First They Killed My Father_ A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers - Loung Ung [93]
“I need water. My throat is burning,” I complain loudly to the girls.
“Me too,” Pithy echoes in agreement, “but we can’t leave now. We’ll all be in trouble if we don’t bring home enough firewood.”
“Shhh …” I interrupt Pithy and listen to leaves rustling nearby. “Someone’s coming.”
Looking up, we are startled to see a Youn soldier walking in our direction. He is thin and tall, maybe two feet above us and dressed in the standard green uniform but without the rifle and grenades on him. The Youn raises his canteen to his mouth and drinks from it.
“Maybe he’ll give us some water,” I say to the girls. “Let’s ask him.”
The girls nod. When he is close, we approach him. He stops and smiles quizzically at us. “Water, thirsty, drink.” I say the words loud and slow. He narrows his eyes and shakes his head. I point to his canteen, and with my hand I mime the drinking motion. Finally, he nods and smiles with understanding. He then unscrews the top of his canteen and holds it upside down but nothing comes out. He points to the canteen, points to me, and motions us to follow him.
“He wants us to follow him to get the water,” I declare proudly to the girls. In unison, we step forward. The Youn turns suddenly around and puts up his palm to stop us. He points to me and waves for me to follow him. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring enough water back for all of us,” I say, and I follow him into the woods leaving Chou and Pithy behind.
The soldier takes me far away from the direction of the base, where I assume we would go for water. As he leads me farther into the woods, my heart quickens. Looking back, I try to find Chou and Pithy but cannot see them in the thick brush. The Youn points to an area where the shrubs are high and dense, and waves for me to come to him. Standing where I am a few feet from him, I ask, “Where water?” By now my palms are sweating with fear. He points to the bushes and motions for me to follow. “No!” I say firmly, refusing. Breathing rapidly, I turn to run but am stopped by his hands on my arms. He throws me hard on the ground. I fall, scraping my knees and hands on rocks and sticks. Stunned and shaken, I try to get up, but his hands are there again, pushing me down by the shoulders. I land hard on my bottom as pain shoots through my body. My eyes widen in alarm.
“Nam soong! Nam soong!” He orders me to lie down in Vietnamese. I cannot understand what he says and stare up at him. In our culture, the bride finds out all there is to know between a man and woman on the night of her marriage. I do not know exactly what he wants to do, but I know that it is bad. I struggle to get up. Again he shoves me down. “Nam Soong! Nam Soong!” he screams at me, his white face dark and mean now, like the faces of the Khmer Rouge. I sit there, paralyzed and speechless. I am unable to get the scream out of my throat; my heart pounds; my eyes plead with him to let me go.
Time slows as he unbuttons his pants and they drop to his ankles. Breathing short, shallow breaths, I scurry back in terror. His bright red underwear stands in stark contrast against his white skin. They hug him tightly and hang below his potbelly. He hooks his thumb on the waistband and pulls his underwear down. A scream claws its way to my throat, but it comes out in a whimper. He quickly squats down in front of me, one hand gripping the back of my neck, the other covering my mouth and most of my face. His nails dig into my cheeks. My eyes follow his stomach down to his penis. It is big and quivers like it’s alive. My head is dizzy as I begin to hyperventilate. I shut my eyes. I have never seen a man’s penis before. Babies, yes, but I never imagined it to be so different on a man. All its wrinkles and pouches. It disgusts and terrifies me.
He lowers my head to the ground, and while