At first we are terrible at the game. As we practice, we all get better. I love the game and become one of the best players. The women’s volleyball games draw not only an audience of refugees but also some Western foreigners and a few Thai soldiers who carry rifles. After one game, Rey—one of the players who didn’t play the last game—nudges me. She says that she has noticed the Thai soldiers watching me, and that they speak among themselves as if they are interested in me. I turn, glancing at them; they are still standing by the volleyball court looking our way. A pang of fear overwhelms me. I become jittery, recalling stories of rape.
Two of the three soldiers come to the volleyball court again. They seem to be fixated on me, some of the girls say, but I’m not scared because the crowd surrounds us, and I walk home with everyone when we finish.
On the third day in the midafternoon, as I am walking by myself near the post office to my quad, I hear quickened footsteps behind me. Then suddenly a voice says, “Sawatdee khup [Hello]!”
I turn, startled. A soldier’s gaze meets mine. He’s one of the soldiers who has been watching me! He carries a rifle on his shoulder, trotting toward me. Realizing who it is, I run without looking back.
When I get to the quad, there’s no one home except Om Soy. Once I calm down, I tell her what happened. She warns me to be careful.
It has been about two months since I joined volleyball training. I have found a new meaning to life in a refugee camp, where I can enjoy myself even though I’m confined to this place, physically barred from the outside world. On the volleyball court, I’m free, energized. With freedom, I bloom, becoming competitive, fun, and silly. Life has gradually begun to return to normal, and now this—having to fear the soldiers.
Another late afternoon, I’m talking with Om Soy as she cooks. All of a sudden there is a look of concern in her eyes, which stray to view something behind me. Perplexed, I turn, and there is the soldier who has been following me. He is standing right behind me. His eyes look into mine. In a heartbeat I leap into the quad, frightened, while Om speaks Thai with him.
“Athy! Athy!” Om Soy’s hoarse voice calls. “Come on out. Come out. He’s gone.”
Om Soy explains. “That soldier has been wanting to marry you. He has been in love with you since he first saw you. But I told him that you already have a fiancé in America who is waiting to marry you. Well, you don’t have one, I made it up so he’ll leave you alone. He looked sad, then said good-bye to me.”
At fifteen, I’m in a state of disbelief, repulsed by the idea of marriage, especially to a Thai soldier since I’ve witnessed Thai soldiers’ brutality toward refugees, including Than. But deep down I feel bad for him for falling in love with me. Yet I can’t return his interest in me, rather I’m afraid of him. I worry.
Later I write a letter to Uncle Seng, and Om Soy urges me to tell him to get my family out of the camp as soon as possible. It seems as if she can read my mind.
I tear a piece of paper from my notebook and I begin to write:
Dear Uncle:
My brothers, sisters, and I have been staying in refugee camps for a long time. We’ve been at Sakeo II Camp for a while. Before, I thought living in refugee camps was safer than living under the Pol Pot regime, but the truth is, it’s not that safe. I have heard stories of Thai soldiers raping Cambodian girls who look for firewood in the woods. Now I have problems. A Thai soldier has been following me. Today he came to my quad. I’m scared of him, Uncle. Please sponsor us out of here soon. We don’t have any more parents, please help us. We can rely only on you because you’re the only uncle that can help us now. Please get us out of Thailand soon.
From your niece, Chanrithy Him
On the afternoon on January 27, 1981, all the trainees gather at the Physical Education and Recreation Department for our graduation before our two hundred or so guests arrive. Already, in the department’s large space under a covered roof, tables and chairs are neatly arranged. In the far corner across from the main office, a small stage is crowded with drums, guitars, and microphones.
But what is really exciting is how pretty all the girls look. Ry wears a white long-sleeved blouse with a long dark green skirt. Our friend Arom also has on a long-sleeved blouse of soft light green with a dark green skirt. Her older sister Anny is dressed in a beautiful yellow blouse with a bow draping down in front. As for me, I’m decked out in a bright red short-sleeved velveteen blouse and a long skirt with a sequence of four lines of colors—bright blue, neon green, light orange, and hot pink—alternating throughout the fabric.
