Bamboo Promise: Prison Without Walls

By Vicheara Houn

This is the autobiography of a woman who grew up as the sheltered and privileged only child of a wealthy, prominent Cambodian family. In her young life, she was oblivious of the impoverished lives of the underclass in Cambodia, and of the politics and world events that were sweeping her and her country toward one of the great catastrophes of the 20th century.
The rich Cambodian culture and all the competing Western influences are vividly displayed in her descriptions of her life with her father as he tries to mold her into a highly educated and independent woman who still exemplifies all the virtues of the idealized, traditional Cambodian woman.
The political tides that enveloped Southeast Asia in the 1970s began to become real to Vicheara when her fathers responsibilities in the Lon Nol government caused him to personally negotiate with a group of Khmer Rouge insurgents, including inviting them to a dinner at his home.
On April 17, 1975, Pol Pot - the monstrous leader of the communist guerrilla organization transformed Cambodia, the country of his birth, into a Prison Without Walls. This was one week before the fall of Saigon, Vietnam. This extreme form of radical communism eliminated religion, culture, currency, personal property, hospitals, schools, the banking system, and every other vestige of modern urban life. They committed class genocide against Cambodians educated urban citizens through starvation, execution, and forced labor. Nearly half the population of Cambodia died in the four years that followed, many in the Killing Fields, and as Toul Sleng Prison, the slaughterhouse in Phnom-Penh.
When Vicheara, near death from starvation, staggered out of the Pol Pot Time in 1979, she was alone, an orphan, a stranger in a world forever changed. The Cambodia of her childhood was gone as were most of her family and friends. Her journey through horror, privation and humiliation finally led her to the United States in 1984.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Mar 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781458202239

Vicheara Houn

Vicheara Houn was born in Phnom-Penh, Cambodia, to a wealthy family that was politically and socially prominent. She lost her mother at a young age and suffered through starvation, illness, and the agony of losing her entire familyincluding her then husbandunder the Khmer Rouge regime. This book continues her account of battling post-traumatic stress disorder that she began in volume one of Bamboo Promise. She lives with her third husband and son in Arizona.

Book preview

BAMBOO

PROMISE

Prison

Without Walls

VICHEARA HOUN

abbottpresslogointeriorBW.ai

Bamboo Promise

Prison Without Walls

Copyright © 2012 Vicheara Houn

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4582-0223-9 (e)

Printed in the United States of America

Abbott Press rev. date: 3/8/2012

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

~ one ~

PART I 

~ two ~

~ three ~

~ four ~

~ five ~

PART II 

~ six ~

~ seven ~

~ eight ~

~ nine ~

~ ten ~

~ eleven ~

PART III 

~ twelve ~

~ thirteen ~

~ fourteen ~

~ fifteen ~

PART IV 

~ sixteen ~

~ seventeen ~

~ eighteen ~

~ nineteen ~

~ twenty ~

~ twenty-one ~

~ twenty-two ~

~ twenty-three ~

~ twenty-four ~

~ twenty-five ~

~ twenty-six ~

~ twenty-seven ~

~ twenty-eight ~

~ twenty-nine ~

PART V 

~ thirty ~

~ thirty-one ~

~ thirty-two ~

PART VI 

~ thirty-three ~

~ thirty-four ~

~ thirty-five ~

~ thirty-six ~

~ thirty-seven ~

~ thirty-eight ~

~ thirty-nine ~

~ forty ~

~ forty-one ~

~ forty-two ~

~ forty-three ~

~ forty-four ~

PART VII 

~ forty-five ~

~ forty-six ~

~ forty-seven ~

EPILOGUE

FAMILY TREES

GLOSSARY

I have received a best review from Harper Collins when the book reached the Editorial Desk.

Harper Collins wrote:

Although Vicheara has written this book in her second language, it is a remarkable memoir. The stilted language can prove a bit of a barrier at times but the storyline and characterizations completely make up for this. She evokes a time, a place and the people who lived in it with incredible skill.

The real grip of the story is the tumultuous era in which Vicheara lived. Her life is set against the backdrop of the Khmer Rouge, a dark shadow on Cambodia’s past (which draws thousands of tourists every year). The era and its effects are morbidly fascinating, and their horror comes across fully in Vicheara’s later life.

The rule of the Khmer Rouge is a dark shadow over Vicheara’s life, too. The book’s first chapter is a flash of the future, in which the newly married protagonist is forced to leave her home by the impending threat of the KR troops. All the ingredients for total holocaust are here, and the tension is palpable. One can sense a storm coming.

