by Chileng Pa
But what of Vietnam? It could be dangerous for me to cross the border since the fighting had become more intense in the preceding weeks. I’d heard rumors that Vietnam had returned some escapees to the Khmer Rouge, and those escapees had been brutally treated on their return. Were these rumors true or just more Khmer Rouge propaganda? Maybe the Vietnamese would welcome me as a refugee, maybe not, but I couldn’t remain in Cambodia especially now that I had struck back at the Pol Pot regime. There’d never been any evidence of organized resistance against the Khmer Rouge government. There was no place I could go in Cambodia where I could seek sanctuary.
That was it. I would cross the border into Vietnam and take my chances there. Even after making the decision, I was sick in my heart that I was leaving the fate of my fellow countrymen to the black clothed devils. But I was alone. They’d taken everyone and everything I cared about, and I was powerless to do anything about it. I would abandon Cambodia, at least for the moment.
Late in the afternoon, I felt rested and could wait no longer. I set out in the direction of the Vietnamese border. I walked through the recently deserted rice fields, the workers having been evacuated to the northwest to prevent them from escaping to Vietnam. I followed the paths along the dikes, sometimes crossing rice fields. I preferred walking along the dikes because the stick traps the Khmer Rouge left in anticipation of an invasion by Vietnamese soldiers were too wide for the narrow earthen dike. These traps were five meter holes in the ground covered with sticks and leaves, with sharpened bamboo stakes protruding from the bottom. They were deadly to careless passers-by. I saw one of these in the daytime, carefully approached and uncovered it, and afterwards was extremely cautious while walking. Deadly, also, were the numerous landmines and tripwires, a wire across the path that exploded when tripped. I walked slowly, my senses on full alert for prowling guerrillas and these dangerous obstacles.
Despite the dangers and my distress, the countryside was beautiful, calm, and serene. Birds were singing and cicadas were chirping at me from the trees, almost as if they were saying goodbye. Again, I felt a great sadness that I was forced to leave my lovely country.
I continued my cautious way, trying to ignore my melancholy, fear, hunger, thirst, and fatigue. After going some distance, probably five kilometers from the Khmer Rouge village, I was exhausted. The sun was completely gone, the paths were dark, and yet I went on. I figured the guerrillas wouldn’t hunt for me at night. I found cover and a safe place to sleep in a thicket of brush.
It was already afternoon when I awoke the following day. Hungry, thirsty, and weak, I forced myself to seek food and water in this totally deserted area, the fields empty of people.
I found a small creek and drank eagerly. Although I was fearful of traveling by day, I had to find something to eat. I searched for any sign of guerrilla patrols or revolutionary villagers at work, but found none. Cautiously, I continued my way through the brush paralleling the trail that led in the direction of the Vietnamese border. I discovered numerous mass graves and several abandoned corpses. The Khmer Rouge concealed their graves behind bushes and bamboo thickets, but countless bodies were strewn across the abandoned rice fields where they lay exposed to the sun, rain, and scavengers. With each horrifying discovery of my countrymen’s bodies, I prayed for their souls. The condition of their bodies provided unmistakable evidence that they had met death through starvation, torture, and slaughter.
I walked for two more days, making slow progress. At night, I slept on the open ground beneath the trees. I heard wild dogs howling in the humid night and I felt vulnerable and alone. The rifle I carried was a great comfort to me. Because I heard no gunshots or other indications that any fighting was occurring near me between the Khmer Rouge and Vietnamese, I grew less careful. In late afternoon of the third day, I came to an abandoned village. I approached hesitantly, then carefully walked to a large house. There, I was surprised to discover a large banana garden with several trees loaded with fruit. I picked bananas with both hands and ate them greedily. Almost immediately, I felt better.
Rounding the side of the house, I came upon a wild dog growling at me. When it raised its head, I saw blood dripping from its teeth. It had been feeding on the Khmer Rouge dead that were lying scattered about. I walked closer and the dog ran away, howling in fright. I became nauseous at the sight and smell of the rotting corpses and returned to the rear of the house. I quickly slipped through the back door and found the body of a young woman hanging from a noose strung over the ceiling rafters.