A special meal has been prepared and some of the tables and chairs are removed to make room for dancing. The band plays music that I heard long ago in Phnom Penh. It warms my heart, yet it makes me homesick. But soon my emotion changes. I’m thrilled to see many people get up to dance a Cambodian folk dance. Men clap their hands and put them to their chins—they ask the women to dance. I have a wonderful evening, the most fun I have had since the Khmer Rouge regime.
A few days after the graduation, I recruit children and teach them volleyball. The little boys and girls enjoy playing. They laugh, giggling, so happy. It is invigorating to be among them. But I hear about an opening at the Public Health Center. Since Khao I Dang I have been hoping to work as a medical interpreter. A friend tells me the center is looking for volunteers to help educate refugees about tuberculosis and preventive measures. If I’m interested, he says, I need to appear at eight o’clock in the morning in front of the center. I tell him that I’ll be there.
The car picks everyone up in front of the center, then drops different groups off at various sections of the camp. Going from quad to quad, I work with two Cambodian men and Janice, an American registered nurse. My main task is to inform families about the symptoms of TB and preventive measures. When Janice administers TB skin tests to baby boys and girls, I caress their cheeks, hoping to distract them from the poke of the needle.
The work is important to me. But it won’t last long because my family will soon be transferred to Mairut Camp. Part of the process of coming to America involves going through transit camps. Aunt Eng’s family has just been transferred to another camp. Already I begin to miss my friends.
Our bus stops behind another bus amid a green landscape where tall grass and distant coconut trees stand majestically, swaying in the soft breeze. So this is Mairut, I think to myself. It’s pretty. The air smells different. Fresh, as if we were near a body of water. We are led to large quads about two and half times the size of the ones in Sakeo II Camp. Like the ones in Sakeo II Camp, these are built facing each other in groups of four. In front of them is a huge open space where flowerlike plants grow in little square gardens. Our assigned spot, a doorless compartment in the center of the quad, is spacious, and it has long fluorescent lightbulbs! Electricity! What a treat!
It is awkward to be living again with Ra, bang Vantha, baby Syla, and Savorng. We haven’t talked to bang Vantha since the incident when the soldiers tortured Than. Now we share the same living space, and it’s uncomfortable to just talk to Ra and Savorng or play with Syla. When Ry, Than, and I are around bang Vantha, we each pretend the other doesn’t exist.
On the outskirts of Mairut Camp, Ry and I go exploring with our friends Arom and Anny, who have also been transferred. When we come to a watchtower, I decide to climb it. Looking between the branches of tall trees, I see a body of blue and green water with waves rippling in the distance. As I near the top, I see a few people looking out, away. I hurry in their direction, and I can’t believe what I am seeing. It is an ocean!* A vast blue body of water along which stand coconut trees. I shout to Ry, Arom, and Anny to come up. This is my first time seeing an ocean. I’m grateful to be alive.
Later we get to go to the ocean. The beaches fill with people. Some rest below the coconut trees. Others, like Than and us, have water fights, soaking each other with our splashing.
Many people, perhaps a hundred, crowd offices that hire refugees for various paying jobs, such as i
nterpreter or teacher. For two days I’ve been without luck. At least I find that there will be a public school offering English classes. The classroom is made of thatch and bamboo rods. In it, there are seven long benchlike desks, one row on the left, one row on the right. The girls sit on the left. The boys choose the right side of the classroom near the desk of our English teacher, who is one of the refugees. We study grammar as well as practice conversation.
It is May 1981. My family is transferred to another camp after two months in Mairut. It is a long ride on the bus from Mairut to Pananikom Holding Center. The gate of the camp opens as our bus approaches. The weather is hot, humid. Map and Savorng frown. They are thirsty for water. Baby Syla cries, fussing.
