First They Killed My Father_ A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers - Loung Ung [23]
By the time we arrive at the rendezvous area on the roadside, about thirty people have already gathered there. They squat and sit on the gravel road in four family groups. Many have almond-shaped eyes, thin noses, and light skin, which suggests they might also be of Chinese descent. Pure Khmer have curly black hair, flat noses, full lips, and dark chocolate skin. Our fellow travelers do not acknowledge our presence, instead they stare passively at the road. Like us, they carry with them light bundles of clothes and small packages of food. We sit on the gravel road next to them but no words are exchanged. In the dark of night we all wait for the truck. The world around us remains tranquil and asleep; all that can be heard is the chirping of crickets. The moments feel like forever. Then suddenly the glaring headlights of the military truck appear and it stops before us. Pa transfers me from his warm arms onto the hard, cold bed of the truck. I do not want to let go of him. I do not want to ever leave his safe arms.
The ride is bumpy and loud, but the cool dawn air keeps us reasonably comfortable. Ma stares off into the distance while Geak sleeps in her arms. My other siblings are half dozing, half awake while I find safety in Pa’s arms again. Everyone is very quiet as the truck drives on. All morning the truck heads northwest as the sun climbs higher and higher in the sky, and the wind blows away what little protection the clouds have to offer. The truck driver does not have Pa’s driving skills, nor does he care whether those of us in the back bounce and bump into one another. The truck drives all day and stops only in the evening for us to cook our food.
As soon as it stops, everyone jumps off to stretch their weary bodies. Pa lifts me out of the truck and puts me on the ground next to Chou. All around us, people are shaking their legs crazily as if trying to get rid of animals that have crawled up their pant legs. Khouy walks in a circle, swinging his arms very quickly from side to side. He is a martial artist with a black belt in karate. At 5′7″, Khouy is slender and fit. In Phnom Penh, I loved to sit and watch him practice karate. It amazed me that he could kick one leg up above his head and hold the stance for a long time. He could jump high in the air, do many fast kicks, and land safely on his feet all in a few seconds while screaming funny sounds and contorting his face. It always made me laugh. Now, he walks around faster and faster in a circle and his arms are like propellers about to carry him off like a helicopter. He is doing the same movements I’ve seen him do so many times before, but this time his face is not funny and I am not laughing.
After our short rest and meal, we get back on the truck and remain there all through the night. I wake up in Pa’s lap in the morning to see that we have arrived at a “truck stop.” There are people everywhere. Some are cooking breakfast, others are just waking up, and many are still asleep on the side of the road or in the grass. Sitting in the back of the truck, we dare not move until the soldiers instruct us to.
“We are in Pursat province. You are to wait here until the base people come to take you to live in their village,” a soldier tells us and walks away.
“Why did we have to leave last night?” I ask Pa.
“Some of the new arrivals in Krang Truop are from Phnom Penh. Even though they are friends, it is dangerous to live there because they know who I am.”
“Pa, they’re our friends. They wouldn’t tell on us and get us in trouble!”
“Friendship does not matter; they may not have a choice.” Pa is very solemn as he speaks to me. I do not understand what he means but decide not to pursue this line of questioning.
“Are we going to Battambang on these trucks?” I ask quietly.
“No, this is not the route to Battambang. The soldiers have taken us to a different