6  

“Liberation”

On April 17, 1975, I went off to work at seven in the morning. I didn’t have to report to my office at the military headquarters building until nine, so I had plenty of time for breakfast. I stopped at one of the many restaurants along my route and was surprised at how loudly everyone was talking. Breakfast was not usually a time for much socializing but, on this day, the restaurant was buzzing with speculation about the Khmer Rouge. People were saying the Khmer Rouge had already encircled Phnom Penh. Others were denouncing the current government as hopelessly corrupt. Some were saying the Cambodian people were tired of being poor and hungry, and they would welcome an opportunity to live in peace and prosperity under a new regime. Yet others spoke of how they yearned to return to their villages in the provinces, to live without fear.

My thoughts, as I finished eating and left the restaurant were that people were becoming too paranoid, maybe because the war had gone on too long. As I drove my motorcycle up Preah Monivong Boulevard toward my office located near the southern boundary of the city, I was thinking that perhaps people were hearing too much enemy propaganda. My concentration was broken by the familiar sound of exploding artillery shells. The sky began to fill with black smoke. The streets filled as people fled toward the center of the city, away from the fighting, among them refugees who’d taken refuge on the Phnom Penh outskirts in the previous years as the Khmer Rouge overran their villages.

Many of the people I saw were clearly ready to welcome the Khmer Rouge. The rest, running scared, had been staying with relatives in the city, and suspected the terror the Khmer communists would bring. They knew they would be lucky to stay alive.

I arrived at military headquarters a little after eight, and went directly to my office to begin work on my reports. After a few minutes, Captain Eng dashed in and excitedly blurted out, “Lieutenant, we should leave immediately! It’s too dangerous for us to stay here with all the gunfire.” He quickly left. Despite all the warnings and signs of trouble, I couldn’t believe the Khmer Rouge could come into the country’s main military headquarters at will. Our military compound was gigantic, housing numerous buildings for offices, barracks for hundreds of men, and innumerable tanks, vehicles, and weapons. There was no way the Khmer Rouge could just walk in.

Nonetheless, I decided to leave as soon as I finished the report I was writing, a report that was, of course, never going to be read by our military staff. Meanwhile, the compound had become quiet and peaceful, indicating that my superiors might have been negotiating with the enemy. A few minutes after the captain left, I again heard gunfire close at hand. Suddenly, the sentry who guarded the compound gate burst into my office, and saluted me. Using the term the Khmer Rouge used for soldier, he fervently stammered, “Sir, the Khmer Rouge yothea have surrounded the compound! They’re coming to search each room. Sir, we must escape now!” He left my office on the run.

I looked out the window and saw several Khmer Rouge, and heard voices from down the hallway near the captain’s office. It was obvious the Khmer Rouge were there to search offices and seize military officers. I heard someone shout, “Stop, or you’ll be shot!” followed immediately by the sound of running footsteps and several loud gun reports.

I was frightened, filled with hopelessness, sure it was my turn to die. I began to pray. I thought of my family and worried that they would be harmed. I just had to survive; I had to see them and keep them safe. I was desperate for a plan, but could think of nothing. I peered through the crack in the window blinds. The Khmer Rouge were running around the compound, yelling as they seized soldiers and officers. The sound of gunfire was constant. As I peered out the window, I heard the door next to mine being kicked in.

Suddenly, I had an idea. I quickly stripped off my uniform, leaving on only my T-shirt and boxer shorts. I stuffed my shoes, socks, and uniform into the back of a filing cabinet and climbed out the window, as quietly as possible. I carefully made my way to the tool shed at the edge of the compound, my heart pounding in my chest. I could hear the Khmer Rouge shouting instructions to our soldiers in the compound: “All Lon Nol traitors hiding in this compound, give yourselves up, and cooperate with Angkar immediately.”

What on earth was Angkar? Soon we would know a new fact, that Angkar was now ruling our lives. Angkar means “organization” in Khmer and the Khmer Rouge were using it to mean the Communist Party of Kampuchea. Democratic Kampuchea would be the new name of our country, another “fact” we Cambodians didn’t yet know.

The shouting and the sporadic gunfire continued. “Angkar will not harm you. We have this compound and the entire city surrounded!”

I grabbed a broom and grass cutters from the tool shed and started walking toward the back gate of the compound. I resisted running for I knew that would draw attention to me and, if they saw me, I would die. So, posing as a gardener, I began clipping and sweeping the grass at the edge of the walkway leading to the gate, hoping I wouldn’t see anyone who knew I was an officer. As I inched my way to the gate, I noticed beyond it a mob of Khmer Rouge yothea, my first close-up glimpse of this elusive enemy. They were young, dressed in loose black pants and shirts, a karma scarf looped loosely around their necks, Chinese caps on their heads, and sandals made of tires on their feet. Each carried an AK-47. What could I do?

All I could think was to continue playing the role of gardener. I heard the sound of breaking office windows and furniture being smashed and the clamber of Khmer Rouge shouting, arresting our soldiers and hustling them off to nearby trucks. As I continued cutting and sweeping, two Khmer Rouge yothea approached me, one with a revolver on his belt. The second was armed with an AK-47, with ammunition belts strapped vertically on his chest. The yothea with the pistol also had pens stuck in his breast pocket, a sign of prestige among these uneducated youth. He glared at me, and said, “And, you, Mit, what are you doing?”

This was the first time I heard the new meaning of this word that traditionally meant “friend” or “comrade” in our language. Now, we would become achingly familiar with its Khmer Rouge use, meant to indicate that we were a country of equals. In fact, of course, this was not at all the case, but I didn’t yet know how much this would be true. He continued shouting at me. “Why are you still here? What are you, stupid? Or are you Lon Nol’s soldier?”

They were both so young, not more than sixteen or eighteen years old. I immediately rose from my pretended work and bowed my head several times to show him respect. “No, sir. I am not a soldier,” I said, trying to act even more frightened than I already was.

Trying without success to act mean and tough, he said, “Maybe you’re not a soldier. Maybe you’re a soldier whose duty is to care for this compound, right, Mit?” He was extremely rude, but I remained calm. Continuing to feign ignorance and fright, I answered, “No, sir, I really am a gardener. I don’t know anything about being a soldier.”

The other yothea interrupted, saying, “Why are you so stupid, Mit? Didn’t you hear the announcement by our Angkar ordering people to evacuate the city?”

“Pens in the pocket,” annoyed with his fellow soldier for butting into the conversation, said, “Okay, Mit. If you’re not a soldier or officer, get the hell out of here immediately. Go get your family and leave Phnom Penh at once!”

I replied, “Excuse me, sir, how long must we be away from our homes?”

“Pens in the pocket” grew angrier and shouted at me, “Eh, Mit! Don’t use that word “sir” ever again with us. That word belongs to Lon Nol’s regime. We hate his regime, and everything about it. You call me and the other revolutionaries Mit Bong. Do you understand?” I cowered in front of them and bowed my head several times, trying to convince these two idiots that I was frightened of them and respected them.

If you remember, bong was the term my wife used to address me, as her husband. But bong in the Cambodian language has many meanings. It means “elder,” as in “older brother.” It means “respected,” as in “respected friend.” With the Khmer Rouge, it was a requisite sign of respect, no matter the age of the person we were addressing or one’s former standing in life. So, this soldier had just insisted that I call him “respected comrade.” I didn’t respect him or his colleagues on this or any day of the years I lived under their tyranny, but I never lapsed in my use of bong when talking with them.

“Pens in the pocket’s” voice changed, and he stopped shouting. “This was just a warning, Mit. Don’t worry. Our Angkar wants to prevent any harm to people while they are leaving their homes for this short time, three days at the most. We just need time to clear out all the Lon Nol soldiers, reactionaries, and American imperialists. As soon as we’re finished, we’ll let people come back to their homes to live in peace under Angkar’s protection.”

I was a bird evading the hunter. When they let me go, I moved quickly out the back gate of the compound and walked south down Preah Monivong Boulevard. People filled the streets. There were hundreds of motorcycles, taxis, pedicabs, cars, trucks, and bicycles. Some of the vehicles, crammed with personal belongings, headed into the city, others headed out. The Khmer Rouge were questioning people and moving abandoned vehicles to the sides of the streets. Everywhere was panic and chaos. The capital city of Phnom Penh was an anthill on fire.

Because the Khmer Rouge were executing anyone they caught in the uniform of the Lon Nol army, many soldiers were stripping off their uniforms, as I had done, dropping their weapons in great piles on the sidewalks, then scrambling off to hide themselves in the crowds. The majority of them were able to confuse the Khmer Rouge in this way, and thus elude immediate capture.

People were coming out of their homes to stand at the side of the boulevard and cheer the Khmer Rouge troops. The atmosphere was parade-like, with many people not yet realizing they would shortly be forced to leave their homes. As I made my way along Preah Monivong Boulevard, the cheers of the people were suddenly overpowered by the sound of high turbine gas engines. I looked back and saw dozens of tanks lumbering down the street, flying the red Khmer Rouge flag and loaded with yothea, grinding up the asphalt. The Khmer Rouge in their black clothing and Chinese caps were shouting of their victory over the Lon Nol government. Some Cambodians were waving pieces of white cloth to celebrate the peace they had awaited so long.