I slipped by the woman to search the house for food, and found some dried salt beef and fish. I ate as much as my shrunken stomach would hold and pocketed the rest. Against my better judgment, I spent the night in the house. It was the best sleep I’d had in many months. When morning came, I left the house in a hurry, fearful that Khmer Rouge guerrillas would come prowling about, or perhaps someone else would return for their possessions and discover my presence.
Hiding in fear at night, sneaking around fearfully in the day, this is how I spent my last days in the country of my birth.
11
A Fearful Escape to Vietnam
Four days had passed since I made my escape from the Khmer Rouge guerrillas. I walked through rice fields under the hot sun, the soft wind, and the occasional rain, always on the alert for anyone who might spot me. I could trust no one. Angkar’s pineapple eyes were still everywhere and, if anyone saw me, I risked capture. I kept heading toward the Vietnamese border but I made numerous detours to avoid detection, hiding in the bushes, waiting. I frequently slipped off the path to wait for a group of yothea to pass by and, just as often, I found their rotting victims hidden along the trail. Although my route was circuitous, I made steady progress toward the border.
I have tried to remember exactly when this occurred but it was difficult to keep track of time then, and the intervening years haven’t improved my memory. I remember walking through rice stubble in the fields so it was after rice harvest time, probably in the spring of 1977. The reeds in the swamps were still somewhat wet and muddy so the dry season probably wasn’t yet in full swing. The dew was still faint on the grass in the mornings. I figured I’d been in the hellhole called Prayap for about a year and a half.
I continued my slow and cautious trip, stopping often to find food. I continued eating the Pol Pot diet: anything I could catch with my hand or stick, such as crabs, snails, leaves, roots, insects, worms, snakes, and frogs, and swallowed them raw because I couldn’t risk making a fire. Each night, I slept on the wet ground beneath the trees, enduring the constant attack of mosquitoes.
Every morning, I began walking as soon as it became light enough for me to see the path. I had no way of determining which direction would lead most rapidly to the border. I did know that the closer I got to Vietnam the greater was the risk that I would encounter mines or other booby traps along the trail. The heat of the days was intense. I perspired profusely and drank the muddy water of the rain puddles rather than take time to find a pond or creek.
As I made my way along the trails one day, nightfall fell suddenly and I had to quickly find a place to hide and rest. I came to a small forest, several acres of bamboo, short trees, and brush. This area overlooked a small village and I decided it would be safe to spend the night there. As I hurriedly cleared the loose bamboo away to make a place to lie down, the bamboo thorns pricked my hands and feet. Once it became totally dark, the mosquito attack began again, covering my body with bites and welts. I was so exhausted I didn’t care about anything and immediately fell asleep.
The sound of howling wolves woke me in the middle of the night, frightening me. I peered out into the night in the direction of their howling, trying to catch a glimpse of their small gray bodies, terrified they’d come after me. I was frightened also by the darkness. Moments later, the howling ceased, but now I heard something like footsteps crunching on the dry bamboo leaves near me and felt a cold wind flow through the darkness of the bamboo thicket.
I quickly grabbed my rifle, put my finger on the trigger, and yelled out, “Who the hell are you?” I instantly regretted saying anything. How stupid was I to reveal my position? I crouched low. The wind picked up, scattering the bamboo leaves. Whatever was out there moved again. I waited for something bad to happen to me and raised my rifle in terror, following the strange noise with its muzzle. Was it a band of guerrillas? A pack of wild animals? I strained to see through the darkness. Then it spoke.
“Bong love!” said Devi.
I couldn’t breath. I couldn’t see anything. Then, I saw a shadow, which shifted to a light figure dressed in white standing in the midst of the sharp bamboo. I was shaking in fear.
“Don’t fear me, Bong, my love. I came to tell you how sorry I am, Bong, love. I knew our son and I would die a horrible death after what that bastard Sean did to me. I’m sorry I told you what happened but I just had to! I hope you know that I wasn’t faithless to you.”
