When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [126]
The other stories were thoroughly grim. The vicious killings in Year Piar came full circle in the end. The remaining relatives of the people who were executed returned for retribution soon after the liberation. In a rice paddy they went up to those people who were involved in the execution of their families. There, with knives, they killed those people, butchering them.
Years of cruelty had thus been answered in kind, yet I took no satisfaction in learning about this. I’m sad that these remaining relatives who survived the Khmer Rouge were reduced to the Khmer Rouge’s level. Such revenge will change nothing, I think. It doesn’t bring back the dead. But I’m relieved that none of my relatives were involved in this revenge. I’m grateful that I didn’t have to witness this killing.
Considering how unhappy I’ve been at Sras Srang school since the incident with the principal, I elect to quit. Now I have a new experience to embark upon. Ry and I have enrolled in a training program for physical education instructors. One thing that is comforting is that I can learn English on my own, and soon Ry suggests, I will go to America and shall have the opportunity to study many things. In this program, we’ll get paid a monthly salary of 150 bahts. We are to be trained as teachers, yet we get paid.
Ry says I am to tell the recruiter that I am nineteen because you have to be at least eighteen to enroll. She says that they’ll believe me since I’m taller than many Cambodian women of eighteen. At the Department of Physical Education and Recreation, a number of girls and women, perhaps twenty, have signed up to be trained as instructors. Sitting at the benchlike tables, we study the rules of volleyball, which are described in a four-page handout. After going over them for two mornings, we begin the actual training of volleyball, and the chair of the department informs us we will get our uniforms, which brings a smile to our faces. I can’t wait to get into mine.
At first we are terrible at the game. As we practice, we all get better. I love the game and become one of the best players. The women’s volleyball games draw not only an audience of refugees but also some Western foreigners and a few Thai soldiers who carry rifles. After one game, Rey—one of the players who didn’t play the last game—nudges me. She says that she has noticed the Thai soldiers watching me, and that they speak among themselves as if they are interested in me. I turn, glancing at them; they are still standing by the volleyball court looking our way. A pang of fear overwhelms me. I become jittery, recalling stories of rape.
Two of the three soldiers come to the volleyball court again. They seem to be fixated on me, some of the girls say, but I’m not scared because the crowd surrounds us, and I walk home with everyone when we finish.
On the third day in the midafternoon, as I am walking by myself near the post office to my quad, I hear quickened footsteps behind me. Then suddenly a voice says, “Sawatdee khup [Hello]!”
I turn, startled. A soldier’s gaze meets mine. He’s one of the soldiers who has been watching me! He carries a rifle on his shoulder, trotting toward me. Realizing who it is, I run without looking back.
When I get to the quad, there’s no one home except Om Soy. Once I calm down, I tell her what happened. She warns me to be careful.
It has been about two months since I joined volleyball training. I have found a new meaning to life in a refugee camp, where I can enjoy myself even though I’m confined to this place, physically barred from the outside world. On the volleyball court, I’m free, energized. With freedom, I bloom, becoming competitive, fun, and silly. Life has gradually begun to return to normal, and now this—having to fear the soldiers.
Another late afternoon, I’m talking with Om Soy as she cooks. All of