Sadly, I had to admit that the Cambodian army had been defeated. As I watched my fellow countrymen and women celebrating the Khmer Rouge victory, I could hardly blame them for being happy. They had grown weary of waiting so long for peace. They were tired of the constant noise of exploding artillery and rocket shells, and the fear that grenades would be tossed into theaters, markets, or crowds of people. They were tired of waiting for food and other supplies to be dropped from airplanes by the Americans through the months when the capital was encircled by the Khmer Rouge. They were tired of the corrupt government, the enforced draft, and flight from their villages in the countryside to the sidewalks on the outskirts of Phnom Penh. They saw the war as constant rain and now, it appeared, the skies had cleared.

I saw Cambodians offer flowers and food to the Khmer Rouge, proclaiming their delight in finally being liberated from the war. Most of the young Khmer Rouge yothea ignored the gifts being offered, but some accepted the flowers and food, flashing half smiles as they ran back to their tanks and clambered aboard. I noticed that it was the older Khmer Rouge yothea and those with rank who rode in the jeeps. The yothea were mostly teenagers. They wore their black peasant pants and shirtsleeves rolled up in the casual country way and their sandals were caked with dried mud, but they were armed with AK-47 assault rifles, bazookas, with grenades hanging from their waists.

I saw a female soldier standing on top of a tank fire her pistol into the air to get people’s attention, then announce through her bullhorn, “All you people, hurry! Get out of your houses and go at least fifty kilometers from the city! American planes are coming to drop their bombs on us. Hurry! It isn’t safe here! Leave your property and your belongings; Angkar will guard them for you. Don’t worry. Just get to safety!”

Another tank rumbled behind, carrying Khmer Rouge who were ordering people to surrender their weapons. “The war is over! All weapons are now Angkar’s property!” they shouted.

I saw many people I recognized as government officials and Khmer Republic Army soldiers who had already taken off their uniforms hurrying to deposit their pistols and other weapons in large stacks. A pedicab driver picked up one of the discarded uniforms, examined it closely, then tried it on to see if it fit him. I shouted at him to take it off, but the noise of the street drowned me out. Just then, a Khmer Rouge soldier yelled at him, “Hey, Mit! You are a soldier in the Lon Nol army and an imperialist. You are an enemy of the Angkar revolution!”

As the driver turned toward the soldier, the Khmer Rouge lowered his AK-47 and sprayed bullets into his chest. He fell to the asphalt in convulsions, and died in a pool of his own blood. The yothea looked down at him, and solemnly said, “Our Angkar hates the Lon Nol regime.”

He brushed past the spectators, bumped my shoulder with his rifle butt, and walked away without looking back. It was such a cruel act that I closed my eyes, shaken by the sight of the poor dead pedicab driver, dressed in the best clothes he’d ever worn in his life and dead because of it, his blood trickling down the gutter. I took a deep breath to fight back the nausea I was feeling. Now I understood the true nature of Angkar, the revolutionary organization of the Khmer Rouge. The Khmer Rouge soldier executed the pedicab driver to set an example, to show the people the consequences of resisting the new regime in any way.

As I walked along the boulevard, I grew more agitated. I came across many Lon Nol officers lying dead on the streets, just like the pedicab driver. In the next block, I recognized one of them, my friend Lieutenant Thom, from the 69th Military Supply Brigade of the First Division. The sight of my friend made me realize how lucky I was to be alive. I began to move faster. I had to get home to make sure my family was all right.

As I approached an intersection, I noticed a group of men trying to force open the door of a jewelry store. My first thought was to arrest them but, in the same moment, felt both stupid and helpless. I was angered and sickened by what the Khmer Rouge were doing to my people, and what my people were doing to one another. When the men finally got the door to the jewelry shop open, they looked around to see if anyone was watching. They saw me glaring at them, and they stared back at me, then asked if I’d like to join them. I ignored them and hurried past, pausing once to look back as they ran out of the store with their hands full of gold chains and other jewelry. They disappeared quickly into the mob of people who were shouting, “We must be rid of capitalism and imperialism.” I saw looters ransacking one shop after another.

I left Preah Monivong Boulevard and turned west onto Dam Beung Chopun Street. Now, at eleven o’clock in the morning, more than two hours after reaching the street, I approached Lon Nol’s presidential villa. The bodies of the soldiers who normally guarded the palace were scattered around the compound and on the streets and sidewalks surrounding it, scattered amongst their abandoned tanks, vehicles, and miscellaneous equipment. The Khmer Rouge had strung barbed wire across the entrance to the villa, and were carefully watching everyone who passed by, urging them to hurry along. I obeyed them gladly.

By that time, the sun was climbing high in the cloudless skies, and the heat began to radiate up from the payment. There was no wind to relieve the oppressive heat and humidity. All I could think about was getting home. All the residences and shops on the streets were closed up tight in hopes of preventing looting. I came across one door that had been left open, the entrance to a motorcycle repair shop called “Mittapheap Motor Repair.” I looked through the open door and spotted a bicycle. Seeing no one inside, I decided to use the bicycle to speed my trip home. Just as I was about to take it, I heard a faint voice from a back room.

“Who’s there? Who are you? Please give me some water. I’m thirsty,” the voice called out. I went through another doorway and found an old woman lying on a bed, very ill. She told me she was the mother of the shop owner who’d been so frightened that he fled and left her to die. I poured a glass of water for her, and lifted her head up slightly to help her drink. As I lowered her head to the pillow, she began saying a prayer to the Buddha, thanking Him for sending me. I thought about the bicycle in the next room, and how desperately I wanted to reach my family. I felt so sorry for the old woman: sorry that her son left her behind, sorry I couldn’t be more help to her. In Cambodian culture, children honor and respect their parents and elders. It was the greatest of all sins for the motor shop owner to leave his mother. But he had to choose between saving his own life and those of his wife and children or risking all of their lives trying to save his mother. I prayed that I would never have to make such a choice.

“Grandmother,” I said softly. “Could I please use the bicycle in your shop to help me reach my family? Could I, Grandmother?”

She looked up at me, and forced a smile, quickly replying, “Of course you can. You are a kind and respectful young man. You can have anything from the shop that you need.”

She must have known how difficult it was for me to leave her. She said, “I’m fine, young man. I’m an old and very sick woman. I am going to die soon. Please do not wait for me. Go, save your family from the Khmer Rouge soldiers.”

I knelt down and whispered, “Thank you, Grandmother.” I stroked her arm and caressed her softly on the forehead, then moved quickly back into the shop.

I glanced out of the doorway and saw yothea breaking down doors, searching every residence. They were barking orders for everyone to leave their homes immediately, saying that those who refused would be shot, and they were rapidly approaching the motor shop. I spotted a toolbox and quickly tied it to the back of the bicycle, then hurried to make it out of the shop with the bicycle before the soldiers saw me. I tried to ride the bicycle, but it was impossible because of the number of people now crowding into the street. All I could do was push it.

Fifteen minutes later, I had made it as far as the Russian Hospital, so-named because it was financed by the Russian government as a token of friendship with the Cambodian people. The street in front of the hospital was mobbed with people, and the Khmer Rouge were now inside the hospital, ordering everyone to leave: doctors, nurses, and patients included. They were firing their weapons into the air to make people move faster. They executed the patients who were Lon Nol soldiers, causing a panic throughout the hospital. Medical personnel and patients began pouring out of every exit, trampling one another as if the building was on fire. Every face was terror-stricken, each person just struggling to survive.

Some patients still had IVs in their arms. They stumbled into one another, and many fell down and were literally crushed to death. Many had bleeding wounds, and blood flowed freely. Death was everywhere. I was witness to it because the street was so crowded that people could hardly move.

Cambodians crowded the street from one side to the other. Most were on foot, but some had cars, bicycles, motorcycles, scooters, or carts. These vehicles were grossly overloaded with families’ belongings, no one wanting to leave anything behind. The street was a slow-moving glacier. Patients continued to die. A man carrying a mountainous load of possessions suddenly collapsed in the midst of the crowd. When the people pushing past him discovered he was dead, all his possessions disappeared. Soon people began ignoring the bodies of the dead because there were so many. It was impossible to move around them, so the people and their vehicles simply went over them.

Meanwhile, the screams of people in pain, the shouts of others searching for one another, the wails of young children who had lost their parents, the barks of Khmer Rouge yothea over loudspeakers, the honks of cars, the pops of gunfire—all of it was so loud that individual sounds could not be distinguished. There was only noise. My ears were of no use to me and what my eyes beheld, I wish I had never seen. It was more human suffering and misery than I could ever have imagined.

