Escaping the Khmer Rouge

by Chileng Pa

  At one particularly bad moment after only a year in prison, he wrote:

  At 10:30 at night, I couldn’t sleep. I sat in my cube, lonely. I thought about you. I tried the entire day to get through to your cell phone, but was unable to do so. I don’t know how you would see me now. Since I was incarcerated, I look much older. My hair and mustache have turned gray and I’ve lost weight. I’m so depressed to be in jail. Sometimes I’m so upset because I’m locked up for trying to help people in my community. I had enough depression from the past killing fields. Why did I come to this country looking for freedom, but finding evil?

  Chileng was, by nature, a cheerful man, and even in prison he couldn’t repress his personality and his determination. In early 1999, he wrote, “Sister, I want to tell you that I’m fine. I’ll stay strong until my life ends.” In the fall, he wrote, “I am writing you a letter on this beautiful morning, after breakfast, because you are my kind sister in my heart,” and his letter went on in a cheery vein.

  There were few bright spots. One occurred in 2002. He became downright giddy with joy on Christmas Day when, for the first time in over four years, he saw his wife, son, and daughter. This is one of my favorite stories to tell. I lived far from Chileng when he was imprisoned and, although I was in frequent contact with his family and saw them every few years, for most of the previous fifteen years I’d lived thousand of miles away. In 2000, however, I moved back to my home state and resumed frequent contact with Chileng’s family. It took me awhile to realize that no one in his family had yet visited him in prison, but when I did, in late 2002, I proposed driving to Colorado to see him. His wife, Chan, was ecstatic. We received permission from the prison to visit, found five days we could take from work, and left for Denver two days before Christmas.

  Our expedition consisted of six people. Chan is a bright, beautiful worrier and warrior, definitely the nagging boss of the family and of everyone else around her. Second among us was Chandy, Chan’s eldest sister, the soul of the family, the stay-at-home survivor who lost her husband and four small children to the Khmer Rouge and was eternally wounded by it. She kept the home for Chileng’s large family and watched over the children in the years the rest of the family struggled with English, jobs, and school.

  Third was Sokhary, Chileng’s elder child, an intelligent, beautiful young woman. Of course: she’s the daughter of Chan and Chileng. She was twenty-two when we left for Colorado, only eighteen when her father went to prison. He didn’t see her graduate with honors, become a city princess, and enter college. Fourth, was Sokchea, Chileng’s son, twenty years old, only sixteen when he last saw his father. Sokchea’s quiet nature shields a talkative jewel of a man. Fifth was Jo, my friend. She was new to Cambodians and Chileng’s family, and fully aware of her fortune in meeting them. She has a heart of gold, is generous, and laughs at our jokes. So, we brought her with us. Last, me, the organizer, official authority on the trip and, unofficially, anything but.

  Chileng’s family filled the van with provisions. We had bottled water, jerky, cookies, muffins, fruit, bread, cheese, spring rolls. There were huge suitcases crammed with clothes so everyone would look stupendous for Chileng. There were blankets and pillows, purses and bags, Walkmans and disks, coats and sweaters, and so much more. We were stuffed to the gills.

  And we were off. Sometimes, Chan sat next to me and directed my driving. Usually, however, she sat in the middle seat, ostensibly to sleep but, in reality, to comment on my driving. Too fast, too slow, no, usually too fast. The kids sat in the back, doing what people do on a long trip: sleeping, eating, listening to music, laughing at their elders, and eating and sleeping some more. I don’t think I’ve laughed more in my life, with more anticipation and joy, than I did on December 23 and 24, 2002. We made only bathroom and gasoline stops and, with my emphasis on efficiency, tried to coordinate our fueling, eliminating, and eating stops into one. We had enough food in the van to feed, as they say, an army, but it wasn’t enough for my Cambodian sisters. Every time we got back in the van, there was new food: sausage McMuffins, Pepsi, Fritos, Krispy Kreme Donuts, and pretzels.

