First They Killed My Father_ A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers - Loung Ung [69]
When the speeches are over, the circle opens up and the kids gather to one side of the fire. Four boys get up from the crowd, with mandolins and homemade drums in hand. They stand to the side of the crowd and start to play their instruments. They beat the drums and strum the mandolins while their feet tap the ground. They look at each other, brows arching, eyes narrowing, mouths opening with bared teeth. But they do not look angry; in fact, they look happy! When they finish, they tease each other about who missed what notes. All of a sudden, they burst into loud laughter! The sound is nasal, shrill, and genuine. I have not heard anyone laugh genuinely since the Khmer Rouge takeover. In Ro Leap, we lived with so much fear that there was no room for laughter. We were afraid to laugh lest it draw attention to our family.
After the boys quiet down, five girls walk up to the front and stand facing the crowd. All are wearing beautiful black shirts and pants, not the faded, gray-black I have on, but shiny and new, with bright red scarves around their waists. They wear red ribbons across their foreheads with red fake flowers made of dyed straw. Forming a line, they sing and dance for us. All the songs are about worshiping the powerful leader of the Angkar, Pol Pot, the glory of Angkar society, and the unbeatable Khmer soldiers.
They dance scenes depicting farmers at work, the harvesting of rice, nurses helping wounded soldiers, and soldiers winning battles. There is even a song about a woman soldier hiding her knife in her skirt and thrusting it into the heart of a Youn. Though I dislike the songs, it is music nevertheless, and it is something of a respite from the life I have been living. In the nearly two years I lived in Ro Leap, there was no music or dancing. The chief told us the Angkar had banned it. This must be a privilege that we, as child soldiers, have been granted.
Watching the girls sing and dance, a strange feeling comes over me. Though the words they sing describe images of blood and war, the girls smile. Their hands move gracefully in unison, their bodies sway and twirl to the rhythm of the music. After the dance, they hold hands and giggle as if they have had fun. This thought warms me, bringing a smile to my lips. Laughter has become a distant memory and I cherish the echo of a different time. In Phnom Penh, Chou and I used to take Keav’s clothes out of her drawers and play dress-up with them. At fourteen, Keav was beautiful and stylish, and bought only the latest fashions. Her clothes were so grown-up and pretty, just like Ma’s. Long, flowing dresses, short shimmering skirts, and ruffled-collar shirts filled her closet. Chou and I slipped in and out of her clothes, laughing and giggling, calling each other Madame and Mademoiselle. Then we’d go into Keav’s jewelry box and put on her necklaces and earrings. Keav inevitably came home and caught us. Screaming and yelling, she swatted at our bottoms as we ran out of the room.
After the performance, all of us are invited to dance. The girls get up and dance with each other and the boys group tightly together. I have always loved music and dancing. For a few minutes, my feet move to the beat of the drums, my arms sway to the rhythm of the song, and my heart is light and joyful. After the dancing is over, Met Bong comes over and says, “For a young girl, you are a good dancer.”
“Thank you,” I reply softly. “I like to dance.”
“What is your name again?”
“Sarene,” my lips easily say my new Cambodian name.
“Sarene, I want you to join the dance troop. We’re putting together shows for the soldiers. This would mean taking time off work for rehearsal. We only dance for fun now, but we will dance for the soldiers if a unit comes