Cambodians are a compassionate people. We are quick to show kindness and mercy and to assist one another whenever there is a problem. Now, there was no kindness, no mercy, and no assistance. The instinct for survival was the sole motivation driving the people out of Phnom Penh. People were forced to let their own parents die in order to save their children. The helpless and hopeless were abandoned by those able-bodied enough to save their own lives.

One hundred meters from the hospital, I passed by the Banteay Seh barracks that housed many of Lon Nol’s soldiers and their families. Yothea were pouring into the building just as they had at the hospital, shouting at everyone to get out of the way. Those Lon Nol soldiers who were injured or lame or unable to move fast enough to satisfy the yothea were shot, along with anyone attempting to escape. Those who surrendered and quickly followed orders were arrested, and put aboard a large truck to be taken away for what the Khmer Rouge were calling “re-education.” In the process of killing so many of Lon Nol’s soldiers, many family members were also killed. The Khmer Rouge made a point of allowing several Lon Nol military officers to make it out of the barracks and onto the street before shooting them in full view of the crowd. I am certain the Khmer Rouge were ordered to kill as many Lon Nol soldiers as possible to show the people there would be no mercy for those associated with the Lon Nol administration.

Watching the Khmer Rouge in action was a frightening thing. I could not imagine the hatred, rage, cruelty, and revenge they demonstrated. I tried to move faster by riding the bicycle, but I couldn’t because the crowd was so thick. All I could do was to keep pushing it slowly along.

Eventually, I could see Stung Mean Chey Bridge, which I needed to cross in order to reach my home and family. I noticed that the traffic on the other side of the bridge was light, and I thought that at last I could ride the bike rather than push it. But, as I got nearer to the bridge, I realized that people were bunched up because the Khmer Rouge had strung barbed wire across the entrance. They were allowing no one to cross.

“Why?” I wondered. “Why are they blocking the bridge? Don’t they realize the bridge must be opened so that we can get to our families and leave together?” The answer could only be that they wanted to search people first, to flush out any Lon Nol soldiers and their families.

There were hundreds of people waiting to cross. The yothea guarding the bridge refused to listen to anyone, pointing their rifles and shouting at those who approached them. I was in despair. The thought of never seeing my wife and tiny son again was more than I could bear. I forced my way to the sentry who stood nearest the gate.

“Mit Bong, could you please open the gate and allow us to cross?” I implored the sentry. “We need to get our families so we can leave, as Angkar has ordered us to do, so your soldiers can clear out the imperialists.”

“No,” he replied firmly. “A high-ranking Angkar officer has ordered that no one can cross the bridge. If you want to cross the river, you’ll have to find a boat or you’ll have to swim!”

He looked me over from head to toe, and I caught him looking hungrily at my wristwatch. Then he asked, “Mit, what were you doing in Phnom Penh?”

“I’m on my way home from work in the Deum Kor Market,” I replied. Of course, this was a complete lie.

“And just what is it you do there, Mit?” he asked.

“I’m a bike repairman, Mit. Here are my tools,” I said, trying to be as convincing as I could. He looked at me skeptically, then suddenly changed the subject.

“You have a very nice watch there, Mit! What kind is it?” he asked, appearing genuinely interested.

I knew he could see that my watch was an expensive brand with a nice gold band, but I said, “Oh, it’s an Orient, Mit Bong. It’s a cheap brand.”

“Don’t lie to me, Mit! I’ve heard yothea saying that’s a good one.” Then he tipped his hand. “Eh, Mit, you should let Angkar have that watch. You’ll have no need for one from now on. Under the Communist regime, you can tell time by looking at the sun. Besides, this watch is a symbol of what’s wrong with your society. Under the new regime, there’ll be no possessions like this watch. Everything belongs to Angkar, and must be given up. Anyone caught wearing a watch like yours will be considered an enemy of Angkar.”

He had now recited three reasons I should give him my watch. First, I wouldn’t need it. Second, it was a mark of the old regime. And third, it showed I was an enemy.

“You’re not an enemy of Angkar, are you, Mit?” He continued, and slowly lowered his rifle to my chest.

I pretended to misunderstand his words. I continued to beg. “Mit Bong, please let me cross the bridge. My home is near Stung Mean Chey Market, just past Wat Ta Prom Mean Chey. I can almost see my house from here, please, Mit Bong,” I lied.

The sentry stabbed his rifle at me and, with his finger on the trigger, shouted, “What’s wrong with you, Mit? Are you stupid? Don’t you understand the Khmer language?”

I cowered, and retreated into the crowd. I quickly discovered that many in the crowd had been listening carefully to my chat with the sentry. Several men came over to me, and we decided to try to bribe the soldier with several of our watches. With five in hand, I approached the sentry again.

“Mit Bong, here are watches that people are giving to Angkar. Would you be so kind as to make sure Angkar receives them? And, Mit Bong, would you also be so kind as to open the gate so we can cross the bridge to reach our families?”

The soldier snatched the watches from my hand and, with undisguised arrogance, said, “Good! All of you must learn to be loyal to Angkar. I’m glad you have made the correct decision to give your possessions to Angkar. Wait here a moment, Mit. I’ll be back.”

The sentry strode off to a bunker made of sandbags to talk with his fellow soldiers. Another sentry quickly ran up to take his place, pointing his rifle at me. I prayed to the Buddha to grant me a blessing and allow me to cross the bridge. I prayed that I would again see my family and grandmother. Fifteen minutes passed as I waited. I realized how exhausted and hungry I was. At last, the sentry returned from the bunker, looking quite pleased with himself.

“Are you sure your home is just across the bridge, Mit?” he asked.

“Yes! Yes! Mit Bong,” I hastily replied. The sentry looked back toward the bunker and gave a little nod; then opened the gate just wide enough for me to squeeze through with my bike. But when the others who’d given their watches started through the gate, the crowd noticed the open gate and pushed forward, knocking the sentry over and opening the gate wider. The mob began pouring across the bridge.

I jumped on my bicycle and began pedaling furiously. Shooting began behind me. I looked over my shoulder, but didn’t stop pedaling. Bullets were zipping past me, and people were falling down as the soldiers roared out of the bunker, shooting wildly. I faced forward again, and pedaled even faster. I heard the screams of wounded and dying people behind me, but there was nothing I could do. I started down the opposite side of the bridge just as the sentry there began to close the gate. I brushed by another sentry as he was trying to get his rifle unslung from his shoulder. Before he had time to deal with me, he saw the mob approaching him, and began shooting into the crowd.

Dozens of people died on the bridge that day. I was lucky not to be one of them. After crossing the bridge, I was again forced to push the bicycle along because the crowds were thicker than it had appeared on the other side. It was two more hours before I finally drew near my house. During that time, I prayed continuously to the Buddha, thanking Him for sparing my life and praying that my family was safe.

At last, I reached my home. When I opened the door, everyone was there, and they were safe. They were happy that I was finally home because they had been worried about me, and they had no idea what was happening in the center of the city. I fell into a rattan chair, exhausted. My father-in-law and mother-in-law came to sit by me, and my wife brought me a cold drink. My father-in-law, whom we called Ba, wanted to know what had happened to my motorcycle, why I was home so late, and if I knew how worried they’d been for me. Everyone listened intently as I described the events I had witnessed during the day. I told him what I’d experienced: how I escaped from the compound at the military headquarters and inched my way home through a horror show of Khmer Rouge yothea cruelty. Ba wanted to know the details, and as I related them to him, he constantly expressed surprise and disbelief. He couldn’t understand why the yothea were so eager to butcher Cambodians and he was deeply saddened to learn of the deaths of my friends and fellow officers, Mr. Eng and Mr. Thom, for he had also known them well.

After a few more minutes of Ba’s questions, my mother-in-law asked us to come to the dinner table and have something to eat. She had prepared the lunch meal much earlier, but was waiting for my return. Now we ate together. I was grateful for the interruption for I was growing tired of the questioning.

After eating, I slipped out to the porch to sit in the cool evening air as I watched the beautiful magenta sunset. But I was deeply distressed by what I had witnessed this day of “liberation.” I tried to think of other things, but these thoughts were just as depressing. My brothers and stepmother were only a few houses away, but I knew my stepmother would not come with me nor let my brothers leave her. In the months since my marriage, my stepmother had made it clear that she was glad I was out of her house. I saw my brothers when she was gone, and left quickly so as to avoid her anger. Whatever happened, wherever we went, it would be without them. I wondered when I would see them again. Meng was thirteen, Mhang nine, and Leang only seven. They were so young. What would happen to them?

The evening was quiet when, suddenly, my two brothers-in-law came running up to the house, shouting for Ba.

“Ba! Ba! We just saw lots of red Khmer soldiers! They were yelling at the street vendors and shop owners, telling them to close up their shops and leave the market immediately!”

“Don’t worry too much, brothers,” I interrupted. “Let’s not panic. Let’s just calm down, wait a while, and see what happens. After all, it would be silly of the Khmer Rouge to win the war, and then turn around and chase all the people away from their homes, wouldn’t it?” Everyone agreed, and calmed down. We’d wait for what was next to happen.