The next chapters focus on Vicheara’s younger life, which is fascinating in its own right. Torn between traditional Cambodian culture and Western values, Vicheara speaks for whole generations. A feeling of being torn between cultures is prevalent in modern society, of course, so her feelings still resonate today. Add to this cultural climate a wealthy family, a mother who dies when she is young, an evil stepmother, a father who is abusive and indulgent by turns – this would be enough material for a fascinating memoir by itself.

The next chapters play out like a nightmare. Vicheara and the reader have become to used to a life of luxury that the jarring scenes, the hunger and the poverty that follow are extreme to the point of horror. The narrative tone is strong, and she keeps a firm grip on her personality through these chapters, even though her perspective on the world changes radically. These pages are truly haunting.

With the right title and the right package this book could sell fantastically well. The story is moving, funny, gripping and tragic by turns, and although it would not be a straightforward publishing task, I feel very strongly that it should be taken on board.

I can vouch for the fact that it is a fantastic story and that I genuinely wanted to read the manuscript, rather than just taking it on as a task. It was compelling. It was moving. It excelled.

From KayChristina, authonomy member said:

Bamboo Promise - is written by a true Cambodian lady, who was an adult when the Khmer Rouge took her country, and informs how it was betrayed by those in thrall to Mao. Vicheara’s recollections are vivid, historically accurate and informative, and her words really do burn off the pages like napalm.

Sadly, some might well let this happen again - the power-hungry never go away, not really. They only lie low, as vermin do. If more people learn the truth of what happened, how their own leaders betrayed them, it can be prevented. Her people, those who lived through these atrocities with her, whose parents and grandparents did, are crying out for this work, the truth, to be read by the world. Thousands of Cambodians support this work, knowing its truth

Vicheara represents not only her own people, but represents triumph over adversity for oppressed people everywhere. And as her Father always told her, no one must be allowed to take away your own mind, your HOPE.

Picture%20203.jpg

(picture of me in Khmer wedding traditional outfit)

INTRODUCTION

One day, more than ten years after settling in America and struggling every day to begin a new life, I sat alone by a window watching a beautiful little bird pick up a tiny twig in his beak and fly away. I wondered how far that bird had to fly with those twigs, one by one, to make a nest. How hard he would work! How remarkable that this bird would be so devoted to his family! The miracle of family, family devotion and sacrifice was symbolized to me by that little bird and his labors.

Although I had lived every day of the past ten years with sharp memories of my past, I was suddenly flooded by sorrow. The realization that Papa did not exist in this place was suddenly, sharply, and acutely painful. I cried aloud for him and asked why I was here without him. I needed him. I loved him. Tears burst from my eyes and I knelt down and asked him for forgiveness for all the times I had hurt him with my selfishness and stubbornness as a teenager. I remembered resenting Papa for nagging at me when he gave me advice. I remember being angry and childishly covering my ears when he lectured me. I remembered muttering, I am not young anymore, do not treat me like a kid!

I remembered wishing I could live on my own without hearing his voice. I did not know what I did not know. The family values, advice, discipline, love and caring that Papa gave me did not make sense to me at that time, but suddenly, now, they did and I desperately wanted to hear his voice one more time. From that moment, I felt I needed to write him a letter as I felt his spirit still around me, watching me all the time to comfort me and ease my frustration and pain.

My letter to him began as just a few little scratches. Then, as I wrote, many memories – so long suppressed, returned and my scratches became 40 pages, then more than 100. My letter to Papa has become the story of my life.

The Bamboo Promise is my memoir to honor my family who were victims of Pol Pot and his monstrous Khmer Rouge (KR) during the Cambodian Genocide. While members of my large, extended family suffered and died in different areas of Cambodia, my immediate family spent their last miserable days starving to death in a lean-to, next to a bamboo patch, in Battambang Province, District of Preah Netr Preah¹. As long as I live, bamboo will remind me of that God-forsaken place where I held my father as he tried to whisper his last words to me. Even though I will never know what he was trying to say, I have tried to guide the rest of my life by two principles that he stressed to me over and over as I grew up: Don’t forget who you are and where you come from, and Education never can be stolen.

