First They Killed My Father_ A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers - Loung Ung [12]
evacuation
April 1975
After many hours, we are finally out of the city and on the road, though still moving very slowly.
“Where are we going?” I ask Kim repeatedly, after it seems like we have been traveling forever.
“I don’t know, we just passed the Po Chentong airport, which means we are on Highway Four. Stop asking me all the time.”
I burrow under my scarf to hide from the sun and resign myself to sulking.
My body sags and I begin to grow tired. My eyelids struggle to stay open against the glaring sunlight and the dust from the road. The wind whips my hair all about, tickling my face, but I do not smile. I wince as the hot, dry air enters my nostrils. Keav wraps the end of my scarf tightly over my nose and mouth to keep the dust out, and she tells me not to look over the side of the truck.
In Cambodia we have only two seasons, dry and rain. Cambodia’s tropical climate is dictated by the monsoons, which bring heavy rain from May to October. Keav says during the rainy season, the country is a green paradise. She says there’s so much water that the trees grow very tall and the leaves swell with moisture. They take on a dark, metallic green color, looking as if they will burst like a water balloon. Before the monsoons hit in May, we have to endure April, our hottest month, with temperatures often reaching no degrees—so hot that even the children stay indoors to avoid the sun. It’s this hot now.
As we move farther and farther away from the city, the high-rise apartments disappear and thatched-roof huts take their place. The buildings in the city are tall and close together, but the huts are low-lying and widely dispersed in the middle of the rice fields. As our truck moves slowly in the crowd of people, the wide, paved boulevard gives way to windy, dusty roads that are no more than wagon trails. Tall elephant grass and prickly, brown brush have replaced Phnom Penh’s blooming flowers and tall trees. A queasy feeling grips me as I watch the villages pass by. As far as the eye can see, there are people marching in the road while huts stand empty and rice fields are left unattended.
I fall asleep and dream that I am still at home, still playing hopscotch with my friends. When I wake we are parked near an empty hut to rest for the night. We are in a world very different from Phnom Penh, yet we have traveled only ten miles or so. The sun has gone down, relieving us of its burning rays. All around us, the field lights up with small fires illuminating the faces of women squatting by them to prepare meals. I can still make out thousands of people milling around or walking to unknown destinations. Others, like us, have stopped to rest for the night along the roadside.
My family scrambles to set up our encampment in the field near an abandoned hut. My brothers gather wood to build a fire, while Ma and Keav prepare our meal. Chou is brushing Geak’s hair, being careful not to pull it. When everything is set up, we gather around the fire and eat a dinner of rice and salted pork that Ma cooked earlier in the day. There are no tables or chairs for us to sit on. While we kids make do with squatting, my parents sit on a little straw mat that Ma has packed.
“I have to go to the toilet,” I tell Ma urgently after dinner.
“You have to go in the woods.”
“But where?”
“Anywhere you can find. Wait, I’ll get you some toilet paper.” Ma goes away and comes back with a bunch of paper sheets in her hand. My eyes widen in disbelief, “Ma! It’s money. I can’t use money!”
“Use it, it is of no use to us anymore,” she replies, pushing the crisp sheets into my hand. I don’t understand this. I know that we must be in really big trouble. I know this is no time to argue, so I grab the money and head off to the woods.
After I finish, Chou and I decide to explore the area. As we walk, we hear leaves rustling in the bushes nearby. Our bodies tense, we clasp each other’s hands, holding our breath,