I went to my room to rest. I sprawled on the bed, trying to avoid all thoughts of the day, but all I could do was lie there, my hands behind my head, staring at the ceiling. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d seen during this most horrible day. Still unable to sleep at seven that evening, I turned on the radio to hear the news. Instead of the familiar voice of the newscaster, I was shocked to hear a Khmer Rouge broadcast. I was surprised again by the speed with which the Khmer Rouge had taken control of everything, even the radio station.

The Khmer Rouge spokesman spoke arrogantly. “We have taken control of the capital city, Phnom Penh, so we now control the entire country of Cambodia. Our mit yothea, our brave revolutionary forces, have been victorious over the corrupt Lon Nol regime. Our glorious Angkar revolution is safe from any anti–American activity. We have fought and spilt our blood for Angkar, and removed all imperialist influences of the Lon Nol regime. From now on, you people will no longer have to bow to him!” The declaration of victory was followed by a series of songs glorifying the Angkar revolution.

I quickly grew tired of them and turned off the radio, but I still couldn’t sleep. Questions raced through my head. “Should we wait here and see what happens next? Should we leave home? Where would we go? What kind of life could we expect if we stay? If we go? What will the yothea do to us if we stay?” Despite all these thoughts, I still had hope for Cambodia. I chose to think that what I had heard on the radio was mostly propaganda. I remembered the old Khmer proverb, “Don’t bend in the wind, don’t drift in the water.”

I began thinking about the supreme Angkar, or the Supreme Organization, which had so rapidly vanquished Phnom Penh. Angkar would benefit by immediately restoring real tranquility and establishing a new economy. I envisioned a return to normal life, just under a different government. Restoring peace quickly seemed the most logical step for Angkar to take.

My thoughts returned to our immediate problem. Should we leave or should we stay? Then, I remembered another proverb: “He who leaves first is unlucky. He who leaves before it’s too late is lucky.” I guessed we should keep waiting, but be careful about how long.

One by one, each member of my family yielded to sleep, except for me. My fears of what life would be like under the Khmer Rouge continued to torment me. I must have finally slipped into sleep, for I awoke to the sound of roosters crowing. I looked down to my missing watch for the time. Suddenly, memories of the previous day cascaded over me. I shuddered, and looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was three o’clock in the morning, but I knew I’d be unable to go back to sleep, so I got up and walked out to the porch. There, I found my father-in-law sitting in a chair, smoking a cigarette. He looked tired and apprehensive.

As I sat down next to him, I looked up to the sky and saw a sliver of the moon encompassed by a dark cloud bank. I breathed in the cold air, deep in thought. Then, I asked, “Ba, what are you thinking about?”

He drew on his cigarette, exhaling through his nostrils. Without expression, he said, “Son, we must leave this house as soon as the sun rises.” We discussed our plans until just before dawn, when Ba woke everyone up. He told us, “We need to pack only what we can carry with us. Everything else, we must hide. Hopefully, we’ll be able to return to our home one day.”

My mother-in-law and sister went to cook a meal for our journey. My grandmother tended to my newborn son, while my wife began wrapping everyone’s clothes in blankets. When my mother-in-law finished cooking, she packed the kitchen utensils in a big fishing basket for easy carrying. Ba was busy assembling a cart to carry our possessions. Meanwhile, I was collecting all the valuables we couldn’t carry with us, such as deeds, diplomas, identification cards, and photographs. We already suspected that the Khmer Rouge hated anyone with money, social status, or education and, if they discovered any of these things, we could be killed. I buried them, along with our weapons.

By nine o’clock in the morning, we had everything loaded on the cart, and were ready to leave. I ran to the road to check out the situation, and stopped in shock. The road was covered with people, all pushing south. I saw soldiers force their way into the crowds of people to urge them to move faster, causing huge jams on the roads. There were so many people that the traffic at the intersections was slowed almost to a crawl.

People were still hurrying out of their homes to join the now familiar sea of people trudging along, hauling their belongings. Women carried large bundles on their shoulders. Many pulled or pushed overloaded carts, bicycles, motorcycles, and all sorts of homemade vehicles. The street was as crowded as the day before. The yothea used bullhorns to shout at the mob, urging everyone to hurry up because the American imperialist planes would be coming soon to drop their bombs.

As I stood there watching the stream of refugees go by, I knew my family would soon be part of it. I wondered where my brothers were. I was so sad and depressed to see the good-hearted people of my beautiful country suffering such humiliation at the hands of the Khmer Rouge. What angered me most was that they called this “liberation.” Suddenly, I was startled by a sound behind me.

“Bong!” It was my wife storming up to me. Angrily she said, “Bong, how long were you planning to stand there watching the crowd? You know our neighbors have already left their homes. Come on! Let’s leave now!”

When I walked into our house, my father-in-law joined my wife in castigating me for my delay. “Son, we’d better leave now! We can’t risk a confrontation with the damn yothea,” he warned me. Hurriedly, I lifted my lame grandmother onto the cart and handed her my baby son. I locked the doors and gate as we left the house, although I was certain of the futility of doing so. As I pulled the cart into the street and merged with the crowd, I was overcome with nostalgia. All around me were people with sweat and tears streaming down their faces.

My family followed behind the cart. My sister carried a basket on her head. My wife carried a small bag of medicine and baby pads to use as diapers, all she could carry since she’d just given birth to our son three months prior. I had a place fixed on the cart for her to ride, but she said she would walk for awhile, until she became tired. My father-in-law and two brothers-in-law carried bundles, and pushed the cart from behind as I pulled. Periodically, we exchanged pulling and pushing positions to ease our work.

As the distance from our home increased, the number of travelers on the roads with us started to thin out, with people moving off in different directions. As we made our way into the countryside, the street became a narrow road, little more than a path used by ox carts for farming. The path was worn and poorly maintained, and our progress was slow and tiring, especially as the rays of the sun grew hotter. We passed small hamlets from time to time, and sometimes paused to allow my wife to rest and breastfeed my son. With little stamina, she tired easily. She occasionally burst into tears, crying out, “Oh, Buddha! Why have the Khmer Rouge done this to the Cambodian people?”

With the sun directly over our heads, we needed to find shade in which to rest. My father-in-law was the first to speak up. “Son, we need to stop and eat. I also want to find out when we might be able to return to our home.”

I pulled the cart off the trail, beneath a large tree. A pond nearby provided cool water to ease our thirst and bathe the baby. I took a large straw mat from the cart and unrolled it on the ground. There we sat as we ate the meal we’d prepared early that morning. We said little as we ate, watching our fellow refugees passing by. A few soldiers walked among them.

I saw a lone soldier overtake a Chinese merchant traveling with his wife and family. They were pulling a cart fully loaded with possessions, but they had no food. As the soldier passed, the man spoke to him timidly. “Ah, Excuse me. Ah, mister,” he stammered. “Have you any food for my family? We’ve run out of supplies, and we’re hungry.”

The yothea turned to him and said, “Don’t worry, Mit Bu,” using the Cambodian word for “uncle.” When you arrive in Angkar territory, Angkar will have a fresh meal waiting for all of you. Angkar will provide everything you need.”

As I heard the soldier telling the same lie to the Chinese man that we’d already heard numerous times in the short while we’d been on the road, I realized that we were never going to be allowed to return to our homes to live normal lives. All the words these Khmer Rouge were speaking to the people in the name of the Angkar revolution were falsehoods. After hearing Angkar propaganda for so long, these young uneducated soldiers probably believed the lies they were telling us.

Moments later, a group of yothea came along the trail, one insolently announcing to the people resting in the shade, “You must leave this area immediately. There will be no mercy for anyone who fails to follow Angkar’s orders.”

We all knew there was no reason for the soldiers to make us leave. The more contact we had with them, the more we learned of their black hearts and evil minds.

We left the shaded area quickly, along with the other refugees, and continued our journey, now with father-in-law pulling the cart. I pushed it from the rear. We traveled for a couple of hours until we approached an old, unstable-appearing wooden bridge, over fifty meters long. Many of the planks were missing or broken and a number of the structural supports had rotted away. As we cautiously began crossing the bridge, we were horrified to find dead bodies lying all along it, and we saw many more bodies in the gorge below. Flies were swarming over the corpses’ eyes and noses. As we continued on our morbid journey, we came across a number of sick, injured, and lame people, moaning and crying out for help. We were horrified when we saw the yothea casually kicking these still-living people off the bridge to their deaths. The soldiers struck those who attempted to resist with their rifle butts.

Witnessing atrocities like these creates a fear like no other. When I’d described the previous day’s events to my father-in-law, he’d listened to me and believed me, but only now did he comprehend. He looked back at me and paused, and I could tell he was terrified. The yothea began shouting at him to get the cart moving, fast. Even though he was breathing heavily, he managed to start pulling again, and we eventually reached the other side of the bridge. Without stopping to rest, we headed for a Buddhist temple, called Wat Preak Chrey, because we were told there was shelter and rest there for all of us.

