First They Killed My Father_ A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers - Loung Ung [117]
“Come on out. It’s okay,” the captain yells to us. “These are just friendly Thai fishermen.” His voice does not sound to me as if his throat has been cut. The passengers refuse to come out and stay hidden beneath the deck. “They only want to help us. They have invited us all to their ship for food and to stretch for a few minutes.” The captain assures us there is no harm in doing what they ask. Breathing a sigh of relief, I climb out with Meng and Eang. To my surprise, the pirates do not look scary at all. They have no swords, wear no eye patches, and hang no skull flags anywhere on their ship. They are dark-skinned and have facial features very much like us Cambodians.
The boat is maybe ten times the size of ours, with room enough for ninety-eight people to walk and stretch. True to their word, they give us rice with salted fish to eat and allow us to drink as much water as we want. Afterward, I walk and find a toilet. A real toilet with flushing water and seats like the ones we had in Phnom Penh. While on the boathouse, when we had to go we squatted in a hollowed-out weaving basket hovering over the water at the edge of the boat, and had to hold onto a pole so as not to fall in the sea. As soon as I begin to relax, the captain announces that we are to return to our ship. Before we can get back onboard, however, we have to file into a single line to “meet” our new friends.
From out of nowhere the pirates seem to pop up all around me, and they increase in number so that now there are many more of them. Eang quickly hands me a small matchbox. In it is a small jade Buddha pendant in a gold frame that was Pa’s. I shake as a pirate walks up to me. He bends down so his eyes meet mine. My throat swells as he looks into my eyes. I have what he wants in my pocket.
“Do you have anything for me?” he asks, smiling, in broken Khmer. Looking down, I slowly shake my head, not daring to look at his face. My heart pounds so hard that I think it will burst through my clothes. He does not believe me and reaches into my pocket, pulling out the matchbox. I hear him shake the box and the Buddha moves around inside. He slides open the box and takes out the Buddha.
“Can I have this?” he asks.
Meekly, I nod my head.
“You can go back to your boat.” He takes Pa’s Buddha and puts it in his pocket.
Fighting back tears, I walk toward the boat.
While the pirates body-search everyone onboard, other pirates ransack our small boat, taking diamond rings, sapphire necklaces, gold nuggets hidden in sacks of clothes. On the deck, people hand over their valuables without protest. Our family does not have any gold for them to take. Meng had anticipated the Thai pirates and left all of Ma’s jewelry with Khouy in Cambodia. Though they took the one thing that means the most to me, the captain tells us we should consider ourselves lucky. When we are all back on the boat, the pirates offer directions to the Thai refugee camp. Our captain thanks them politely, seemingly bearing no grudges or anger, and the pirates wish us luck and wave good-bye as we sail on.
“Land! Land!” someone yells many hours later. I am bolt upright in no time. After being on the ocean for three days, I am at last staring at the glorious sight. Real land with green trees and grass. We have heard that many boats get lost coming to Thailand and end up in the Philippines or Singapore with the refugees onboard starving to death before they are picked up the by the ocean police.
“Not just land but the Lam Sing Refugee Camp,” the captain says confidently. A crowd of people are gathered at the port waiting to see if their relatives or friends are onboard. Everyone rushes up on the deck at once, causing the boat to sway and dip heavily to one side. The boat