First They Killed My Father_ A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers - Loung Ung [65]
The camp consists of six straw-roofed huts, very much like ours, except they are longer and wider. Opposite them are two open huts that are used as the communal kitchen and three smaller huts where the supervisors live. The camp is surrounded by huge vegetable gardens on all sides. In one, about fifty young children squat in a row, pulling weeds and planting vegetables. Another fifty children lined up at the wells are in the process of watering the gardens. Buckets of water are passed from one person to another, the last person with the bucket pours the water onto the garden and runs the bucket back to the well.
Standing at the gate, we are greeted by the camp supervisor. She is as tall as Ma but much bigger and more intimidating. Her black hair is cut chin-length and square, the same style as the rest of us. From her large, round face, her black eyes peer at us. “What are you doing here?”
“Met Bong, my sister and I are looking for a place to live.” In Khmer I address the supervisor as comrade elder sister” with as much strength in my voice as I can muster.
“This is a children’s work camp. Why are you not living with your parents?”
“Met Bong, our parents died a long time ago. We are orphans and have been living with different families, but they no longer want us.” My heart races with guilt as the lies spill out of my mouth. In the Chinese culture it is believed that if you speak of someone’s death out loud, it will come true. By telling the comrade sister my parents are dead, I have put a marker on Ma’s grave.
“Did they die at the reeducation camp?” Met Bong asks. I hear Chou’s gasp for breath and warn her not to say anything with my eyes.
“No, Met Bong. We were farmers living in the countryside. I was too young to remember, but I know they died fighting for the Civil War.” I am amazed how easily the lies come out of my mouth. Met Bong seems to believe the lies, or maybe she simply does not care. She is in charge of a hundred kids and does not care if her workforce is increased by two more.
“How old are you and your sister.”
“I am seven, and she is ten.”
“All right, come in.”
This is a girls’ camp for those who are considered too weak to work in the rice fields. We are considered useless because we cannot help out the war effort directly. Yet from morning till night we work in the scorching sun, growing food for the army. From sunrise to sunset, we plant crops and vegetables in the garden, stopping for only dinner and lunch. Each night we fall into an exhausted sleep, wedged closely together on a wooden bamboo plank with fifty other girls, the other fifty in another hut.
Nothing at the camp is wasted, especially water. The well water is strictly for the gardens and cooking; to wash ourselves and our clothes we must walk a mile to the pond. After a long day of roasting in the sun, no one is thrilled about the walk for a wash, so we rarely bathe. Everything is collected and reused: old clothes become scarves, old food is dried and saved, and human waste is remixed as topsoil.
After our first evening meal, Chou and I are told to gather around the bonfire for nightly lessons. When we get there we see that all the other children are already there. We squat on the ground waiting for the Met Bong to read the latest news or propaganda from the Angkar. In a voice full of fury and adulation, Met Bong yells out, “Angkar is all-powerful! Angkar is the savior and liberator of the Khmer people!” Then one hundred children erupt into four fast claps, their fisted arms raised to the sky, and scream “Angkar! Angkar! Angkar!” Chou and I follow suit, though we do not understand the propaganda of what Met Bong is saying. “Today the Angkar’s