But soon my father-in-law complained that he could go no farther. The sun had sunk almost to the horizon by the time we reached our refuge. I found a place to park the cart near the temple fence, also beneath a tree near a creek. We soon constructed a temporary shelter, its walls and roof made of branches with leaves spread over them. We slept on a plastic mat on the ground.

My mother-in-law quickly prepared a meal. When we packed that morning, we’d thought to bring two fifty-pound bags of rice in addition to two suitcases of clothes, two additional bags of new clothes, and a small bag of jewelry and gold. We also had a liter of kerosene for an oil lamp, which we made from an empty condensed milk can. We had plates and knives and three or four pots but, in our haste to leave, we didn’t gather up enough spoons. So we took turns eating with the utensils or our fingers.

We were still frightened, but we began to relax a little as we ate. We all needed to talk about what we had seen during the day to lessen our fears and to reassure one another. There were eleven of us: my wife and I, our son, her parents, three brothers, and one sister, and my grandmother and sister. We consisted of a young couple, a middle-aged couple, a young woman, a teenaged boy, three children, an old woman, and a tiny baby. The responsibility for this vulnerable group fell heavily on my shoulders.

After we ate, it was still somewhat light so I took a walk through the temple compound. I saw hundreds of families like mine. They had all heard the same rumors about finding rest and shelter at the temple compound. And they had all discovered, as had we, that the only shelter beneath the trees was what each family could make. The shelters were crude at best, made of poles or branches covered with any materials available. Every square meter in and outside the compound was covered with makeshift shelters. When I returned to my own, everyone in my family was resting. The day had been exhausting for it was the first time any of us had traveled such a long distance on foot.

The next morning, I took some items from the cart and started back toward the village looking for anyone who wanted to trade for rice, salt, or other foodstuffs. On the way, I spotted a large group of yothea leading a line of young long-haired Cambodian youths toward the temple. As I drew near them, I understood why the prisoners were walking in line.

The Khmer Rouge had pieced their ears, and strung sewing thread from ear to ear. Each line of thread held a dozen prisoners. The procession drew a large crowd and, as the soldiers led the lines of prisoners to a thicket behind the carved temple wall, I knew what was about to happen. It was obvious to most of us watching that this was going to be a execution. One of the older soldiers, in his mid-thirties, carried a revolver on his belt and seemed to be the ranking officer. He shouted something about how the Angkar revolution hated young men who wore their hair long. Suddenly, the sound of assault AK-47 rifles echoed from the bushes, along with the screams and cries of the young men. When the soldiers were finished, they simply walked away, leaving their victims’ bodies in the thicket.

I quickly returned to my family, knowing they would be concerned about the gunfire. I told everyone what had happened, but my grandmother couldn’t understand this new world.

“Why would they do that to the young men?” she asked.

Her rhetorical question was all of ours. We knew now how hungry the yothea were for revenge. They wanted to show us, with as many examples as possible, that no show of disobedience to Angkar would be tolerated. We talked over the possibility of staying alive under the Angkar regime, then decided to wait a couple of days to find out more about what the Khmer Rouge intended to do. We also agreed, however, that we needed to assume we were not going to be able to return to our home. Since we had no idea how long or how far we would be traveling, we knew we needed to lighten our load and get sufficient food supplies.

My father-in-law stayed with my wife, son, and grandmother. My mother-in-law and sister went to a nearby village looking for a butcher from whom to buy meat. I hurried back to the temple compound to trade for rice, salt, and any other food available. We continued these efforts for the next two days, while we also tried to gather information about the Khmer Rouge’s next move. We didn’t have to wait long, for on the third morning, a large group of male and female yothea came by our shelter and told us to leave immediately. We began packing our belongings on the cart as we watched them move from one refugee shelter to the next, giving the order to leave. About an hour later, they returned to pass along a further message, filled with threats and intimidation.

“Uncle and Aunt, you must remove your shelter and leave,” said one soldier. He addressed my parents-in-law as “comrade uncle” and “comrade aunt.” He continued, “Now! This is your last warning! If we return and find you are still here, you cannot say Angkar didn’t give you fair warning!” We understood that to mean that we wouldn’t be alive to say anything.

Although the warning was effective and people packed with greater urgency, most were also cursing and complaining about Angkar’s lies. Once again, the road filled with refugees on the move. Although everyone was in a hurry to get their shelters down and packed up, there was no way to move quickly down the road. There was only keeping up with those ahead, and staying ahead of those behind. I pulled the cart, and my father-in-law and brothers-in-law pushed. My wife and grandmother rode on the cart, one of them holding our baby. Each day, we set out at sunrise and walked until sunset. We walked until we were too tired or hungry to continue. We made our way under the hot sun, after a few weeks in bare feet because our cheap thong sandals had worn out. The paved roads over which we traveled became so hot that we ended up with bird egg-sized blisters on our feet.

After a few days, I took a small packet of my most valued photographs, identification cards, and certificates that I couldn’t bear to bury in Phnom Penh, and threw them surreptitiously into a small river we were passing. I finally and irretrievably had realized that our lives were different, and that we were in dreadful danger from these new rulers.

After two weeks, we were approximately twenty kilometers from the capital. We decided to stop and rest for a few days because we were all exhausted. I found a good place to camp, and quickly built a shelter. When everyone was comfortable, I returned to the road, thinking there might be a chance I could see some of my relatives. I was amazed by how many people were passing by. There were also numerous motorized vehicles, and the pace at which traffic was moving was much swifter than on our highway. I walked to a hill overlooking a point where the traffic was moving slower, and discovered that the Khmer Rouge had placed a wooden barricade across the road. There, officials were questioning every traveler before allowing anyone entry into the new district.

I stood there hoping for a glimpse of my brothers, my stepmother, my wife’s older sister, or any other relatives. I did not want the officials to notice me, but I also didn’t want them to think I was hiding. As I watched for my kinfolk, I noticed that the Khmer Rouge had set up a long wooden table behind the barricade. Some soldiers were seated behind the table while others stood next to the table, urging each person in line to step in front of them. Behind the table, a long blackboard hung from the overhanging branches of a large tree. On the board, the soldiers had written a brief statement:

#1. Anyone who was born in the capital city of Phnom Penh,

#2. Anyone who was a former military officer, intelligence agent, or government employee, or

#3. Anyone who was an investigator, police officer, teacher, student, and so forth ... must come to the front of the line for immediate processing and transportation back to Phnom Penh.

For all those who come in response to Angkar’s message on the board, Angkar will reward you by allowing you to join a special group of Angkar soldiers.

The Khmer Rouge were telling people who acknowledged their identity as former government officials or military officers that Angkar needed their knowledge and experience, and were promising them jobs in keeping with their previous position or rank. After answering some brief interview questions, these people were quickly loaded into military trucks. As each truck left the area, the refugees aboard were cheering and shouting messages to people on the ground to carry to their friends and relatives. Others on the ground eagerly waited to register their previous identities.

I heard one man yell from his spot on a truck, “Please tell my wife and children I’m going to Phnom Penh to work for Angkar! I’ll be back soon to get her and the family and bring them home!”

Another man shouted, “I can’t believe Angkar has such a big heart! Angkar has liberated the whole country, then has forgiven us, and we’re going home to our jobs again!”

As the trucks drove away, I thought to myself, “I don’t believe it.” I’d heard too many lies and witnessed too many demonstrations of Khmer Rouge hatred and revenge against anyone they thought was associated with the Lon Nol government. I couldn’t fathom any reason why the Khmer Rouge would want those they considered enemies to work with them. I doubted the trucks were headed to Phnom Penh, but feared rather that they were going to a killing place.

As long lines of people awaited their turn to be interviewed, I made my way back to the shelter after having no luck in my search for relatives. When I told my family what I had seen at the control point, everyone agreed that the Khmer Rouge had some other motive for putting their message on the chalk board. We decided to stay put for a few days, as we had at the temple compound, to see what happened. Maybe we would be lucky enough to find some of our relatives.

Every morning, my brothers-in-law, Rann, Samnang, and Vibol, and I went fishing in the stream near our shelter, where bomb craters had created a number of large pools. During the war, the Americans had provided each Cambodian soldier with two nylon mosquito nets and, fortunately, we’d brought them with us when we left Phnom Penh. We used one to cover four or five people while sleeping, always including my grandmother, mother-in-law, wife, and baby. The other we used as a fishing net. It was an effective method, and we were able to catch more fish than we could eat. There hadn’t been much fishing during the war years, with many people having fled to the capital, so the streams, ponds, and bomb craters were crowded with fish. Most people had trouble catching them now, however, without fishing tools or nets. We caught large fish, averaging five pounds, a smaller kind with poisoned gills around three to four pounds, and several types of eels. We also collected shrimp, snails, and frogs.