Bamboo is my promise to Papa that when, not if, I survived the Pol Pot time, I would finish my pharmacy degree. I kept that promise to honor my father. This story, including the legends and history, is my personal history as I learned and lived it. It is what I saw, heard, felt, and learned. All the characters are real, although I have changed some names to protect the privacy of other survivors. I am neither a historian nor a political scientist. I am a survivor and the story I tell is how I and my family experienced the world during this terrible time and what we believed was happening. My hope is that young Cambodians and Cambodians in the Diaspora will read this and many more erudite texts to learn more about what happened to their country and its people. I hope they will become educated and understand how a radical, violent political movement, one bent on death and destruction, was able to consume over two million innocent souls, while the world stood by. It is only when you know why something has happened that you can prevent its re-occurrence.

The weaknesses in Cambodian society, in particular our sometimes blind and unquestioning obedience to our leaders, our failure to educate all our citizens, and our acceptance of a society based upon class distinctions rather than the value of all people, paved the road for Pol Pot and his angry and vengeful followers. Our neighboring countries and the rest of the world allowed it to happen for a variety of reasons – primarily, of course, self-interest.

This book is meant to share my own life experiences with the rest of the world. It is important that the world hears how Cambodians, my family and I included, lived through Hell. Cambodians were executed, starved, and tortured to death. Some survived, but were traumatized, and permanently scarred. The world could learn more from my experiences, to protect their own countries, and to not allow genocide to happen. My book means to educate the Cambodian people to learn the history of their own country as well, and not let history to repeat again. More importantly, my book shows how naïve we were to believe that nothing could happen to our country. My father, who had promised me that nothing would happen to us, to Cambodia, is the best example of this blindness. That is the price for ignoring the signs, and assuming that something cannot happen simply because you can’t imagine it.

When bamboo gets old, young sprouts emerge from the base and move out in new directions. They grow and multiply. Bamboo never dies; it just moves on, as we all must. We must move on, as wiser and more compassionate people who realize that all must take responsibly, to make our world a just and humane home for all of her people.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to give a big thank you to my mother-in-law, Carol Matarazzo, who made a commitment to make my story readable by helping me with grammar and vocabulary. Because of her commitment and patience, my scratches have been transformed into a book.

I would like to thank my son, Christian Tan, who encouraged me by bringing my first forty pages to his English teacher at Metzger School in Tigard, Oregon, to fix my stumbling grammar and vocabulary. Unfortunately, neither of us remembers his name.

My deep appreciation to my friends, Charles King, and Shelly Weintraub who were dedicated to helping me with editing.

It was not for nothing that the KR, an army dressed from head to foot in black like crows with hearts to match, became known to my people as Black Crows. Later, in my life in the West, I learned the expression A Murder of Crows. It was so appropriate.

~ one ~

A MURDER OF CROWS

On a hot morning, April 17, 1975, the day after our New Year celebrations in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, artillery bombing shook our house like a thunderstorm carried in on a monsoon wind. My dogs barked incessantly, alarmed by the sounds of bombs and guns – noises that had been far away before this day. Mimi, who rarely barked at anything, was frightened by the loud noise; he barked for a few seconds, then gave up and came to quietly sit by me with his tail between his legs. The other dogs gave up challenging the firing and ran to hide underneath the table and chairs. They all sensed something ominous was afoot.

We had endured those distant sounds during my wedding barely four months earlier, but now it seemed as if the war was next door. Mid-morning, I looked out the gate to see neighbors leaving their houses heading towards the main street, edging past cars backing down our street. When I stepped outside, I saw others waving homemade white flags, dancing, hugging each other and cheering, Hurrah, Hurrah! We finally have peace. The war is ended! No more rocket shells! No more killing! No more corruption! We are socialist. We are equal.

These people were trying to convince whoever might be watching that they were happy, but in reality, they were as terrified as I was. We all smelled danger coming. We didn’t know what would happen, but many, like my father, still had hope that the KR would settle the regime in a peaceful way when they took over. Papa had left for his job in the national government earlier in the day, so he was not home to help us understand what was happening and we were very worried about him. I felt panic begin to rise in my throat with all the confusing activity in the street. Was it true the KR had taken over the government? Where was Papa? Who would protect us?

Black-clad KR soldiers began to arrive in the main street. They wore the same hard expressions I had seen when Papa, in his capacity as a top government minister, had invited some KR representatives to our house for a negotiating dinner. My heart dropped at the sight of them. My hands and my feet felt paralyzed. When I recovered from the initial shock, I ran back inside right into stepmother who was frozen with panic in the doorway. Soon we began to hear cars speeding down the street. Riding on them were very young KR soldiers, some as young as ten, and all with the same cold and angry faces.