  We drove all day and all night, nibbling the entire time, and arrived in Denver mid-day on Christmas Eve Day. We had a delicious dinner with friends in Denver and I passed out gifts, inviting my Buddhist and Jewish friends to share the traditions of my Christian childhood. It was an evening of joy and anticipation. That night, we drove on to Florence, a tiny town with an enormous prison.

  Chileng’s family slept little that night and rose early to shower carefully and dress in their best clothes. We could see the prison from the hotel: huge, gray, stark, treeless, surrounded by tall fierce wire fencing. We drove to the prison camp, relieved to see a benign-looking one-storied building at some distance from the huge multi-storied prison that was itself surrounded by even higher fences and tall blockhouse towers in which we saw guards with shotguns. We nervously left our van, showed our identification and entrance pass to the guards, and were ushered into a pleasant waiting room.

  It was ten o’clock on Christmas Day and we were waiting to see Chileng for the first time in over four years. We were vibrating with excitement, looking out the windows which framed a lovely field and nearby hills, lightly touched with snow. We waited, a long time, a short time, I don’t know. When the guards let Chileng through the door, he threw a smile at us and walked straight to his wife and children.

  There’ve been a lot of streaming tears in this story of Chileng’s and we’ve struggled for original ways to describe weeping. Because I’ve worked with refugees for many years, I’ve seen numerous reunions and witnessed many dramatic scenes. Usually, I can contain myself. Not this day. We were all sobbing as Chileng and his family clasped one another. After a time, Chileng turned to greet us, touching his sister-in-law’s hands, touching mine, then meeting Jo for the first time. He told me later that the tears of this stranger who’d been willing to lend her van for our trip had bound her to him immediately.

  We sat in some bolted-down chairs by the windows with little to say. What do you say? When Jo and I wandered away to give them some privacy, Chileng called us back: they were as shyly awkward as we were in these unusual circumstances after so long apart. Chan and Chandy had brought coins to purchase food from the vending machines, all that we were allowed to eat in the facility, even on Christmas Day. They both began pestering Chileng, his children, Jo, and I: “What did we want to eat? What did we want to drink?” When we hesitated, Chan said, “Okay, I’ll get you something,” and they bought candy, chips, sodas and coffee and cookies and a score of other plastic-wrapped vending machine goodies. Chileng ate until he was bursting and, groaning, ate even more at the urging of his wife.

  After we’d been there a time, I noticed another family playing a board game and, knowing that visitors couldn’t bring anything in with them, asked the guards if they had more. My favorite memory of that day is of Chileng’s children, Jo, and me playing games on the floor at the feet of Chileng, his wife, and sister-in-law. As they chatted, Chileng’s children took turns leaning against their father, as we squabbled over game rules, argued about who was winning, and laughed.

  It wasn’t until almost time to leave that I wandered over to a table at the entrance and picked up a leaflet that listed rules for our visit. It was obvious the guards had been generous that day. We weren’t supposed to wear khaki pants, which is what I was wearing. We weren’t allowed to make noise, but we certainly laughed loudly much of the time. And we were forbidden to kiss or hug, yet for every minute of the five hours we were there, someone in Chileng’s family was touching his arm, his shoulder, his leg, his hand.

  We were there until closing. It felt like amputation to leave, but we did so amidst promises to come again, soon, and reminders that the ordeal would be over in less than two years or, as we kept saying, just over a year more.

  The trip home was quieter: we were tired, sad, full of happy memories. Chan continued to monitor my driving, and was amazed when
I drove through snow and ice without slipping off the road.

  When we returned home, we resumed the separate patterns of our lives. Chileng was delighted with our visit, of course, but his family was again far away from him. He said he didn’t sleep much the next few days, his head full of the look and sound and feel of his wife and children.

  We talked on the telephone about the day he’d get out, about the future. There was so much about prison his family and I never understood. After his death, I found among his papers forms for ordering books in prison. He couldn’t receive volumes from us unless the covers were removed so I’d had to denude the dictionary I sent to him early in his incarceration. But from his prison cell he could order “These Great Books from Prison Legal News Today!” He could get The Ceiling of America: An Inside Look at the U.S. Prison Industry by Janiel Burton Rose and others. He could order Soledad Brother: The Prison Letters of George Jackson or The Politics of Heroin: CIA Complicity in the Global Drug Trade, or Two Men Dead: The Story of the 1981 Irish Hungerstrike or Prison Writing in 20th Century America. He could also get Finding the Right Lawyer or Prisoners’ Self-Help Litigation Manual—“We give you the help you need” for $32.95 and free shipping and handling for prisoners. He could subscribe to “Prison Legal News!” for fifteen dollars a year.

