First They Killed My Father_ A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers - Loung Ung [110]
Often I walk away from their chatter, but sometimes I just sit quietly and listen. Through their conversations, I learn that Bat Deng, my uncles’ village in the Kompong Speu province was liberated by the Youns weeks before Pursat province. Furthermore, the Khmer Rouge cadres were different in every province. In the eastern provinces, the Khmer Rouge cadres were more moderate and humane: the work hours were generally shorter, the food rations were larger, and the soldiers did not kill the villagers indiscriminately. In Bat Deng, Uncle Leang’s and Uncle Heang’s families were allowed to live together. Though many new people who resettled in their village were taken away and never heard from again, my family’s status as base people protected them from the killings. In the Pursat province where we lived, the cadres were among the most brutally insane. “And your mother,” Uncle Leang says, shaking his head, “two more months, just two more months, and she would have made it.”
Hearing this, I get up quickly and leave them. I walk to the new town market that has sprung up since the Youns came. There is no monetary system in place, so rice is used as currency. To go shopping, people bring a bag of rice with them and use it to barter for the items they want. I have no rice with which to buy anything, but still I weave my way around, remembering Phnom Penh. Unlike in Phnom Penh, this market is a gathering in a field. There are no tents selling eight-track tape players, imported vinyl pants, or hair-coloring cream, nor are there elaborate stalls glistening with dangling gold or silver necklaces and bracelets. Here in Bat Deng’s market, long homemade wooden tables display dried fish, slabs of pork, yellow naked chickens, green beans, white corn, red tomatoes, orange mangoes, ripe guava, papayas, and some precooked food. Those with the most “currency” can cross from the food section to the book section, where old Khmer, Chinese, French, or English dictionaries and novels can be bought with several kilograms of rice.
The market here thrives because most people did not have to leave their homes and are therefore already settled. Our family is poor and survives by farming a small plot of land. With a heavy heart, I walk through the market taking in the smell of all the delicious food. My feet stop at a stall that sells pork dumplings. Pork dumplings will always remind me of Ma. It was her favorite food. “Two more months and she would have made it!” my mind screams. “Why couldn’t she hold on for two more months? Did Ma do something stupid and get caught? Did she complain about her work? Did Geak cry for Pa too loudly and too often? They must have let their weakness show. What did they do?” My eyes burn into the dumplings. Anger rises up in me because I resent and blame my mother for not holding on for two more months. Eight weeks, sixty days, 1,400 hours more, and she would have made it.
A few weeks later, my uncle arranges a marriage for Meng. His bride’s name is Eang and she is in her early twenties. Eang was in school during the evacuation of Phnom Penh and was separated from her family. She does not know where they are, or even if they are alive. Aunt Keang says not only is Eang Chinese but she is very clever and smart as well, and truly