With seven other families, we are led through quads that look like the ones in Sakeo II Camp. We walk through a barbed wire gate connected to a barbed wire fence encircling four empty quads. The ground in the middle is eroded and muddy. This place is at a remove from the main population of refugees. We are told that they have no other quads for us to stay in except these—a place where Thai soldiers used to imprison Vietnamese refugees.
I remain in the quad for two weeks until we are transferred to another camp, called Lompini. Everyone else goes to a makeshift market. Ry and Than take Map and Savorng to see it and urge me to come along. But I don’t want to. I’m afraid of the Thai soldiers, who continue to patrol and threaten us.
To keep myself occupied, I study English. I go over my notebooks, reviewing grammar. When I get tired of memorizing various tenses, I read the Essential English Book I, my mind temporarily lost in the dialogues between characters.
Here I am safe, but boredom overwhelms me. The first week, when everyone goes to the market, I feel lonely. I feel as though I am a prisoner. When the second week comes, Ry and Than bring me tapes of Cambodian songs that we used to listen to back in Phnom Penh.
Every day I listen to the tapes. Romantic songs sung by the late superstar singers Sinsee Samuth and Ros Sarey Sothea fill the quad. I remember how much I liked to watch the Cambodian classical dancers perform in Phnom Penh when Pa took us to performances, and how much I wanted to learn these dances. I remember Pa’s passion for them.
For Pa, someday I will learn to perform those classical dances. I would dance gracefully to the music of bells and drums. Like the dancers I saw in Phnom Penh, I would gently step forward, my curved fingers sweeping the air, as I approached the audience. When I finish they would clap, and I would be proud of myself for having performed well—for Pa.
We are moved to another transit camp on June 8, 1981. A Thai civilian leads us through a concrete alley past shelters and clotheslines. We are to stay in a concrete-shed-like shelter with moldy floors and walls. A cool breeze is blowing, bringing the stench of urine as if we were surrounded by toilets.
Lying on a plastic tarp spread over the concrete floor, I wait for Than and Ry to bring back our food rations. When they get back, they explain that the Thai people who distribute food had to check our group picture, taken by the immigration authorities in Sakeo II Camp, and match it with their documents. Then they looked at Ry’s and Than’s faces to be sure. Those who came without pictures were refused food.
Map, Savorng, and I gather around a small pot of soup and a container of rice. Than dishes out rice. Ry ladles the soup into a bowl. All of a sudden Ry lets go of the soup pot. “Worms in the soup!” she cries, recoiling. Than takes it in stride, scooping the worms out of the soup. I know we’ve had to eat worse than this before, but that was under the Khmer Rouge.
Luckily, after being here for only a week, we pass the physical examinations. We are given permission to leave Thailand, to head to the next refugee camp in the Philippines.
20
Philippine Refugee Processing Center
On the night of June 20, 1981, we arrive at the airport in the Philippines. The trip here from Thailand seemed like an eternity. Now the idea of lying on a bed sounds luxurious, but we need to take a bus to the camp.
The next morning when I open my eyes, sunlight filters through the window into the room where Than, Ry, Map, and I sleep. I sit, thinking, Where is Ra…bang Vantha, Syla, and Savorng? Then I remember, they are sleeping downstairs.
I get up, then pad softly down the stairs so I won’t wake anyone up. Curious about this camp, I run along the concrete walkway and I look at my surroundings. I gaze at the wooden two-story apartment buildings on my right and left. They are long structures divided into individual units. Each family, it seems, has been given a unit, like ours, with an upstairs and a downstairs. After admiring these buildings, I look to my right and there it is, in the distance, a majestic hillside with thriving green trees, grass, and a huge white cross. I’m mesmerized by everything. The apartment buildings. The greenery of the hillside. The concrete walkways that snake between the apartments. The beautiful landscape of grass, shrubs, and flowers near the walkways and along paved roads. I like the spacious yard in front of each building. I marvel, taking in the beauty of this camp, and I’m grateful.
Ry and I are washing dishes behind our apartment when suddenly a sweet, gentle voice interrupts our talk. “My friends, how are you?” a voice asks with a distinct accent.