Then Papa drove up. He also seemed confused with what was going on. He told us that he had changed his mind about trying to get to work and that he had sent Un, our chauffeur, home to be with his family. As Papa stood in the gate, we were surprised to see a man we knew among the black-uniformed KR soldiers. It was Sambath, a man that Papa had hired to work at his pharmaceutical plant. The truck slowed down a little at the gate and Papa caught Sambath’s eye and asked him, What is going on, comrade?

It seemed Sambath was no longer Papa’s employee, since he did not answer. He merely gave Papa an ironic smile. You call him comrade? I asked, as Papa walked back to the house. He ignored my question. He told our servant, Kilen, to close and lock the gate and told all of us to get into the house and be quiet.

Papa appeared very worried, even though he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t call anybody as all the phone lines were cut off. He impatiently turned on the radio to hear the news, but there was no sound and this only increased his anxiety. However, it soon became clear that the KR were in power all over the country, when the radio crackled and we heard a very shaky and defeated voice, "I am Hem, Ket Dara. Lon Nol’s military are ordered to put down their guns while they are in negotiation with KR. We….."

Silence.

Then we could hear mechanical sounds of the speaker in the background - click, click, click.

Silence.

Then, sounds of a struggle were interrupted by an angry, aggressive and disrespectful shout, We are not here for negotiations. We have won the war by force of arms.

We were all terrified.

Then KR music replaced the Khmer Republic song which had been playing in the background. Their anthem sounded like a Chinese communist song, very aggressive, fast, sharp and violent. Next, we heard that Mr. Long, Boreth ², the foreign minister and acting prime minister of the Khmer Republic, and Prince Sirimatak (Prince Sihanook’s cousin) had been arrested and possibly executed by the KR.

Why did Sambath ignore you Papa? What happened to all the KR leaders that you invited to have dinner at our house a month ago to negotiate the peace? I asked, unable to make sense of it all.

Before Papa could answer there was a loud, aggressive banging on the gate door. I followed Kilen as she went to open it. There stood a child soldier, about ten, in a black uniform with the signature KR krama (scarf) around his neck and a black hat. He was holding a very large gun which looked heavy but the boy held it with confidence. Leave this house immediately! he ordered in an angry voice that hadn’t yet changed. If it hadn’t been for our fear and the gun, it would have been funny, like my cousins playing a war game.

"Why, Samak Mit³?" I asked, as I heard Papa call Sambath earlier.

We must search for enemies.

Enemies? What enemies?

Americans!!

We haven’t seen any Americans. Where are they hiding?

They are hiding among you!

They are not in our house. Why must we leave?

We must search for ourselves. Leave this house immediately. His young voice became more irate as I questioned him.

I asked softly, How long must we be gone?

Three days, he said and stalked away.

I returned to the house with Kilen, trembling, holding back tears. Papa, what is happening? What should we do? Who are the enemies? They said the enemies were hiding among us. Who are they? I asked frantically.

Stay where you are. We won’t leave yet. Papa said calmly. Maybe something will change. I will call my friend, Phlek, Pheun to find out what should we do. But the phone line was still dead. Papa was worried about his friend and business partner, and also about his nephew, Dr. Thor’s family. They lived nearby but we could not make contact with them because the road was blocked by KR troops. Although this was so distressing at that time, I believe if Papa had connected with either one of them, especially Phlek, Phoeun, then Papa would have brought all of us to follow them and we would all have been executed. It was not for nothing that the KR, an army dressed head to foot in black with hearts to match, became known to my people as crows.

We heard someone shake the door gate again. "Open the door, Baung⁴!" We opened the door since we recognized the voice of Aunt Sichoeur, Papa’s older half-sister.

She was there with her whole family. Her husband, Phan, had panic in his voice as he told Papa, It was difficult and risky to make the trip here. The KR is everywhere. They have started to expel people from the city. They are arresting anyone in a military or police uniform. They strip off their clothes and tie their hands behind their back. I saw them on the way coming here! The roads are very crowded. Doctors are forced to leave the hospitals and patients are being chased out into the street in their nightgowns; some die on the spot. Money is being destroyed and many people are senselessly being killed at random.

What are we supposed to do? Papa asked. His voice was shaking and this terrified me. My Papa was always in control. I instantly thought of my cousin, Or, who was a police inspector.

You must destroy your identification cards and anything that could tell the KR who you are, Pou⁵ Phan said, his voice thick with fear and desperation. Put on old clothes and make yourselves look poor. You must not look wealthy. Prepare simple food and be prepared to leave the city for a few days. Don’t take anything that will identify you as upper class and that includes the dogs. Simple people don’t have toy dogs as pets.

