First They Killed My Father_ A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers - Loung Ung [118]
“We made it!” I holler, my arms flapping up and down like wings.
lam sing refugee camp
February 1980
Surrounded by a large crowd of refugees, we line up on the pier in single file waiting to be registered. Around me the newly arrived boat people talk excitedly to their friends and family, and deliver them news of relatives in Vietnam. They are happy to be reunited. “Five years,” I say to myself.
It takes us many hours before we reach the registration table and give the workers all the necessary information. While Meng talks and answers questions, I become conscious of the charcoal on my face, the knots in my oily hair, and my flaky skin. The refugee workers have Meng fill out many papers before sending us off to the camp’s church, where we are given clean clothes, bedsheets, and food. Newcomers without friends or family spend their first night in Thailand in the hollow, wooden church.
That night our family and Eang’s sister with another friend remove the gold nuggets from their bras, waistlines, and the hems of their shirts and pants. They pool the gold together to buy a bamboo hut from another refugee who is leaving for America in the next week. With what little money we have left, we buy pots, pans, a few utensils, and bowls, and set ourselves up for a long stay. The refugee workers tell us it can take a long time to find a sponsor. They say a sponsor can be a person, a group of people, an organization, or a church group who will take responsibility to help us settle in our new home in America. The sponsors will help us find a place to live and schools to teach us English, and they will help us adapt to life in America. Our sponsors will also show us how to buy food from grocery stores, visit doctors and dentists, buy clothes, go to the bank, learn to drive, and find a job. They caution us that while waiting for sponsors many refugees get married and have children, and each time that happens new paperwork must be drawn up, which prolongs their stay. We’re told we can do nothing to bring us closer to America other than to wait. Meng says there are approximately three or four thousand refugees in Lam Sing, so our wait will not be too long. He tells me in some camps, there are more than a hundred thousand refugees living there, so the wait is much longer.
Every morning a row of trucks carrying bags of rice, fish, and tanks of fresh water comes blaring into Lam Sing. The refugee officials then divide and ration us salt, water, rice, fish, and sometimes chicken. All other supplies—including soap, shampoo, detergent, and clothes—we have to find for ourselves. When the food ration is reduced, we supplement it by buying food from the Thai market at the edge of the camp. Otherwise, routine life in the camp consists of standing in one line after another for our food and water rations.
One day I watch as a long line of people edge toward the ocean. The hot February sun beats down on them, causing beads of sweat to collect on their upper lips. From the shade of a tree, I laugh as one by one they walk into the water to face “the Father.” I stare at the Father with fascination, and wonder at how he could stay so white under our hot sun. The Father’s eyes are blue like the sky, his nose long, his hair brown and curly. He looms big and tall above the men and women standing before him. One hand slowly makes some crosses while the other gently guides the heads of his subject backward into the sea. My eyes open wide when I see Meng standing in a group at the side dripping wet.
“Eldest brother!” I call, running up to him. “Did you also get dunked in the water by the Father?”
“Yes, he has made me a Christian.” Meng chuckles with his friends.
“Why? I thought we were Buddhists.”
“We are, but being a Christian will help us get sponsors faster. Many refugees are sponsored by church groups. Christians like to help other Christians.” I do not