We turn, and there is a small dark-skinned Filipino woman behind us, smiling. “My friends, do you want to trade rice for vegetables?” She shows us baskets of limes and other fresh vegetables. I glance at the vegetables, but quickly I look into her bright, friendly eyes. Her tone and welcoming spirit astound me. We have never met, yet she calls us “my friends.” Her words and spirit say “welcome.” I think of the camps in Thailand we’ve been in and how we were treated there. In those camps we were always the culprits. The soldiers were always ready to jump on us during trading. But their own people, the merchants, always got away. I’m appreciative of this Filipino woman. She makes me feel at home.
Soon after we arrive, we are told that people ages sixteen to fifty-five have to study English as a second language (ESL) and cultural orientation (CO) for three months before our departure for America. In the intensive ESL class, we will study about clothing, housing, employment, the post office, and transportation. For the CO class, we’ll study general subjects such as sponsorship, communication, lifestyles, and sanitation. Though I look forward to learning these subjects, I can’t help feeling overwhelmed by the number of subjects we have to master in such a short time. But the education here is free, and I need to do some catching up before going to America. I am looking forward to attending these classes.
In the ESL class, we have both Cambodian and Vietnamese students. Our teacher is a Filipino lady. When she enters the classroom, she glances at us and frowns. I wonder if she is mean like some of my teachers back in Cambodia, who pulled boys’ sideburns and hit the palms of our hands with a long bamboo stick. As she puts her woven bag down by her desk, she faces the class. Her red-painted lips widen into a smile. I feel relieved. Now I’m ready to learn anything that will prepare me for America.
Our first lesson is learning how to greet someone in English, how to shake hands. When it’s time to practice, our teacher asks a girl sitting beside me to get up. She is to shake hands with a Cambodian man in our class. The girl shakes her head, her face flushed. The teacher asks another girl, and she too shakes her head. She looks embarrassed just to be called upon, let alone to be shaking hands with a man.
“Come on, you guys, get up and shake hands with those men. Look, they are not bad-looking. In fact, they’re handsome,” says our teacher, making the men smile.
No one gets up. Our teacher asks a Cambodian man and a Vietnamese man to come to the front of the class. They introduce themselves, then shake hands. The teacher stares at us and says, “You see, it’s not hard to come up and shake hands. Watch me. My name is Marie. How do you do?” She shakes hands with a Vietnamese student. “Here, I’m still shaking hands with him and I’m not going to have a baby. Don’t worry. You’re not going to have a baby by shaking hands. Now, come on and practice.
”
I’m annoyed by her comments. She should have been informed of our culture, and known that our way of greeting people is to press the palms of our hands together, then raise them to our chins. Even I, who am brave under many circumstances, am embarrassed by the idea of hand shaking. We need time to adjust.
As Marie urges us to volunteer, I begin to have courage.
She asks a Vietnamese student named Minh to stand in front of the class. Smiling, she says, “Would someone come up and shake hands with Minh. He’s handsome.” The class laughs. Minh smiles, his eyes becoming smaller as he gazes in the girls’ direction.
I stand up. The teacher smiles. She croons, “Come on, Chanrithy. You can do it! Okay, introduce yourself first, then shake hands.”
No problem, I think, smiling to myself. I walk up to Minh, then I say, “My name is Chanrithy. How do you do?”
The girls giggle behind me, making Minh smile.
“Hello, my name is Minh,” he says, glancing at the girls. “How do you do?” He looks at them again.
I reach out to shake his hand. He steps forward to shake mine, but as soon as his hand nears mine, I pull it away. I dash back to my seat, then laughter erupts.
Beaming, I look at my teacher, whose hand covers her face and whose body quivers with suppressed laughter. The men on my right guffaw. Minh’s face is as red as the face of a hen who is trying to lay her eggs. A Cambodian man behind him nudges him, and he smiles sheepishly.
When Broken Glass Floats: Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge Page 29
