First They Killed My Father_ A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers - Loung Ung [29]
When I ask Kim what a capitalist is, he tells me it is someone who is from the city. He says the Khmer Rouge government views science, technology, and anything mechanical as evil and therefore must be destroyed. The Angkar says the ownership of cars and electronics such as watches, clocks, and televisions created a deep class division between the rich and the poor. This allowed the urban rich to flaunt their wealth while the rural poor struggled to feed and clothe their families. These devices have been imported from foreign countries and thus are contaminated. Imports are defined as evil because they allowed foreign countries a way to invade Cambodia, not just physically but also culturally. So now these goods are abolished. Only trucks are allowed to operate, to relocate people and carry weapons to silence any voices of dissent against the Angkar.
Shuddering at Kim’s explanation, I nestle closer to Chou and lean my head on her shoulder. While we wait for the chief, other trucks full of migrants continue to arrive. By the end of the day, approximately sixty families, about five hundred new people, now fill the town square. As the sun lowers itself behind the tree line, the chief finally makes his appearance to the crowd of new people. He is as tall as Pa, with an angular body and cropped gray hair that sits straight on his head like dense jungle bushes. Where his eyes should be are two dark pieces of coal separated by a sharp, thin nose, below which are thin lips that spit out saliva. The chief walks in a slow, casual stride, hands and legs moving precisely, deliberately. The black pajama pants hang looser on his body than those on the two soldiers who follow behind him. There is nothing remarkable about him, except that he is able to command the two men who wear rifles slung across their backs.
“In this village, we live by strict rules and regulations set for us by the Angkar. We expect you to follow every rule. One of our rules applies to how we dress. As you see, we wear the same clothes. Everyone wears his or her hair in the same style. By wearing the same thing, we rid ourselves of the corrupt Western creation of vanity.” He speaks in the heavy accent of the jungle people, which is hard for me to understand.
With a flick of the chief’s wrist, one soldier walks up to a family. He reaches out and takes a bag from a woman. She lowers her eyes as the bag slides off her shoulder. He rummages through the bag and looks in disgust at the colorful clothes inside. He dumps the contents of the bag in the middle of the circle of people. One by one this is repeated. Bags upon bags of clothes belonging to all the families in the square are dumped into a pile. Lying on top of the pile is a pink silk shirt, a blue jean jacket, and brown corduroy pants—all remnants of past lives to be destroyed.
Before the soldier even approaches, Ma has gathered all our bags and put them in a small pile in front of our family. The soldier picks up our bags and begins to throw our clothes onto the pile. His hand reaches into one bag and pulls out something red—my breath quickens. A little girl’s dress. He scowls as if the sight of such a thing turns his stomach, then balls up the dress in his hand and throws it on top of the pile. I follow the dress with my eyes, focusing all my energy on it, wanting desperately to rescue it from the pile. My first red dress, the one Ma made for