My wife and my mother-in-law cleaned and cooked the fish. What we couldn’t consume immediately, we dried or made into heavily salted and spiced fish paste which kept a long time, for we feared a long journey awaited us. We traded the excess fish in the nearby village for rice and salt which we purchased in five pound containers. We had more rice and salt than we could eat, but these supplies were the new currency, so they could be valuable to us in the future. Ironically, the gift of a mosquito net from the American army helped keep us alive and a bit stronger for longer than most of our fellow travelers.

One evening, a man named Chea came by our shelter, introduced himself, and asked for food and clothing. He was somewhat lame and very weak. We welcomed him into our shelter and gave him food. After he had filled his belly, he began telling his story.

After Angkar took over Phnom Penh, Chea and his family left Phnom Penh on National Highway Two headed for Takeo Province, his wife’s birthplace. When they arrived at the Takhmau District checkpoint, thirty kilometers from Phnom Penh, soldiers questioned him about his occupation. Angkar was telling the people at the checkpoint there that they were interested in identifying Lon Nol soldiers and government employees because Angkar needed their assistance in the new administration. Angkar proclaimed that everyone was now one class, one nationality, members of one nation at peace. There was no enemy, no war. This sounded familiar to us, but we didn’t interrupt Chea as he continued his story.

He told us that a number of people rushed forward to register and be forgiven their past. Chea himself, as a former military policeman, eagerly signed up and, leaving his wife and children behind, climbed onto the truck taking people back to Phnom Penh. But the truck did not return to Phnom Penh. Instead, it went south about six or seven kilometers, where it turned sharply onto an old dirt road which led to an abandoned temple. Coming to a stop near a pond adjacent to the old temple, the Khmer Rouge ordered everyone on the truck to get off. The truck roared off down the road, leaving the former soldiers and bureaucrats standing by the pond.

Suddenly, machine guns began firing from bunkers inside the temple. Bullets flew and bodies fell. Chea quickly dropped to the ground and, rolling through puddles of blood, threw himself into the pond. The machine guns continued to fire until no one was left standing. Chea heard people screaming, and the smell of blood was thick in the air. Then he heard the sounds of a bulldozer. He dared not move. The bulldozer began pushing bodies into the pond already running with blood, and corpses and dirt tumbled down on him. Still he didn’t move. The screaming continued, as did the sounds of people trying to swim to safety. He heard the racket of soldiers running up to the edge of the pond and spraying bullets into the water with their AK-47s.

Chea remained hidden in the pond beneath lotus leaves and dead bodies for the rest of the day and halfway through the night, before he dared swim to the opposite side. Since climbing out of that pond, he had hidden in the woods, coming out only when he was so hungry he needed to beg for food.

I asked Chea to come with me to the cart so I could give him some clothes. As we walked there, he addressed me by the Cambodian term that has so many meanings, “respected friend” in this context. “Don’t trust the Khmer Rouge, bong,” he said. “They are liars.” After a moment, he asked, “Where will you go now?”

It took me a moment to answer him because I realized we didn’t know where we were going. I told him we would probably continue to head toward Svay Rieng Province and, since he had not found his family again, he could come along with us. Chea declined, saying he must continue to search for his wife and children, and he couldn’t risk being recaptured by the yothea. He thanked me for the food and clothing, and left our camp to lose himself in the crowd until he could again head back into the woods.

Chea’s story terrified me. It had been four weeks since the Khmer Rouge had captured Phnom Penh and “liberated” Cambodia from the Lon Nol administration. Many of the two million refugees from Phnom Penh had found that the villages which they’d had to abandon years earlier during the war, and were now returning to by force, were in ruins. They had to keep traveling. Others, like us, had no village to return to because our home had always been Phnom Penh. So, we had decided to go to the little village of Prayap in Svay Rieng Province where my father-in-law was born. He thought his relatives were still living there, and we hoped they’d be able to help us get a new start.

Khmer Rouge yothea were now ordering all the people who’d built shelters along the road to be on their way. Although less threatening than they’d been on prior occasions, they made it clear they would harass any roadside campers who didn’t get moving. They wanted to move every refugee to a village where they could be identified, registered, and questioned. In addition, the planting season was nearly at hand, and the supreme Angkar wanted everyone to be permanently located so they could work in the fields. As soon as we heard the soldiers make the announcement to move, we began to pack our belongings once again. We were soon on our way, traveling southeast down National Highway One toward Svay Rieng Province, to my father-in-law’s old village.

We made better progress now because there were fewer refugees traveling the roads. In a week we had covered another forty-five kilometers and reached the river crossing at Neak Luong. During Lon Nol’s rule, this crossing had been heavily used, a ferry daily carrying people across the river, and it was a scene of bombing carnage shown in the movie, The Killing Fields. Following the Khmer Rouge takeover, the ferry dock was abandoned and the harbor fell into disuse. People had to hire villagers from nearby small villages to take them across in canoes, and the fees they charged were exorbitant, paid in rice, salt, or other commodities since the economy was in shambles.

We had a large family so we were glad to have the rice and salt we’d traded for fish paste to pay the crossing fee of twenty cans of rice, or fifteen cans of salt, the unit of measure being a Nestle’s condensed milk can.

When we reached the other side, we immediately resumed the journey to Svay Rieng Province. We had no idea how long we had to go. By late afternoon, we were far from the harbor. The wind came up suddenly, large dark clouds hovering over us and quickly darkening the sky. Along with our fellow travelers, we hurried to take shelter from the coming rain. We finally found a place to stop and made a quick refuge, using the cart and stretching a tarp between two nearby trees. The rain began falling in torrents just as we finished tying down the tarp. A huge blast of thunder shook the ground, and my baby son cried out in fear. Lightning, thunder, and wind prevented anyone from relaxing.

The rain fell in sheets of water that washed over the roadway but, after about an hour or so, the storm ended as suddenly as it had begun. To the east, we could still hear thunder and see bolts of lightning sizzle across the sky, but the air smelled clean and the breeze was cool. Frogs and insects filled the evening with their croaking and clicking, celebrating the end of the rain. It was a peaceful time, but I was unable to rest or sleep. I left our makeshift tent and walked down to the National Highway; there, I found my father-in-law sitting by the edge of the road, sunk deep in thought. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. As he blew smoke into the air, he turned and saw me approaching. I sat down next to him.

“Papa, how far are we from Svay Rieng?” I asked.

“Son, I’d guess we have another forty-five kilometers to go,” he replied.

“Ba, our supplies are getting short, now,” I said. “Do you know that?”

“Don’t worry, son,” he said calmly. “As long as we’re alive, we can’t lose hope. Don’t be too concerned with our lack of supplies. We were lucky enough to be able to carry some of our valuables with us. We can trade them for rice and other food, if we need to.” He put his arm around my shoulders and said, “Son, do you remember the Cambodian proverb that says, ‘When you step into a river, you must not try to swim against the current?’ That means you must know how to adjust to your circumstances, whatever they are. You saw what happened to the people who were unwilling to follow Angkar’s way. They were taken away to be imprisoned, tortured, and killed, without even being charged with a crime, much less given a trial. Now that Angkar controls our country, we must be willing to go with the current, and not swim against it.”

I disagreed with Ba’s advice but, out of respect for him, I remained silent. I wondered if he’d forgotten Chea’s story. Surely, Chea had no reason to lie about what had happened to him and the others. Ba must have known the dangers of cooperating with Angkar. We stayed up talking until after midnight, when we were sufficiently exhausted to sleep and try to regain our strength for the next day’s travel.

We arose before dawn. As soon as the birds’ singing told us that day had come, my mother-in-law and sister prepared food. At daylight, we continued our journey. We tried to stay on roads which were paved because there the cart was easier to pull. Sometimes, we were forced to use muddier pathways, some filled with potholes, some very slippery. We made slow progress but eventually arrived at the border of Kampong Trabek District in Prey Veng Province. Signs on both sides of the road boldly proclaimed this to be the Eastern Region of Khmer Rouge territory. District soldiers instructed all former town dwellers to proceed to the registration area for processing. Soldiers were everywhere.

Reluctantly, we moved forward toward an old marketplace that had been destroyed by bombing during the war. Khmer Rouge yothea came from behind a control post and began searching everyone’s belongings, asking questions without allowing any time for answers. While we waited patiently for our turn, I noticed some people negotiating with several soldiers who wanted to confiscate their bikes and other valuables.

“Open your suitcase. Angkar wants to search it!” the soldier told the group. Then, looking at one of the men, he shouted, “Take off your watch! A watch with a gold strap made in a foreign country is one of the rarest and most valuable of items.”

Suddenly, one of the soldiers came toward my father-in-law and me, and ordered us to meet with his superior to be questioned. He escorted us to a bombed-out building, past piles of partially burned debris on the sidewalks in front. We entered the building to find long lines of people waiting to be questioned. The line which we were asked to wait in was the shortest. At the front was a long row of tables. Khmer Rouge officers sat at the tables, each dressed in black clothes, a checkered krama, the Cambodian scarf, and Chinese-style caps. The flag of the Khmer communists was hanging on the wall.

