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As filthy and disadvantaged as they seem, their fascination with the tires strikes me as weirdly out of place. It irritates me, at first, to watch them act so silly over something as basic as a scooter tire. I am repulsed, recoiling from these children, some even my own age, as they continue to chase us. It never occurs to me that for many this might be the first time they’ve ever seen a motorized vehicle.

5

There Are No Good-byes

The New York Times

May 2, 1977

“Refugees Depict Grim Cambodia Beset by Hunger”

BY DAVID A. ANDELMAN

The purges that took hundreds of thousands of lives in the aftermath of the Communist capture of Phnom Penh on April 17, 1975, have apparently ended for the most part, according to the informants. But the new system is said to function largely through fear, with the leadership making itself felt at local levels through what is described as “the organization.”

We’re met by the familiar smells of the country, and I’m cast back into the past. I breathe deeply, taking in the sweet stench of urine, animal dung, and hay—a powerful formula that reminds me of the times when Pa brought me to visit Kong (Grandpa) Houng, Yiey (Grandma) Khmeng, and Yiey Tot (Great-grandmother). I glance down and realize how far I am from Phnom Penh.

Along the path lie flat pools and small hills of verdant, runny dung left by cows, water buffalo, and oxen. I stare at the random drops as Pa maneuvers the motorbike around them. It is a crude landscape, where mud and dirt and dung are a fact of life. Houses are built on stilts. Children play not in the dusty road but in the field. Roads are where they go to collect dung for the rice fields.

Pa and I arrive at Kong Houng’s house before sunset. The hum of the scooter announces our approach. Waiting to greet us is Aunt Cheng, along with other local people I don’t recognize. As she carefully makes her way down the steep oaken stairs, Aunt Cheng smiles her familiar, ever-present smile, almost a trademark. Her thick black hair is shorter than the last time I saw her—it’s been snipped from waist length to her chin. As in Phnom Penh, she wears a white blouse with a flowered sarong.* She smiles brightly at me, then asks, “Athy, where is everybody, your mother?”

“Mak’s at Yiey Narg’s house. Everybody will come here tomorrow.”

I quickly survey my new surroundings. A barn is used as storage for generous mountains of unhusked rice; bundles of hay are stacked near it, and among the fruit trees nearby, a large, branched tamarind tree stretches to the heavens, almost as tall as the barn.

I stand in front of the stairs, looking at a place that was once familiar but now seems strange, for I haven’t seen it for five years, half of my life. The house is built on large pilings. Compared with the homes of other country people, my grandfather’s house is big; the wooden stairs and a banister skim down the left side. My grandparents are relatively well-to-do people by local standards. They own many cattle and much of the farmland around Year Piar and other villages as well. On earlier visits, I can remember my grandmother explaining how Kong Houng would have to go away to collect “rent” from farmland in remote villages. Often the payment came in the form of rice. His success was achieved through hard work, a family tradition. His parents before him had farmed, acquiring property with time and patience.

When the Khmer Rouge came, they ordered him as well as his younger brother, Kong Lorng, to give up their property. When they refused, both were tied up and sentenced to be executed. In any society, whether it’s capitalist, socialist, or communist, connections do pay off—they were saved by a relative who knew someone who knew Ta Mok, the infamous one-legged man who is one of the Khmer Rouge highest-ranking military officials, overseeing executions.

“Athy, Athy.”

I look for the eager voice calling my name, only to find a familiar face smiling at me.

“Than!” I croon.