Where will we go? Papa asked, his voice edged with defeat.

Kompong Thom, my natal province. You may be safe there until you can return, Pou Phan offered.

We stayed quiet inside the house with the gate closed and locked as the daylight waned. We kept the lights off so the house would seem deserted. We lost our appetites, couldn’t sleep, all we could do was wait and see what would happen next. Our neighbor left his house that night without saying goodbye to us. The people across the street had left days before. My husband, Leang, and I finally went outside to check on Papa. The moonlight was enough for me to see how nervous and anxious he was as he decided how to best protect his family. We all were waiting for his orders as the leader of the family. Sitting in the dark under the jackfruit tree, we just looked at each other and waited.

As usual, my hated, childless stepmother held our servant Kilen’s son on her lap - Papa’s son, it was rumored, but I did not believe it. She tried to keep him quiet but he was a toddler and did not understand the dangers that we all faced. When he protested, she squeezed his head to punish him, Quiet!! KR will kill you if you make a noise. Koy responded by crying loudly and his mother, Kilen, picked him up and covered his mouth to stop the noise.

Papa’s Gun and Gold Bars

Why don’t we decide to leave tonight when the weather is cooler? Stepmother asked Papa. He got up from the bench, Not yet. I want to wait a little longer in case the KR leaders decide to let us stay. Papa turned to his younger half-brother, Sunthary, and my husband and ordered, Dig a hole in the little room next to the garage.

Papa went inside the house. Sunthary, who lived with us, said, He must have kept a lot of gold and money in the house. He wants to hide them in the ground.

Leang started digging the hole while Pou Sunthary was standing with both hands on his hips. Are you going to help me or just be the boss here? Leang asked, with mild irritation.

This is dumb; the KR will discover it, Sunthary replied.

Papa came out with a big box. Where do you think is the best place to put this? He asked all of us.

You must put it in a metal container to protect it from the humidity. I saw you have a military box sitting in the garage. That will be perfect, Pou Phan assured him and Papa nodded. Papa turned to me and said, I have hidden American dollars, bars of gold and a set of jewelry.

Is the jewelry mine? I asked.

Yes, I’ve been saving it for you. They are the best quality emeralds. I never let your stepmother know about it, or she would want them all.

Why didn’t you give it to me for my wedding? It is not too late to give it to me now. We will need this to survive, Papa, when we leave the house. Take the money, too.

No, leave all here, he insisted. He told Sunthary to come back inside with him. I did not follow, since I knew Papa wouldn’t listen to me.

My husband put his arms around me and said, "Don’t get upset with Papa, Aun⁶! We are all in danger; no one knows what will happen tomorrow."

Then Papa came back with Pou Sunthary. "Everything is done, Kaun⁷?" he asked my husband. I looked up to be sure it was Leang that Papa was talking to him so kindly. It was amazing that Papa had changed from being so dismissive and suspicious of my newly-wed husband - even though his attitude toward Leang’s family never did change.

"Bat⁸, Papa," Leang replied, with a wry smile.

His gun is hidden in a box in the ceiling over the living room, Pou Sunthary whispered in my ear.

Keep silence, sh… Papa shushed at both of us and then he told Leang, "Kaun, go to sleep. Everything is going to be OK." Leang smiled at him, then at me and we left.

My husband whispered, "Papa called me Kaun twice. Did you hear it?" I nodded but it was hard to pay attention to Papa’s sudden change in attitude with all the turmoil surrounding us. I remembered the words of Pou Ban, the fortuneteller, who had warned us to leave the country before April. He had told me that ‘things will be upside down’. Papa dismissed this talk, but it made sense to me now. I wondered if it now made sense to Papa.

I looked at my dogs that were following me everywhere. I knelt down to respond to their wagging tails, caressing then gently. Did you eat dinner yet? The tails were wagging harder and Mimi seemed to look up at me sadly. I felt he was aware of what was going on, based on my tone of voice and my emotions. Pray with me, Mimi! I hugged him, I love you so much. I don’t know how to protect you when I cannot even protect myself. I can only hug you and tell you how much I am going to miss you. I have to leave the house and leave you. I will pray for you, Mimi.

I got up and looked for Papa. I tried to imagine what he was thinking as he walked back and forth, head down and hands crossed behind his back. I knew he was worried; thinking to find a way to save the family. He seemed so strong to me. He did not show any sign of panic or frustration, as I did. If he was scared, he did not show it to anyone. During that last night in our house, Papa ordered us not to turn on any lights, nor cook food for dinner. We kept our conversation very low to pretend that the house was unoccupied. Papa still hoped that tomorrow might bring better news.