She kept talking about this painful memory. “If I argued with Sean, he might already have killed me before you returned from the canal worksite. The bastard ordered me to work for him as a housekeeper. I did so because I didn’t want to die or leave our son behind. I was afraid. If I’d refused his orders he would have sent me to be tortured. Bong, my love, I begged him not to rape me, but the guerrillas were right outside to take me away to be killed.”
Devi went on to tell me again of the horrors inflicted on her by the village chief. She sobbed as she recounted the humiliation, shame, and sadness she felt. I was sad for her.
“Bong, love, I did those horrible things to stay alive and I’ve died anyway, along with our beautiful little son. We don’t live with you in this world anymore, Bong my love, but we are fine in this next world. Be happy that our son doesn’t have to suffer growing up in this regime. Don’t worry about us,” she said.
“Oh, Devi! You’re so real to me right now! You’re not a ghost! Come and stay with me! We can escape together or, if you can’t do that, take me with you! Please, Devi, let’s be together!” I said earnestly.
“One day we’ll be together again, Bong love, but it can’t be now. You must live out your life. Someday you must tell people about the horrors of this regime. You are smart, Bong, my beloved. You must keep a strong mind and be careful.”
She gave me a gorgeous smile. “Escape now from this infernal regime. Take care of yourself, my Bong, my love.” She stood there in the bamboo thicket and gazed quietly at me, tears leaking from her large eyes and spilling down her cheeks.
I spoke to her without saying the words out loud. I sensed she could read my thoughts: how much I regretted not being able to help her escape the horrible death she had suffered at the hands of the black clothed devils, not being able to save our son or our family. I read her thoughts, too. She loved her parents and her brothers and youngest sister. She was happy to be with them now. They missed me terribly, but were also proud of me. And my beloved grandmother was grieved that I was alone now, no family left, to make my way in the world.
I wanted to comfort Devi. I wanted her to comfort me. I reached out for her but she was gone, vanished in an instant. The wind blew cold and goose bumps rose on my arms. I stood in suspense for a few moments, not knowing what to expect. Then, the wind died down, calm returned to the bamboo thicket, and the sounds of the night returned. I intentionally stuck myself with a bamboo thorn to convince myself I hadn’t dreamed the whole incident.
For the remainder of the night, I couldn’t sleep. I was awed by the vision of my wife. How was it possible for her to come to me in such a vision? How had she found me? Had starvation caused me to hallucinate? I replayed in my mind the memory of the night the guerrillas came for us just days before. The three of us were lying on the straw floor mat on the ground. Sokhanarith slept, and Devi was speaking softly to me. She quietly sang songs to me of a better time. We were not at all expecting that the village chief had a plan for our deaths.
Once again, I was filled with sadness at the thought of that bastard with Devi, and the horror she had to suffer. I knew there were countless other village chiefs throughout the country who used their authority to separate families, rape women, and order their guerrillas to take innocent people to the fields to be brutalized, tortured, and murdered. I knew these thoughts would torment me for the rest of my life. I knew I had to escape. Now, I had to force myself to concentrate on staying alive. I would live to tell the story of the horrors committed by the black clothed devils.
As I lay in the darkness of the quiet night, staring up at the stars, fighting thoughts of the past, I prayed to Buddha and the spirits of my ancestors to protect my life. I heard night birds calling to one another and the mosquitoes buzzing around my ears. I propped myself up on an elbow and saw the gleam of fireflies in the bushes. I was eager to travel, to finally reach the border where, hopefully, I could take refuge, but I couldn’t yet see the trail. As soon as it was sunrise, I continued on my journey.
