First They Killed My Father_ A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers - Loung Ung [95]
Once we reach our meeting place, Pithy leaves and goes her separate way. Chou and I continue on in silence.
“You were gone all morning and these small piles are all you brought?” the mother hollers at us when we get home. Chou and I nod. “And what happened to you?” she asks, noticing my foot.
“I stepped on a piece of broken glass,” I tell her.
“Careless, lazy girl! You are so stupid you will amount to nothing.”
“No, you’re wrong. I am going to be somebody great,” I mutter to her.
“What? Are you talking back to me?” She walks up to me and pushes my forehead with her index finger, spits at my feet.
“You will never be great. What makes you think you will be great? You are nothing. You are an orphan. You’ll only be somebody if you become a hooker!” Her words ring in my ears as hate pulsates through my body.
“I will not become a hooker,” I reply indignantly, turning my back to her and hobbling away. Later, crouching near a bush, hugging my knees to my chest, the mother’s words echo in my mind and despair creeps into my heart. She is right. I am an orphan with no future. What will happen to me? Then, as I sit in the woods in a corner of the world, hiding from a war I know little about, I hear Pa’s voice.
“No one knows how precious you are. You are a diamond in the rough and with a little polishing, you will shine,” Pa whispers softly. His gentle words bring a small smile to my lips. The mother may not give me the love I crave, but I know what it feels like to be loved. Pa loved me and believed in me. With that little reminder from him, I know the foster mother is wrong about me. I do possess the one thing I need to make something of myself one day: I have everything my Pa gave me.
flying bullets
February 1979
I have lived with the family for a month now, and the longer I am with them, the more my hatred grows. However, I know that no matter how I feel about them, their home is safer than living by ourselves. Even though Pursat City is protected by the Youns, people still live in fear. Among the villagers there have been many discussions about the Khmer Rouge closing in on us. The village men say the Khmer Rouge soldiers are all around us, some even hiding in the village or in nearby woods. It is hard to tell the soldiers from the civilians when they are all the same people, speak one language, and wear the same black clothes. Hiding their guns, the soldiers can easily infiltrate the refugee camp and spy on our activities. Every once in a while, a group of Khmer Rouge soldiers attacks a random village, raids the houses, kills a few people, and then ducks back into the woods. They attack without warning, and since no one knows when or where they will appear, we must have eyes in the back of our heads all the time. The refugee village is so large that in these surprise raids, the Youns are not able to arrive in time to protect us until people have been killed.
One afternoon, while the grandmother and I are outside the hut, squatting near the well scrubbing pots and pans, I hear the unmistakable whizzing of bullets around me. “Flying bullets!” I scream, dropping flat and pressing my chest against the wet ground. I lay in the wet scum of dishwater as it soaks through my shirt and pants. My heart pounding in my ears, I stare at a small ant spinning in a circle in a puddle next to my face. I clasp my hands over my ears as more bullets ring in the air. They explode like Chinese firecrackers, one after another in a feverish succession. A few seconds later the bullets stop. My cheek presses to the ground. I watch the same ant flailing its four legs in the half inch of water. The more it struggles, the more it spins. A few seconds pass and still no more bullets. Raising my head, I quickly get up from the dirt and crawl on my hands and knees behind