Escaping the Khmer Rouge

by Chileng Pa

  Okay, I could stop worrying that my family would be taken off this airplane but now, as the plane began to shake, I wondered if it would fall apart and drop us onto the ground or into the water, whatever was below us. In a few minutes, the engines became less noisy and I felt a shudder, after which the airplane flew smoothly into the open sky and leveled off. There were more announcements and, later, the flight attendants offered beverages to the passengers. I wanted something to drink but didn’t know how to order anything since the bilingual workers had debarked before we left Bangkok.

  After several hours, the flight attendants served us our first meal. I was excited to see what kind of food they’d serve, thinking back to the days when I’d had to scrounge for food in the jungle or eat spoiled food in the refugee camp. I was sure the food they gave us would be delicious. I took a couple of bites and found that it was! Many of my fellow refugee travelers didn’t like it or had difficulty eating it; I don’t want to dwell on how smelly it got when a number of the refugees became ill.

  My wife hardly ate anything because she was frightened about going to a strange land and was feeling airsick. After the meal, my family fell asleep but I couldn’t sleep at all. I kept thinking about my new life in America.

  Several hours later, we landed in Tokyo. The flight attendant asked the refugee passengers to remain in their seats while the regular passengers disembarked. My heart pounded with fear that something would happen to cut our trip short and send us back to Cambodia. My fears were calmed when a migration worker came aboard and explained that we would shortly disembark and spend the night in a hotel to await a flight the next day.

  Although there were ten of us, we were given a single room for the night but we couldn’t have cared less. We were so happy to be free from the miserable conditions we’d suffered for so many years and we were exhausted from our travel and excitement. My wife was particularly tired as she had yet to fully recover from the birth of our daughter. She’d also been ill on the plane. When we got to the hotel room, she immediately crawled into bed.

  There was a piece of furniture in the room that none of us had ever seen before. We were fascinated by it and quickly learned how to turn it on. For the first time in our lives, we watched color television and were soon hooked on a kung fu movie, although we didn’t understand the language being spoken and knew we had to leave at six in the morning to resume our travel. I found it difficult to sleep, unsure of our future in a new and strange land.

  When I did finally fall asleep for a couple of hours, I felt truly peaceful on the softest mattress I’d slept on in a very long time. I awoke at four in the morning and sat looking out the hotel window, watching the dawn arrive. It seemed as if the first faint rays of sunlight were a beacon telling me the way to go. The migration worker soon knocked on our door. “It’s time to get up. Be ready by six o’clock, and come down to breakfast,” she told us.

  I prodded everyone, telling them to hurry up, use the bathroom, get dressed, and collect their belongings. Despite my urging, it took us awhile to get ready since there was only one small bathroom. My wife stared out the window, then arose, and prepared our daughter for the next leg of our trip.

  When everyone was ready, we started down to the restaurant. As we stepped out of the elevator, I noticed that our fellow travelers were already in the lobby, waiting for the migration lady to take us to breakfast. A petite, demure Japanese waitress came out to greet us and eventually we were served a breakfast of rolls, toast, scrambled eggs, and sausage. There was also hot Japanese tea, fresh orange juice, and milk. It was more food than I’d eaten in years and it was delicious. I watched my family eat and smiled in contentment. I thought of the breakfast as a portend of better things to come!

  My wife looked at me, wondering if something was wrong. “Bong, why don’t you eat?” she asked.

  I replied with a smile. “I will eat, my dear!” She knew what was going through my mind. I was happy, filled with jubilation. I couldn’t believe that all “this” was happening to us.

  I took a few bites and drank the hot tea, my eyes moist with emotion and excitement. I felt full and couldn’t eat or drink anything else. Soon, the migration lady announced it was time to go.

  I almost didn’t want to leave Tokyo because I didn’t want to lose my feelings of joy. But I suspected that whatever I was feeling now would be magnified once I stepped onto the land of the free. As we walked to the bus, I was full of hope. By eight in the morning, we had boarded another Northwest Airline flight, this one to America. As the huge plane accelerated on the runway and then slowly climbed into the sky, everyone was chattering excitedly. We were now really on our way to America.

  My wife and I didn’t talk much and, soon, many of the refugee passengers had fallen asleep. As we flew over the Pacific Ocean, I was in awe that so much water covered the earth. We were served a meal, and shown movies, but I wasn’t interested in them. Instead, I glanced through magazines and newspapers I couldn’t understand. As the plane flew gracefully through the skies, my sense of relief and peace grew.

  I watched my wife and daughter sleep. I prayed for blessings from the Buddha and my grandmother’s spirit. I eventually dropped off to sleep and, as my body relaxed, so did my mind. After some hours, we were told we were just two hours from Honolulu and then we were served another meal. I was amazed at the efficiency and care the airline staff took with us, offering us a large and delicious breakfast. I thought back to the days when my family and I ate nothing but revolting rice gruel.

