First They Killed My Father_ A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers - Loung Ung [22]
They are peasant girls, not much older than I am, wandering in the field. They carry bags strapped diagonally across their back and their eyes look at the ground. Occasionally, a girl bends to pick up a round greenish-black patty from the ground and puts it in her bag.
“What are they doing?”
“They are collecting dry cow dung.”
“Disgusting!”
“Usually the peasants come by with their wagons and scoop up the fresh manure to use as topsoil. These girls are picking up the dry manure because it is believed to have medicinal properties. They will boil it in water and drink it like tea.”
“Disgusting!” I exclaim again.
Even the new experience of riding on a cow becomes dull when you do it everyday. Yet despite the monotony of farm life, the longer we live in Krang Truop, the more fearful and anxious I become. Everywhere I venture I cannot shake the feeling that someone is watching, following, me. Though I have nowhere to go, each morning I hurriedly dress myself so I can catch a glimpse of Pa before he goes off to work. On most days, by the time I am awake, Pa and my brothers are already gone and Ma is busy sewing clothes for the family or working in the garden.
After getting dressed I do what I can to keep up my hygiene. Pa tells us it is important, so I try to make him happy. Since we no longer have toothbrushes or toothpaste, I use a handful of hay and run it over my teeth like a brush. To get to the back teeth, I have to reach into my mouth with my fingernails and scrape away the thick, yellow crust.
To wash, I use a bath stall similar to an outhouse. Inside, there is a big round container that looks like a three-foot-tall clay flowerpot, which Kim and the other cousins fill with water every evening. I undress and hang my clothes on a splinter of wood on the door. Then I reach into the container and take a bowl full of water and pour it over myself. There is no soap or shampoo, and as a result my hair becomes very sticky and knotted, and it is painful to comb.
Pa returns late at night looking dirty and tired. Sometimes, after a quick meal, Pa sits quietly outside by himself and stares at the sky. When he comes back into the hut, he falls quickly asleep. I hardly ever sit on his lap anymore. I miss his hugs and how he used to make me laugh at old Chinese stories. Pa’s tales were often about the Buddhist gods and their dragons coming down to Earth to fight evil and protect people. I wonder if the gods and dragons will come help us now.
waiting station
July 1975
“What’s going on?” I ask Ma, rubbing my eyes. “Why did you wake me up?” I open my eyes to see the sky is still dark but that Uncle Leang, his wife, Aunt Keang, and all the cousins are up. Beside me, Chou rolls up her thin blanket, folds her clothes, and puts them in her pillowcase. Outside, Lee Cheun scoops ladles full of cooked rice and puts it on banana leaves. Keav pokes the crackling fire to cook the dried fish while Kim fills up the petrol container with water.
“Quiet. We have to go.” Ma puts her hand over my mouth.
“I don’t want to go. I don’t want to walk again.” I want to go back to sleep. Though we have been living at Krang Truop for two months and my blistered feet have healed, the thought of more walking makes my ankles throb with pain.
“Quiet,” Pa admonishes me. “We don’t want anyone to hear you crying. It is not safe for us to stay here anymore. We have to go and we will ride on a truck to get there.”
“Why do we have to go, Pa?”
“It is no longer safe for us to stay here.”
“Are we walking a long way?”
“No, your uncles talked the chief into arranging for us to be picked up by a Khmer Rouge truck. The truck will take us to Battambang. That is where your grandmother lives.”
“But I do not want to move anymore, Pa.” Pa has no words to soothe me. Biting back my tears, I put on my flip-flops and walk toward Keav’s extended hand. Pa and Ma turn to Uncle Leang and thank him for letting us stay with him. Uncle