The krama has become the distinguishing mark of the Khmer Rouge, another part of Khmer tradition they tarnished, for the krama has been ubiquitously and uniquely Cambodian. About two feet wide and five feet long, we Cambodians use the krama as a scarf, hat, skirt, shawl, baby holder, and towel, to mention but a few uses, and we wear it in many colors. The Khmer Rouge preferred red, but wore it in other colors, too. Now, they used it as their banner.

A man in his thirties was sitting at the table at the front of our line and was obviously the interrogation officer. With a scar across his forehead, he was larger and looked stronger and healthier than his fellow soldiers,. From his arrogant behavior and the way his comrades yielded to his commands and respected his space, it became obvious he was the one in charge. He sat, smoking a cigarette.

Papa and I slowly advanced to the front of the line. After questioning, some people were allowed to exit the building. Others were led away by soldiers. I began to worry. I had no idea what answers caused people to be released or retained.

Now it was my father-in-law’s turn to be questioned. He walked from the front of the line to the interrogator’s table. I couldn’t hear the questions they were asking him, but in a few minutes he was allowed to walk out and, as he passed me, he whispered, “Son, be careful with your answers.”

I walked up to the table and stood in front of the officer. I didn’t want to appear frightened when I answered his questions, so I tried to remain calm, but I was terrified. I stood there for a long while, my heart pounding in my chest, until the officer finally spoke.

“Mit, I just came here from the city,” he told me, implying that he knew everyone there who was educated. “Don’t even think about trying to deceive Angkar. Please, just tell Angkar the truth. If you don’t, you’ll regret it. I need to have your biographical information. If you are honest, and cooperate with Angkar, the supreme Angkar will forgive everything you did in the past, and you will be free to live with your family. But if you try to conceal your background and Angkar finds out, you will die.”

The interrogation officer sat looking at the table, waiting to see the affect his words had on me. He finally glanced up and stated firmly, “You know, of course, that Angkar has a list of all military and government personnel.”

“I know this is the method the Khmer Rouge use to trap people,” I thought to myself.

“Of course, of course, Mit Bong,” I said, referring to him as a person I respected.

“Then, Mit, you’ll be sure to tell Angkar the truth, won’t you, Mit?” he said.

“Yes, Mit Bong,” I replied. Then the interrogation began.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

I didn’t hesitate too long, as I thought about what to say. I knew better than to tell him the truth, but I had no idea what my father-in-law had told him. Should I follow my father-in-law’s advice? Either way, if they discovered my identity I was in trouble. I remembered Chea telling me, “Don’t trust the Khmer Rouge. They are liars.” And, I had been witness to their first day of liberation. So, could I lie and make them believe me? I decided to be deceitful.

“Eh, Mit! What’s your name?” he repeated, shouting at me. “Why don’t you answer? Don’t you know your own name, Mit?” He threatened me again. Now, other soldiers were mocking me, laughing at me.

I meekly replied, “I’m sorry, Mit bong, but I’m a little nervous. I’ve never spoken to a man of your importance before. My name is Thy, Thy,” I stammered.

“Mit Thy, I remind you again. Angkar liberated people from the persecution of Lon Nol’s regime. Now, Angkar is merciful to people. Don’t be nervous. I want you, Mit, to be honest with Angkar and me. How long were you an officer for Lon Nol’s American capitalist regime? What was your rank? Angkar needs officers of rank, like you!” he said, then forced a smile.

I thought the officer must truly be an idiot if he expected to trap me or any of my fellow officers by this type of questioning.

“Sorry, Mit Bong. I was not a military officer or government official, and I had no link to Lon Nol,” I said to him.

“Mit Thy, I don’t believe a word you’re saying. I warn you, don’t lie to me! I can tell by your movements that you’re an educated man, not an ignorant peasant. You must have been at least a lieutenant. Or maybe you worked for the American CIA. Tell me. Who was your commander? What was his name?” he asked threateningly. He watched me carefully for any reaction, staring at me as he lit his cigarette. As he exhaled, he laughed in disgust. I exhaled, also, seeking to appear poised and relaxed.

“Mit Bong, I don’t have any knowledge about the CIA or Lon Nol’s infantry. I’m a street bicycle repairman. That’s what I do,” I said, with as much humility as I could summon.

“You, a bicycle repairman? A bicycle repairman?” he repeated. “Mit Thy, your father-in-law just told me he was a retired captain in the infantry. Would he allow his daughter to marry a bicycle repairman? How do you expect me to believe this story you are telling me?” He held his hands apart, and stared at me sharply.

I was shocked at the reference to my father-in-law. I couldn’t allow myself to think my father-in-law was foolish enough to divulge his background to this idiot Khmer Rouge. My heart was pounding as I searched for some way to convince the officer. As I stared back at him, it suddenly occurred to me that at no time during his questioning had I seen him write anything down. I was almost positive the same had been true for my father-in-law’s interrogation. This fool was acting as if he was making notes of my answers to his questions, but all he had on the pad of paper in front of him was scribbles, not actual writing.

He interrupted my thoughts, calmly continuing. “If I find out you’re being untruthful to Angkar, Mit, you will discover the consequences of lying. Angkar will kill you and your family. Do you understand? I’ll reward you if you tell me the truth now, Mit.”

“Yes, Mit Bong,” I replied softly. “It’s an honor to speak with Mit Bong. If I have lied to Mit Bong, I deserve to die.”

The interrogator was not convinced. I was beginning to think he wasn’t an idiot officer, after all. His questions continued.

“Mit Thy, can you explain to me and my yothea why your wife’s parents allowed her to marry someone of such low social status? You don’t seem to be her type, Mit Thy. You’re nothing but a low class bicycle repairman,” he said. And, as I considered my reply, he repeated that he would kill me if he discovered I was lying.

There was no way for me to change my story. I continued to lie for another few minutes in response to his questions, which he interspersed with death threats. Finally, I think he just got tired of me and gave up.

“All right, Mit Thy. I’ll let you pass for now, but you should remember that our Angkar has eyes like a pineapple: we have eyes watching in all directions. If you’ve lied to me or Angkar, you’ll be found out and, don’t forget, if you’ve lied and you decide to tell Angkar the truth, Angkar will forgive you and reward you.”

As he said this, I thought to myself, “Thanks to the Buddha,” breathing deep sighs of relief.

“Thank you, dear Mit Bong. Have a good day,” I said, and quickly made my way out of the building.

My father-in-law and the rest of the family were waiting by the cart. When they saw me approaching, I could tell they were as relieved as I was. They had become quite anxious because I had been in the building for such a long time. With few words, we began our journey again. As we traveled along, my father-in-law and I did not speak about the interrogation. I think we were both so grateful to have survived it that we dared not tempt fate by talking about it.

We were now traveling on National Highway One toward Svay Rieng Province and the Vietnamese border. The road was old and virtually in ruins. The only traffic we encountered were other families like us. Our progress, however, was slowed because of the number of checkpoints on the outskirts of each village and district. Each time we arrived at a checkpoint, the yothea rummaged through our belongings, ostensibly searching for weapons and documents that linked us to the former government. When they found something of value, they confiscated it. The soldiers threatened those who dared to argue with them, accusing them of being enemies of Angkar and threatening them with re-education. The soldiers labeled anything they wanted a symbol of Lon Nol’s administration, saying it had to be added to Angkar’s common property. In short, the soldiers’ searches were nothing short of stealing. We quickly learned to conceal our valuables in secret pockets, on the bottom of the cart, or on our persons so they wouldn’t be found.

We passed through a region where the roads, bridges, and surrounding areas had been heavily cratered by artillery shelling and bombs. I saw chain gangs comprised of Lon Nol soldiers working on the roads. In groups of four, they pulled oxcarts carrying dirt to fill in the craters. All were skinny and some were so weak they could hardly pull the carts. Some were spitting out blood. If the prisoners stumbled, the guards kicked them until they regained their footing. I saw several who had fallen get trapped by the ox yoke and trampled by the oxen.

As I pulled the cart past the prisoners, my heart was breaking. I wanted to help them, but there was nothing I could do without risking the lives of my family. I vowed to avenge the brutality I had witnessed, but that was a misty dream because I had less power each day under this regime. The view of these prisoners and the cruelty inflicted on them silenced us for some time. I tried not to even think about my time as a Lon Nol soldier and how, if the yothea knew this, I’d be on one of those chain gangs, if not dead.

We made good progress and soon arrived at the boundary of Krol Kau District in Svay Rieng Province. We were once again stopped by district soldiers to be searched and questioned. But this time, they ordered the adult travelers to register in the new Angkar district. Every head of family was taken to a different location, a good three hundred meters from the National Highway. Papa and I feared we would never see any of our possessions again.

