The Invasion
“That is how I survived, because I was not with them.” — Rindy
January 1979
loose end of a rope caught in a hurricane. The whole camp erupted in a frenzy of greed and confusion, as we all rushed to hoard as much food as we could. We anticipated the desolation of our family members and wanted to have something to offer when we found them—if we found them. The gardens we had carefully tended were ravished, every plant scoured for whatever growth it had produced. I fought like the rest, trying to scrape together whatever I could find. The cafeteria was also ransacked, and those who got there first confiscated the rice stores and prahok . The air stirred with excitement and confusion as we relearned how to navigate a world free of orders and demands.
I had longed for independence since the beginning of the Khmer Rouge takeover, but once it was upon me, I shied from it. For the past four years, I had been told how to work, how to march and how to think. I had forgotten how to make decisions for myself.
Freedom was frightening.
As I walked through the rooms the soldiers had occupied, I could hear the echo of their bark and feel the sting of their words calling from the shadows. Angkar had owned me, and suddenly I was floating through life without meaning.
Filling a jug with water and gripping my hammock stuffed with unripe bananas, sugar cane, cucumbers and corn, I ran down the winding path through the jungle, the way I had come on the truck. I hoped I would find my way to Mteay by backtracking, and she’d be the link to Vuthy.
As I ran down the winding path through the jungle, I heard the sound of hurried feet, trampling through the trees from the opposite direction. Instinct took over, and I hid. Peering from the thick underbrush, I watched as black cladded soldiers ran passed me. I had never seen so many guns. All were gripped by white knuckles. Every Khmer Rouge soldier had a gun and wore a mask of terror. Their faces were worn with lines, and their eyes darted as they marched. Their backs hunched toward the ground as if fleeing invisible bullets. They had been the tigers, but suddenly they had become the prey.
“What are you running from?” I asked the air. The soldiers had already disappeared down the road.
The answer to my question came soon enough. The sound of soft padding boots of a different army filled the air a few hours later. It slithered in pursuit through the jungle toward the running Khmer Rouge. They were the worst of all tigers. They wore camouflage-green uniforms, their red collars stamped with gold stars. Their eyes narrowed at the horizon of trees. Their guns were held with confidence and ease. Their faces were painted as black as their guns. They were what nightmares were made of.
They were Vietnamese.
My fear of the Khmer Rouge was dwarfed by my fear of this army. My mind flooded with legends of torture; legends pressed into my mind by the Khmer Rouge loudspeakers day after day. I was told the Vietnamese used the skulls of their enemies as the stones of their fire pits, roasting them alive. I could almost smell the stench of the burning hair by just looking at their brazen expressions. Even though some of the soldiers were no older than me, they were hardened and savage. I crept back into the shadows to hide until they passed, barely daring to breathe.
Then I continued to run through the jungle.
As dusk settled over the trees, I heard the feet and panting breath of someone running toward me. I dove into the underbrush, waiting and listening. I recognized him. He was a member of my own battalion, but now he was holding a gun instead of a shovel. His chest was heaving, his eyes were bloodshot and wild, and his blood-soaked krama was wrapped around his leg.
“Hallo, met!” I wove my way through the trees toward him.
His eyes roved madly as he raised his gun to shoot.
I lifted my hands and yelled. “I’m a met, I’m your met—don’t shoot!”
He lowered his gun, but his eyes were still wild.
“What is happening?” I kept my hands raised, uncertain of him.
The boy lowered his body to the ground, leaning his back against a tree. I handed him a piece of sugarcane and corn, and he ate them like a wild animal.
“The Vietnamese army came and our whole battalion was given a gun and told to fight. The Khmer Rouge soldiers put us on the front lines.” He chewed loudly, spitting his words out between bites. “I barely got away. So many are dead—” his words trailed off into the dusk. I sat there, staring into his foggy eyes. What horror had he just endured?
“Our whole battalion was wiped out. We were not trained to use weapons and to fight Vietnamese guerillas. We were trained to dig.”
“Where did it happen?”
“The Khmer Rouge had gotten news that they were coming towards the trench, so they started handing out guns and told us to stay on the outskirts of the trees while they hid deeper. We had the guns of the Khmer Rouge at our backs and the guns of the enemy in front.” He took in a ragged breath. "Everyone around me had their heads dropped to the ground like fallen coconuts. Their bodies were ripped full of holes.” His voice broke, and he stared blindly into the trees behind him.
I watched him silently.
“I don’t know how I survived.” His haunted eyes met mine. “Where have you been?”
I dropped my gaze and picked at the ground. I swallowed back the bitter taste of grief and shame before answering.
“I got hurt. Vichet sent me to work at the banana farm.”
“You’re lucky. I don’t think anyone else from our battalion is left—except you and me.”
I didn’t want to hear more, but he continued anyway, unable to stop reliving the terror of what he had just seen.
“When I got shot, I crawled into the trees as the Vietnamese trampled the bodies of the dead, charging after the fleeing Khmer Rouge. The bullets were so loud and there were so many of them.” His tears came in streams down his face. I envied the relief this brought him.
“Our battalion was massacred.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve, snot smearing across the black fabric. “Vichet, our fellow mets, they’re all dead. I watched them fall.”
"Vichet?" My throat tightened around the words.
"Yes, I watched him die shielding a group of girls who were too terrified to even fire their gun."
My mind was too busy picturing Vichet lying lifeless in his own blood, surrounded by those he had tried to protect. He had saved me, but he had sacrificed himself alongside his battalion. He never tasted the freedom he had given me.
A part of me died along with the news of the death of my battalion. I could feel it, break off inside me. Agony was the silent chord that had bound us together. Now it was a severed chord. Agony didn’t need words. Despite standing beside the other survivor, I felt more alone than I had felt before. My mind flashed images like a rock skipping across a lake. Images of the eyes, the legs and the stomachs of my mets being punched full of Vietnamese bullets. Images of those who surrendered being used as fire pits for the cooking pots of Vietnamese, and images of the trench we had dug being filled with thousands of slain Cambodians.
“I—I’m glad I got to see you.” I handed him another ear of corn, but I dropped my gaze; I just couldn’t look into his eyes that were so full of accusation. I stood to leave—to grapple with my own shame alone and to drown out the cries of my fallen mets with the pounding of my feet.
“Where will you go now?” he asked, between bites.
“To find my family.”