I walked on paths when I sensed it was safe to do so, ever watchful of tripwires and patches of disturbed earth that might indicate a landmine. Most of the time, however, I chose the more difficult but safer routes that led across the mud and mire of the rice fields. I saw abandoned farms, gardens, rice fields, and rotting corpses everywhere. So many of my countrymen and women lay dead, I couldn’t pray for them individually so I prayed for the souls of all of them. By mid-afternoon, I realized I had been so preoccupied with watching for tripwires, landmines, and stick traps that I had forgotten to look for food. I was grateful when I saw an empty village ahead of me.
I approached the village carefully, although I hadn’t seen a living person. I entered a house to look for food and found two corpses. The swollen body of the man was riddled with bullet holes and the woman had a large stake jammed between her thighs and a plastic bag over her head. Both had been badly beaten. I rushed out and went to another house, where I found several bananas and quickly devoured them.
I also found a stone jar half full of rice. Steamed rice would have made a wonderful meal, but I couldn’t risk building a fire to do any cooking. The smoke would surely bring Khmer Rouge guerrillas to investigate. I wrapped several handfuls of rice in wet rags to soak for awhile. Then, I pounded the moist rice into a paste and mixed it with mashed bananas. I ate the mixture until I was sick with diarrhea, my stomach aching and swollen. I dashed to the latrine behind the house, the latrine just a hole covered with banana tree branches.
Feeling much better, I returned to the house to search for food for the next day’s journey. As the sun sank, a cool breeze came through the cracks of the walls. I found a bed to sleep on and used a rice sack for a cover to keep the mosquitoes off me. I fell quickly to sleep. I was becoming confident that I would actually succeed in escaping to Vietnam.
Several hours later, my confidence fled with a slap on my face. I was up instantly, grabbing my rifle, but there was no one in the house. Just as I was thinking, “I must have been dreaming,” I heard a woman’s voice say, “Bong, Bong! You must leave now! Find a place to hide! The guerrillas are coming!” I recognized Devi’s voice, and quickly gathered my rifle and packet of food.
I heard voices in the distance. Peering through a crack in the wall, I spotted guerrillas striding up the path toward the house, their AK-47s on their shoulders, talking together. They wore the black uniforms, Chinese caps, and rubber tire sandals of the Khmer Rouge revolutionaries and they were all smoking cigarettes. I rushed out the back of the house and slipped into the latrine hole. I pulled the banana branches over me and waited, my heart pounding so hard in my chest I thought it would burst.
The chatter of the guerrillas drew closer. Crouched in the stinking hole, I waited for them to come near, certain I would have to shoot them, certain I would also be shot. I heard them enter the house and then heard the blow of a whistle. A few minutes later, they came out of the house and shortly after, were joined by other guerrillas. Their voices were close, no more than five meters from me
. I heard one soldier say, “Mit Bong, are you thinking the enemy Thy has already crossed the border into Vietnam?”
The one he addressed, the one he called “comrade,” answered, “Shit! If he had wings, he couldn’t have made it to the border yet!”
Another replied, “Mit, do not underestimate your enemy. It wasn’t so long ago that he killed our comrade and took his rifle. Then, when our yothea went after him, two more mit died!” We still haven’t found him or his body. Mit, do you realize the border isn’t far from here? Maybe he made it.”
The other guerrillas laughed, and continued smoking their cigarettes. One walked over to the pit in which I was hiding and my pulse quickened. He began to urinate into the hole, and I gripped my rifle, my eyes focused on the guerrilla. As his urine splattered on me, I thought, “Piss on you, too, you fucking bastard!” and fought the urge to blow off his privates.
He walked back to the group, and said, “Mit, don’t worry. The Vietnamese will send him back to Angkar, and then we’ll kill him slowly and let him die suffering. We’ll make him pay for what he did to our comrades. The supreme Angkar has a deal with the Vietnamese to send back anybody who sneaks across the border. Don’t worry. If he’s still alive, we’ll get him!”
As I listened to his words, I began to doubt my decision to head for the border. But I remembered a Khmer proverb that says, “Go down to the water to face the crocodile, go up on the bank to face the tiger.” If I surrendered to the Khmer Rouge, I would certainly be killed. But, now, it sounded like I would meet the same fate even if I made it across the border.