  In May 2003, Chileng was sent from Colorado to Atwater, California. He enclosed the bus schedule for his trip from Colorado to California in a greeting card carrying the printed message, “Gracefully, beautifully, may your kindnesses float back to you like wisps of milkweed on the wind.” His note inside said, “I hope you’re happy to see me move one step closer to home.” He took the trip alone, in civilian clothes, and was given money to take a taxi from the bus to the prison—alone, without guards. Imagine taking a taxi to prison where you’re going to be an inmate. I found that amazing. And we needed this man put away in prison for six years because he was such a threat to us?

  Chileng remained at Atwater another year. In 2004, he was allowed to attend a family wedding in southern California. After we picked him up from the prison camp, we stopped at the nearest gas station while he changed out of his gray prison sweats. Dressed in new clothes from the skin out, he joined us in the van for a joyful ride to southern California. We talked, joked, laughed, and argued, happy to be with him again, if only for two days. I heard numerous times that weekend from his friends how much they loved him, how much he’d done for Cambodians, what a wonderful man he was.

  The happy reunion was followed by a painful parting. After sorrowful goodbyes to his family and friends, his wife and I drove Chileng back to Atwater, Chan feeding him as if he would have no food until she saw him again. Although his release date was only months away, the closer it came, the harder it was to say goodbye. We stopped at the same gas station so he could change back into his prison sweats. As the hour approached, the jokes grew weaker, the tears stronger. We pulled up to the entrance, he hugged his wife one last time, and we left him there.

  In many ways, that wondrous wedding weekend of reunion and great joy on the part of so many to again be laughing with Chileng was the highlight of knowing him. There was no grand exit to his prison term. Instead, after serving five years and eight months with time off for good behavior, Chileng returned to his home state to live an indefinite period in a halfway house, up to six months in length. Jo and his family picked him up in Atwater in May 2004, and he had a happy trip home with his wife, daughter, and friends. The next morning, I took him to the temple he’d sponsored for fifteen years before his incarceration and that had supported him and his family since. He was greeted joyously by those present. The old nuns clung to him, crying, and the men patted and hugged him, wiping their own eyes. It was especially heartening seeing him with his close friend, the head monk. They talked and joked and jostled one another but not until after Chileng had knelt before the altar and he’d received blessings from the monks. Chileng’s welcome was warm, loving, and overwhelming evidence of the regard in which many people held him. But soon we left, for he had to be at the halfway house by late afternoon.

  Thus began an even more difficult time for many of his family. While he could now see family members occasionally, the rules came down heavily on him and everyone with whom he had contact. I’m not sure how he managed to sit through lectures on hygiene, nutrition, exercise, work, drugs, good environment, prayer, health care, vitamins, education, and safe sex. After several weeks of orientation, he received a certificate for successfully completing “twelve hours of Life Skills Training as defined by the Federal Bureau of Prisons Statement of Work.” This to a man who had survived one of the century’s most horrific calamities.

  Chileng’s major goal was now to find employment in his hometown, but he faced numerous obstacles. The time it took taking the bus home, looking for work, and returning to the facility exceeded the amount of time he was allowed to be absent each day. His family’s own work obligations limited their ability to drive him back and forth to job interviews. We visited when we could, taking him bucket loads of food from neighboring Asian restaurants and trying to keep up his spirits. He was always delighted to see visitors, charming us all with his smile and jokes and laughter in spite of his vexation over his situation.

