When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [129]
Here I am safe, but boredom overwhelms me. The first week, when everyone goes to the market, I feel lonely. I feel as though I am a prisoner. When the second week comes, Ry and Than bring me tapes of Cambodian songs that we used to listen to back in Phnom Penh.
Every day I listen to the tapes. Romantic songs sung by the late superstar singers Sinsee Samuth and Ros Sarey Sothea fill the quad. I remember how much I liked to watch the Cambodian classical dancers perform in Phnom Penh when Pa took us to performances, and how much I wanted to learn these dances. I remember Pa’s passion for them.
For Pa, someday I will learn to perform those classical dances. I would dance gracefully to the music of bells and drums. Like the dancers I saw in Phnom Penh, I would gently step forward, my curved fingers sweeping the air, as I approached the audience. When I finish they would clap, and I would be proud of myself for having performed well—for Pa.
We are moved to another transit camp on June 8, 1981. A Thai civilian leads us through a concrete alley past shelters and clotheslines. We are to stay in a concrete-shed-like shelter with moldy floors and walls. A cool breeze is blowing, bringing the stench of urine as if we were surrounded by toilets.
Lying on a plastic tarp spread over the concrete floor, I wait for Than and Ry to bring back our food rations. When they get back, they explain that the Thai people who distribute food had to check our group picture, taken by the immigration authorities in Sakeo II Camp, and match it with their documents. Then they looked at Ry’s and Than’s faces to be sure. Those who came without pictures were refused food.
Map, Savorng, and I gather around a small pot of soup and a container of rice. Than dishes out rice. Ry ladles the soup into a bowl. All of a sudden Ry lets go of the soup pot. “Worms in the soup!” she cries, recoiling. Than takes it in stride, scooping the worms out of the soup. I know we’ve had to eat worse than this before, but that was under the Khmer Rouge.
Luckily, after being here for only a week, we pass the physical examinations. We are given permission to leave Thailand, to head to the next refugee camp in the Philippines.
20
Philippine Refugee Processing Center
On the night of June 20, 1981, we arrive at the airport in the Philippines. The trip here from Thailand seemed like an eternity. Now the idea of lying on a bed sounds luxurious, but we need to take a bus to the camp.
The next morning when I open my eyes, sunlight filters through the window into the room where Than, Ry, Map, and I sleep. I sit, thinking, Where is Ra…bang Vantha, Syla, and Savorng? Then I remember, they are sleeping downstairs.
I get up, then pad softly down the stairs so I won’t wake anyone up. Curious about this camp, I run along the concrete walkway and I look at my surroundings. I gaze at the wooden two-story apartment buildings on my right and left. They are long structures divided into individual units. Each family, it seems, has been given a unit, like ours, with an upstairs and a downstairs. After admiring these buildings, I look to my right and there it is, in the distance, a majestic hillside with thriving green trees, grass, and a huge white cross. I’m mesmerized by everything. The apartment buildings. The greenery of the hillside. The concrete walkways that snake between the apartments. The beautiful landscape of grass, shrubs, and flowers near the walkways and along paved roads. I like the spacious yard in front of each building. I marvel, taking in the beauty of this camp, and I’m grateful.
Ry and I are washing dishes behind our apartment when suddenly a sweet, gentle voice interrupts our talk. “My friends, how are you?” a voice asks with a distinct accent.
We turn, and there is a small dark-skinned Filipino woman behind us, smiling. “My friends, do you want to trade rice for vegetables?” She shows us baskets of limes and other fresh vegetables. I glance