  As everyone began getting ready to land, I kept thinking how amazing this flying was, how the airplane was capable of carrying more than two hundred passengers safe from the elements, comfortably transporting them—including my family—to their destination.

  As the plane descended, I felt the pressure building in my ears. The ocean came closer and we saw islands. In just a few minutes, the plane touched the runway and came roaring to a stop, then taxied to the terminal.

  After the regular passengers had left the plane, the refugees were taken to a large lobby and given box lunches. As we munched on our sandwiches and waited to be processed by customs officers, all we could think about was that we had made it to America. We couldn’t hold back our tears. Twice, we had to assure airport personnel that nothing was wrong, that the tears we were shedding were happy ones.

  When we finished lunch, we went through customs, each of us receiving a permit to become a legal resident of the United States. There was a great deal of paperwork to be completed in order to become a “legal alien,” a term which had no meaning to us. There are no words in the Khmer language to define that phrase. But the officials assured us that we were all “okay,” a term we did understand.

  After we’d gone through processing, we went to another lobby where we watched travelers walking back and forth. Although the Hawaii we could see out the window was a beautiful place, we waited anxiously. As I waited to board the plane one last time before reaching the United States, I thought about how nice it felt to be asked to wait rather than being ordered to kneel with a gun pointed to my head. It was good to answer willingly an official who was trying to assist us in obtaining freedom, rather than to answer in fear of being killed.

  In an hour, the lobby filled with waiting passengers. Soon, there was an announcement, and passengers quickly lined up with their arms full of belongings. They called the refugees to re-board the flight that would take us to our new home. After we were settled in our seats, the other passengers boarded, glancing at us curiously. I thought to myself, “If they only knew what we’ve been through.” But I couldn’t speak their language, and they were somewhat intimidating in their prosperous sophistication.

  This last flight was the most exciting and nerve-racking of all, and I was filled with apprehension and joy. At eight o’clock in the evening, we prepared to land in the continental United States. The plane slowed and descended as it approached the regional airport, but it didn’t land as had previous flights. Ins
tead, it began circling, providing a spectacular view of the city. I thought maybe the pilot was affording us this wonderful view but a fellow refugee translated the pilot’s announcement, saying we were in a holding pattern until planes scheduled ahead of us had landed.

  As I gazed out the window, I decided that the city must be decorated for a festival, for I’d never seen so many lights at night. It was my first glimpse of the night landscape in this country of paradise and I was captivated by it.

  Soon, we were ready to land. The plane descended rapidly and my stomach was floating. I felt the thump and heard the screeching of tires touching down on the runway. The plane roared as it braked, thrusting us forward against our seatbelts. We rolled to a stop and, after the regular passengers had deplaned, the flight attendant called for us.

  My wife’s sister held Sokhary, and I held Chan, who was feeling ill and weak. As we walked off the plane, we were awed by the size of the airport and the terminal building. People were striding rapidly in all directions, like they knew where they were going and what they were doing. We felt lost and vulnerable. I tightly clutched the bag holding our documents, remembering the warnings the immigration officials had given us that we could be sent back to the Thai refugee camps if we lost our documents.

  Some of my family sat down to rest in chairs in the lobby. Others stood, looking around in wonderment. My wife stretched out on some chairs. I felt like a wild monkey unleashed in the middle of a crowd of people, not knowing what to do or where to go. I was weary of travel and of worrying that we’d be cast adrift to fend for ourselves. From the looks on the faces of my sisters and brothers I could see they were having similar thoughts.

  Then, I heard someone speaking my sweet Cambodian language, calling my wife’s name. I waved my hand in the air, and turned to see two well-dressed Khmer men approaching our group. They made their way through the crowded lobby as we stood and gave them the traditional greeting. They returned our greetings and introduced themselves.

  They said they were friends of our sponsor, who would soon join us. As we chatted with them, I could feel relief settle over all of us. This was really happening! We were going to live in America. We talked for a few minutes about the long trip, how we were doing, and how it felt to finally get to the United States. As we were chatting, an American woman walked up to us, and the two men turned to greet her. They introduced her as our sponsor, saying she was the director of the refugee resettlement program that brought us to America. She was a strikingly good-looking woman in her mid-thirties, with golden hair, dressed in western clothes. She smiled at us and performed the Cambodian greeting perfectly. We returned her greeting.

  “Hello! Welcome to America!” she told us. “My name is Carol and our agency is sponsoring your family.” As we were introduced, relief spread through my body and tears came to my eyes. She told us where we were going to live. I was thrilled that our sponsor worked for the refugee resettlement program. She melted away many of my fears concerning the fate of our family. I whispered to my sister-in-law, “We’re very lucky to have a knowledgeable person as our sponsor. Maybe the Buddha is helping our family now!”

  But what a shame we couldn’t speak her language to communicate with her, to tell her how hard life had been for us, that we’d endured many disastrous events in life before we stepped onto American land.

