts of “Stop! Freeze! Enemy, I’ll kill you! Stop,” I ran as fast as I could over the paths, through the fields. I was terrified, breathing deeply. My lungs were on fire, but I didn’t stop to look back. I knew if I slowed down for even a second, they would kill me. Forcing myself to go even faster, I passed a group of termite hills and, as bullets struck them, chunks flew all around me. I was almost to the forest.
I finally reached the covering line of palm trees and immediately dodged behind them. I stopped to catch my breath. When I turned back to see where my pursuers were, I spotted several guerrillas racing toward my hiding place, firing their rifles wildly and shouting obscenities in my direction.
I waited a few more moments, standing with my back against the palm tree. I took deep breaths to try to calm down. Then, I raised the rifle, aimed it at them, and flipped the switch to full automatic. I lifted the rifle to a firing position and pressed the trigger, releasing half a clip at the Khmer Rouge yothea. Dropping quickly to the ground, I rolled over, then stood up and sprinted to another tree. When I turned again, I saw two of the guerrillas on the ground, screaming for help. The remaining four had also fallen to the ground, pointing their rifles at the place from where I’d fired. They fired repeatedly into the palm trees, then stopped.
“Stop firing at him, Mit! He has a rifle, too! We should return to camp and get help!” one of them shouted.
I realized these were not trained soldiers. They were just a bunch of frightened young yothea carrying weapons. Although there were four of them and I was alone, they were afraid of me. Silence now filled the air. The slow hours of morning passed, the faint sun of dawn rapidly intensifying into the heat of late morning. I sat in the shade, sweating profusely, my back against the palm tree, the rifle across my legs.
The wounded guerrilla out in the rice field must have been in agony. I watched as the four youth slowly retreated, leaving their wounded and dead behind. I could have picked off a few more of them, but I wanted to save my ammunition. I felt deep satisfaction at having killed my guard and wounding two more of the bastards, but my goal was escape. I remained where I was and tried to regain my strength. I decided to wait for the cover of night before risking further movement.
I kept an eye on the fields in case the guerrillas returned, but I was tired and sleepy. I shut my eyes occasionally to rest just a moment. Time slipped by when suddenly my body was shocked into full alert by a grenade exploding just twenty meters from where I was sitting. I heard the whizzing of M-79 launched grenades and B-40 bazooka shells landing in open rice fields about fifty to sixty meters from my hiding place. Horrified, I dared not move for fear of being seen by a spotter.
Shell fragments and the debris of shattered trees fell all around me, and the noise from exploding shells was deafening. White smoke filled the forest air. Then, there was silence again. I expected the Khmer Rouge to start screaming, running across the fields to find me, but no one came. It was so quiet I feared I had suffered some kind of hearing loss, but it wasn’t so. I couldn’t hear the guerrillas searching for my remains because they were gone.
It was now late afternoon. I knew the best idea was to wait until the sun set before moving out, but where could I go? I considered my options. I could no longer stay in my beautiful country. There was no future here as long as Pol Pot and the Khmer communists ruled. Vietnam was the only real option I had for I knew it was too far for me to risk trying to reach the border with Laos or Thailand; I’d have to cross large areas of Khmer Rouge-controlled Cambodia. From where I was sitting, it was only miles to Vietnam.