  After several months, Chileng took a job with a Cambodian landscaping company. It was now the hottest months of the year, and the work was difficult. It seemed that each step toward freedom brought additional hardships. Now that Chileng had a fulltime job, he was to make regular payments to the halfway house for his keep. He made eight dollars an hour and gave a quarter of his paycheck for his room and board. When he was finally allowed to live at home, he was housebound except for limited periods of time. He seldom went to the temple because he couldn’t fit it into his schedule. But he religiously followed the rules of the halfway house, anxious to gain his freedom.

  Despite the frustrating aspects of his life, Chileng was home, he could occasionally visit the temple and his friends, and he was surrounded by family. He joined an extended family that had more than doubled, ranging in age from babies to late middle age, a family that spent more time with one another than with anyone else. He was glad to be among this group, resuming old relationships, getting to know his new sisters-in-law, and playing with nieces and nephews born in his absence.

  At last he could plan for the future. Chileng and I increasingly talked of starting our own landscaping business after he was free: I would take care of paperwork and books and he would handle marketing and yard maintenance. Since we’d both helped other refugees open a landscaping business twenty years before that was still successfully operating, and I had a friend who owned a landscaping business who was willing to be our consultant, we thought this a realistic goal.

  Sometimes I hate the telephone. In October 2004, it brought especially bad news when Chileng’s sister-in-law called to tell me Chileng was in the emergency room at the hospital, in bad shape.

  How could that be? I’d just seen him and he was fine: tanned, fit, and eager to be free of prison rules. But now, Chileng was hemorrhaging into his belly, and doctors had spent the afternoon trying to save his life. We waited anxiously for hours, until at last a doctor brought the devastating news that Chileng was seriously ill, probably with liver cancer. I was stunned, terrified, trying to act strong, looking after my four year old foster son who, like the children of Chileng’s brothers, was running around unaware of the tragedy engulfing the adults.

  The Khmer Rouge created horror for their people, the first acknowledged holocaust since the infamous slaughter of millions by Hitler and his minions. The badge of the few survivors of that European catastrophe were numbers stenciled on their forearms. The badge of Cambodian holocaust survivors was the poor health they carried into life after the Khmer Rouge.

  Chileng’s intelligence, charm, popularity, and the previous tragedies he’d experienced didn’t immunize him from the consequences of malnutrition and unsanitary conditions. Now, the hepatitis B he’d cont
racted in Cambodia or in the refugee camps had seriously damaged his liver. He’d complained of abdomen pain while in prison but was told he could wait until his release to get treatment. This delay contributed to his death.

  Within days, the family, the abbot of the Cambodian Buddhist temple, and I met with Chileng’s doctor and learned with certainty that he was suffering from terminal liver cancer. There was virtually no chance of survival. He might last three months, maybe six months, even longer, but the outcome was certain. The doctor discussed treatment options with us; that, in fact, there were no options and chemotherapy would only postpone the inevitable, but it would prolong his life. After the doctor left and we were discussing what he’d said, the abbot abruptly walked out the door. He didn’t return and I found out later he’d walked miles back to the temple, distraught at the news but—as a Buddhist leader—unwilling to display his emotions before others.

  I was in shock, glad to talk and laugh with Chileng as his condition stabilized, but frustrated with his family, who didn’t seem to think he had much of a problem. His brothers and wife asked me repeatedly what the doctors were saying, what it all meant, but didn’t grasp or refused to acknowledge the seriousness of Chileng’s condition. I wanted their understanding. They replied with bland statements about how he’d be fine: he could take this or that medicine, eat this or that food. Based on the doctor’s somber comments and what I knew about liver cancer, that wasn’t going to happen. Instead, he was going to die, and that was a crushing thought. I wanted to believe there could be the miracle his family, especially his brothers, were talking about, but I couldn’t.

  Several weeks later, in the midst of doctor appointments and chemotherapy treatments, Chileng was released from the halfway house and put on probation. Now, he had to report in person to the probation office within seventy-two hours of his release from the Bureau of Prisons, was not to leave the district without the permission of his probation officer, was to submit a report to the probation officer within the first five days of each month, answer all questions and follow all directions of the probation officer, support dependents and meet other family responsibilities, work regularly unless excused by the probation office; notify the office within seventy-two hours of any change in residence or employment, and refrain from excessive use of alcohol.