A middle-aged man claiming to be the district governor spoke over a loudspeaker, ordering people to register at one of the intake stations. We realized that this registration applied to everyone who came from the city. The Khmer Rouge called these people Town People or New People. All of us who had fled Phnom Penh after April 17 were called New People, and were hated by the Old People and the revolutionaries who had supported the Khmer Rouge overthrow of Lon Nol’s regime. New People included everyone in the district towns as well as the newly arrived urbanites, like us. Old People referred to the peasant villagers who’d been living under the Khmer Rouge. The governor ordered everyone to declare themselves either members of the former military or government, educated people, students, or commoners. He said Angkar would reward the person who identified a former Lon Nol soldier or employee, or anyone with an education. I couldn’t help but nervously scan the crowd to see if there was anyone I recognized who could turn me in.

As I waited in line, I spotted my younger sister, Bunthy, returning from her interrogation. I was thrilled to see her face, glad she was still okay. Then, it was my wife’s turn. She stood before the official seated at the table, looking nervous. The soldier questioning her was in his mid thirties with a brutish physique. It was no wonder my wife was frightened. When he began to speak, it was obvious by his accent and poor grammar that he was an untutored peasant dressed in a fancy uniform. The only skill he possessed was the ability to intimidate New People.

“Mit Neary,” he said, addressing her as a female comrade. “Don’t be afraid. Our Angkar has never harmed an innocent person. Don’t believe the rumors you’ve heard. What is your name, Mit Neary?”

“Yes,” she timidly replied, showing her politeness by answering in the affirmative. “My name is Devi, Mit Bong.”

“Tell me, Mit Neary Devi, what was your occupation during the previous administration?” he asked softly. “Were you a student?”

Devi paused a few moments, glancing upward as if searching for a response that would satisfy this thug. From my own experience, I knew how she felt, and why she hesitated. I was holding my breath, fearful that the idiot interrogating her would lose patience, when my father-in-law came to her rescue.

He was standing behind her and, when he realized she was in trouble and her answer might jeopardize the family, he leaned out from the line and told the Khmer Rouge officer, “Mit Nephew, this is my daughter. She is very distraught, and frightened. She stayed at home to take care of the baby and do all the housekeeping. Sometimes, she went to market with her mother to help sell fish. That’s all she did, Mit Nephew.”

“Yes, Mit Bong,” said my wife shyly. “It is as my father has spoken.”

“Are you sure this is the truth, Mit Neary?” he shouted at her. “Don’t lie to me or to Angkar!”

“Yes, Mit Bong,” she responded. “It is indeed the truth.”

The Khmer Rouge officer continued with his questions. “Mit Neary, if you know anything about your husband’s profession, you can tell me now without fear. Angkar will reward you for telling the truth.”

When I heard him, I became so frightened I almost panicked, about to run up to answer for her. I began to perspire, and quickly wiped my forehead with my sleeve. I saw my death sentence approaching as I waited in terror for her answer. I feared her, because I didn’t trust her. My wife, I could not trust. After all, she was still angry with me for not being present at the birth of our son. Did she understand the consequences of a careless comment?

She glanced behind, and our eyes met for a moment. Would she betray me? Then, she turned to the Khmer Rouge officer and said, “Mit Bong, I don’t know much about what my husband did during the day. He left each morning on his bicycle carrying his tools, and he returned home each evening. I cannot tell you more.”

The young Khmer Rouge official looked at her for a moment and then, surprising us all, said, “It’s okay, Mit Neary. You can go now. But if Angkar later finds out you have lied, you will pay with your life.” The officer seemed to take great pleasure at making this threat to my wife, but she didn’t meet his gaze. She just abruptly turned, and left.

I was breathing a long sigh of relief as I watched Devi walk back to the cart, when Ba stepped up in front of the young official. Without waiting for the first question, Ba told him that he was a former military officer. I was stunned, dumbstruck at what he was saying. The only possible reason I could think of for why he was telling the truth was to make the falsehood he had told about Devi more believable. After several more minutes of questioning, I was standing, still in shock, when two soldiers were called in to escort Ba to a holding area for those being taken to the re-education center.

As they led him away, a soldier was telling him, “Angkar is proud of you, Mit Bu, for your honesty and courage. You will be rewarded, Mit Bu, for confessing your background. Angkar will forgive you. We are taking you to live at Wat Krol Ko to cure you of the brainwashing you suffered during the Lon Nol regime.”

He continued, “Don’t worry, Mit Bu, it will be only a short time until you return to your family.” He made a point of speaking loud so that all could hear what he was saying.

I suddenly realized it was my turn to be questioned. I was so dismayed to see Ba being taken away, I wanted to weep. I knew I would never see him again. After all the atrocities I’d witnessed and all the lies I’d heard from these barbarians, I worried that I wouldn’t be able to control my temper. I thought of the innocent victims I’d seen the past few weeks, slaughtered by these monsters. Nothing would ever be the same for me and my family. I’d never again know the life I’d had before. And now, I had to conceal my background not only from the Khmer Rouge but from my countrymen who would report me to earn favor with Angkar.

The Khmer Rouge began the interrogation, which by now had become familiar to me. “Mit, I warn you! Give true statements about your background. Don’t lie to me. Our Angkar informants live among the people so, if you lie, we’ll find out and you’ll be punished or put to death.” He stared at me. “What is your name? What were you doing in Phnom Penh? How old are you?”

The questions went on and on. The soldier kept going back over the same questions to confuse me and catch me lying to him, but the calm way I had been with previous interrogators during the past weeks now served me well. Several officials joined him, and stared at me as if they recognized me. My heart was thudding rapidly and, although I was terrified, I managed a faint smile. The soldiers began whispering among themselves, then began laughing.

“Mit Thy, are you sure the statements you have given are all true?” asked the officer. He asked the question as if he knew I had been lying.

“Of course, of course, Mit Bong,” I replied. It was much too late to stop lying now.

He glared at me for a moment, then said, “Mit Thy, you are free to go.” I was astounded to hear these words. I nodded my head repeatedly, trying to show respect to him. I thanked him, walked quickly away, and found my family sitting on the ground near the cart waiting patiently for me. They had been crying over Ba. As they looked up at me, I suddenly felt the heavy burden of responsibility for caring for them. With Papa gone, I was the one they would depend on.

We saw yothea escorting former military officers, government workers, and students to the Wat Krol Ko compound for re-education. We strained to find Ba among them, but we couldn’t locate him. I was saddened to think of Wat Krol Ko being desecrated in such a manner. The sanctuary was a beautiful building constructed in the classic Cambodian Buddhist architectural style, a holy place for Cambodian people to honor the Buddha and practice their religion. Now, it was a penitentiary for torturing and executing Angkar’s political prisoners. We heard people near us say that people taken for re-education at the temple seldom left alive.

My mother-in-law and wife were still crying as I began pulling the cart. It was much more difficult without Ba’s help. I knew I would tire more quickly and frequently, and would require many more rest stops along the way. Our progress, though slow, was steady. We continued to seek out paved or dirt roads along which to travel, but I often had to pull the cart through rice fields because of fallen trees or bomb craters blocking the roads. Most of our travel was along muddy paths or through fields beneath the blazing sun.

Three days later, we came to the banks of a small river where a group of our fellow travelers were waiting to cross the river to reach their village on the other side. There was a bridge across the river, but it was barricaded with a large sign forbidding anyone to cross it.

The river was actually a swamp, with water that came to my chest and mud that reached my knees. There was no way to cross without a boat. I was already exhausted and didn’t look forward to unloading the cart and ferrying my family and our supplies to the other side, floating the cart across, and then reloading everything on the cart. As I began searching for a boat to hire, a large group of young Communist villagers came floating down the river. They were dressed in the familiar black clothes of peasants, but they had no weapons and were quite friendly.

Without asking, they began taking things from our cart and loading them into their boats. At first, I thought they were stealing our supplies but surprisingly they assisted us in crossing the marsh.

We made the crossing quickly, and were directed to a village called Svay Cha Leu, in Svay Rieng Province. It was too late in the day to travel farther, so the village head told everyone to find a place to construct a shelter. He directed travelers without shelter materials to sleep in an old school building nearby.

The following morning, the village leader and district governor gathered the new arrivals together to make an announcement. They told us this was as far as we were going because this was the last village Angkar wanted people to occupy, since we were getting close to the Vietnamese border.

They also told us that the regional Angkar office was ordering a final investigation of each of us to determine if any Lon Nol military or educated people had slipped through undetected. We were subjected to another week of threats, lies, propaganda, and questions. I heard all the same words spoken that I had been hearing since these people brought freedom to us. They used all the same methods to convince us to declare ourselves former Lon Nol officials, teachers, or students, and to inform on our fellow countrymen if we knew of anyone trying to conceal his or her identity. At the end of the week, Angkar arrested more people and sent them to the re-education camp. Now, Angkar had classified all the New People who had come to the village to reside there as Svay Cha Leu villagers. In the end, my family and others were sent to a village about ten kilometers away called Prayap village. It was the village in which my father-in-law had been born.