When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [127]
“Athy! Athy!” Om Soy’s hoarse voice calls. “Come on out. Come out. He’s gone.”
Om Soy explains. “That soldier has been wanting to marry you. He has been in love with you since he first saw you. But I told him that you already have a fiancé in America who is waiting to marry you. Well, you don’t have one, I made it up so he’ll leave you alone. He looked sad, then said good-bye to me.”
At fifteen, I’m in a state of disbelief, repulsed by the idea of marriage, especially to a Thai soldier since I’ve witnessed Thai soldiers’ brutality toward refugees, including Than. But deep down I feel bad for him for falling in love with me. Yet I can’t return his interest in me, rather I’m afraid of him. I worry.
Later I write a letter to Uncle Seng, and Om Soy urges me to tell him to get my family out of the camp as soon as possible. It seems as if she can read my mind.
I tear a piece of paper from my notebook and I begin to write:
Dear Uncle:
My brothers, sisters, and I have been staying in refugee camps for a long time. We’ve been at Sakeo II Camp for a while. Before, I thought living in refugee camps was safer than living under the Pol Pot regime, but the truth is, it’s not that safe. I have heard stories of Thai soldiers raping Cambodian girls who look for firewood in the woods. Now I have problems. A Thai soldier has been following me. Today he came to my quad. I’m scared of him, Uncle. Please sponsor us out of here soon. We don’t have any more parents, please help us. We can rely only on you because you’re the only uncle that can help us now. Please get us out of Thailand soon.
From your niece, Chanrithy Him
On the afternoon on January 27, 1981, all the trainees gather at the Physical Education and Recreation Department for our graduation before our two hundred or so guests arrive. Already, in the department’s large space under a covered roof, tables and chairs are neatly arranged. In the far corner across from the main office, a small stage is crowded with drums, guitars, and microphones.
But what is really exciting is how pretty all the girls look. Ry wears a white long-sleeved blouse with a long dark green skirt. Our friend Arom also has on a long-sleeved blouse of soft light green with a dark green skirt. Her older sister Anny is dressed in a beautiful yellow blouse with a bow draping down in front. As for me, I’m decked out in a bright red short-sleeved velveteen blouse and a long skirt with a sequence of four lines of colors—bright blue, neon green, light orange, and hot pink—alternating throughout the fabric.
A special meal has been prepared and some of the tables and chairs are removed to make room for dancing. The band plays music that I heard long ago in Phnom Penh. It warms my heart, yet it makes me homesick. But soon my emotion changes. I’m thrilled to see many people get up to dance a Cambodian folk dance. Men clap their hands and put them to their chins—they ask the women to dance. I have a wonderful evening, the most fun I have had since the Khmer Rouge regime.
A few days after the graduation, I recruit children and teach them volleyball. The little boys and girls enjoy playing. They laugh, giggling, so happy. It is invigorating to be among them. But I hear about an opening at the Public Health Center. Since Khao I Dang I have been hoping to work as a medical interpreter. A friend tells me the center is looking for volunteers to help educate refugees about tuberculosis and preventive measures. If I’m interested, he says, I need to appear at eight o’clock in the morning in front of the center. I tell him that I’ll be there.
The car picks everyone up in front of the center, then drops different groups off at various sections of the camp. Going from quad to quad, I work with two Cambodian men and Janice, an