  Two Cambodian men walked rapidly up to us. “Hello, folks! My name is Duong Sang, and this is Saran Than. We’re also your sponsors,” said the younger of the two men. “You’re going to stay with me until we get you settled in your own house.”

  We thanked them profusely; glad to be safe, glad to be with Cambodians who knew how to act in this country, glad to meet an American. Carol Mortland didn’t speak Khmer but, with the help of Duong Sang, we had a short and satisfying conversation with her. She cautioned us that there might be a few Americans who wouldn’t welcome us with open arms, but that most were glad we’d made it here. We thanked her for saving our lives, while the tears rolled down our cheeks. Refusing to allow us to humble ourselves before her, she simply smiled, performed the Cambodian salute, and whispered “Goodbye.” We all did the same and, in the American way, took another ten minutes to say goodbye to her.

  Duong Sang and Saran Than took us to their vehicles and, in minutes, we were out of the airport and on the freeway, headed south. I felt as if I had been reborn in America. As I looked out the window, I saw not only wealth and prosperity but also opportunity. Duong Sang took us to his house, where we stayed a week to get settled and renew our strength. We then moved into an apartment in the city to begin our lives as newcomers in the United States. Our hands were empty but our hearts were full of joy and hope and determination.

  The most difficult obstacle I faced, in common with my family and the other refugees, was the English language. I was well-educated by Cambodian or American standards. I had knowledge but I had learned it in a different language and a different culture. Now, I began the study of English as my third language. I found it nearly impossible to comprehend that there could be so many words for the same meaning and so many meanings for the same word. How frustrating it was to learn this language!

  I enrolled in a local community college and Carol put me to work as a volunteer in her office with the local refugee program for the United States Catholic Conference. There, I was forced to speak English in order to help the other staff assist refugees with their problems. For months, I enjoyed the work and my fellow employees.

  I eventually began to catch on, with both English and American customs. I discovered that the complexities of the language were its virtue. The same word could mean greatly different things, depending on the context in which it was spoken. I also discovered that not all Americans were able to speak and write English correctly. Trying to understand what people meant as opposed to what they actually said was a constant game for me. I liked it immensely.

  I worked at Catholic Community Services for almost two years and took college courses at night. I then found a job at the Indochinese Community Center as an outreach worker and interpreter. The Center was funded by the state to offer assistance to Southeast Asian refugees in gaining access to resources and services, learning English, and finding jobs.

  I quickly learned that the population of Cambodians in the area was quite large and its needs great. My job couldn’t be done in a normal work week so I also worked after hours and on weekends. I became well known as an interpreter, but the needs of the Cambodian community for interpretation were small in comparison to its basic needs. Most were also interested in having a place to practice their religion, Khmer Buddhism.

  I dedicated myself to the task of finding that space for our Cambodian community. First and foremost we needed monks and a place for them to live. In January 1985, the Cambodian community had gathered sufficient funds to rent a house.

  I invited two Buddhist monks to come from Rhode Island to live there and make it into a temple where Cambodians could practice their religion. Both were willing to come because they had family in our area. Here, in our temple, the monks provided counseling and blessings for the community of believers devoted to the teachings of the Buddha: “Do good, and good things come to you; do evil, and evil things will befall you.”

  We formed a board of directors and the board elected me as president. Within two years, the temple congregation had outgrown the house, so we began raising funds to buy a new temple. In 1987, the board of directors purchased a house and developed the property into a temple.

  My perseverance in learning English and studying at the community college paid off. In June 1987, I found a job as a resident therapist at a youth treatment center in the city. I was later promoted to resident counselor, providing supervision to adolescents. Shortly after, Chan was hired as a refugee liaison teacher with the public schools. The other members of our family began their schooling and, eventually, most moved into fulltime employment. We were happy to be working hard as we cherished our new lives in our new
country, the United States of America.

  13

  An Interruption to This Story

  Carol and I worked on this manuscript for over five years. I told her many times in the years I knew her that I wanted to write my story. After I saw the movie, The Killing Fields, I was especially interested in telling my story because it was similar to those of many of my countrymen but also different in significant ways. I also became increasingly convinced that Americans don’t understand the trauma Cambodians have endured, and that it is important knowledge for them to comprehend. How many times could our stories be told? Could there ever be too many tellings?

  I’m dying, so Carol is going to finish this manuscript. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to leave my wife alone and my daughter, son, and family without me. But I am a Cambodian, a Buddhist, and if it is my time, then I go in peace. I am filled with love for my dear wife, Chan, my daughter and son, my sisters and brothers, my beloved lost family, my friends. I’m been fortunate in love and friendship, less fortunate in the governments under which I’ve lived. But I have tried not to complain too much.

  I am grateful to you, reader, for listening to my story. I have told the truth of my life, however unbelievable, and I have fulfilled the promise I made to my lost wife: that I would tell of the people in black clothes. I thank my dear Chan for allowing me to relate this story.

  I’ll let Carol write the rest of my tale. The blessings of the Buddha on you.