As I walked into my bedroom, I felt it was my last time to sleep in here. I looked at my red blanket, a gift from my cousin, Phach. Should I take it with me? I looked at the picture of my Mak ⁹who had died when I was eight, "Mak! I will leave you tomorrow. I cannot take you with me as I have nowhere to hide your photo, but I know I take your love with me. I will remember you forever."

Messages from God

I got into bed and rolled onto the red blanket. My husband held me and told me to forget about everything, just sleep. I slept and dreamed that two men were carrying a throne along the side of a big farm field. I knew the man on the throne was a King. When they got near me, the men stopped and the King left the throne to work in the field. I awoke to my husband shaking me, "Aun, what is going on?" he asked.

Confused, I asked, Where is the King?

"You were screaming as if someone tortured you, Aun."

I shook off the blanket with my feet and sat up, telling him about the dream, "What do you think it means, Baung?" I asked.

I don’t know. Hopefully, it means something good will happen. My mind was racing to figure out what the dream was telling me. Maybe it was as the fortune teller said, ‘things will be upside down.’ I fell back to sleep.

"Aun, wake up. What is going on? Why are you crying?"

"Oh, I dreamt again, Baung. It seems God has important messages to tell me tonight. I did not sleep well."

What do you see this time? He held my hand and kissed me on the cheek.

I dreamt that all my teeth were falling out, I used my tongue to verify my teeth were still there. I had been superstitious all my life; I knew that dreaming about losing teeth meant that people in my family would die. I began to weep. I am worried about Papa. Will Papa die?

"Keep praying, Aun, he said. More bad dreams came, even with Leang holding me tight. When I awoke the next morning there was blood on my hand; I never found out what caused it. I did not know then that it was an omen of the rats we would have to live alongside and fight for food. I looked through the windows and went outside to check out the neighborhood. It was very quiet. It seemed we were the last ones to leave. I found Papa outside; apparently he had not slept as he still wore the same clothes. Are we going to leave the house today, Papa?"

We are waiting for your cousin, Or. Or was like a son to my father and had lived off and on with us for years. We were especially worried about him because he was a police inspector and we had heard that the KR was arresting, even killing the police.

I looked at my favorite clothes and my bedroom for the last time. I went through all my cosmetics and all the medicines that I kept in the house – both my husband and I were pharmacy students and my father owned a pharmaceutical production plant. I knew I should bring basic medicines with me to protect the family. It was a decision to be made immediately, as there was no more time. My fear was telling me to take them all, even though my father was still convinced that we would be home in three days. I filled up a large leather bag. The last thing I packed was the embroidered lace blouse I wore at my wedding and some fancy lingerie bought from Paris. I wore a long, green sampot ¹⁰and a black, long-sleeved blouse. I took every piece of quality jewelry that I had and hid it in a bag that I tied around my waist. It was a considerable amount since, like many Cambodians, the family’s wealth was often in jewels since the banking system could not be trusted.

Cousin Or never came. I have decided to leave without him, Papa finally made a decision and walked to the car. My aunt’s family decided not to follow us. We will be reunited if we are still alive. Please take care of my parents! My aunt’s voice was choked with tears.

Pou Phan left us with his last words, "Leah heuy¹¹, Baung. God will take care of you all. I hope we will return home in three days."

My grandparents, my father and step-mother, Kilen and her son were in one car with Papa driving, my husband and I in another car with my grandaunt and Pou Sunthary. Before we left home, I brought out a Le Creucet pot, food, my favorite red blanket and clothes. I packed clothes for Papa in the luggage and tried to slip them into my trunk. But, Papa caught me with the last load and said, "No, put them back in the house, Kaun. Silly, do you want to be noticed by KR with luggage and a red blanket?"

I showed him the pot then, This needs to go with us, rice and palm sugar, too.

Papa pushed them away, Take them back to the house. I don’t want to get the car dirty. He walked to the car, We do not need to take anything; we’ll buy food along the way. In three days, we will return home.

No, keep the pot, stepmother made a decision, a good one it would turn out. Before I got in the car, I went to talk to my dogs, I rather not see you all killed by KR or die of starvation in front of me. We do not know if we are going to live or die.

I said a tearful goodbye to all of them. Having to leave them behind was breaking my heart, but we knew that pet dogs would mark us as bourgeoisie and that was far too dangerous. Mimi did not follow me as he usually did, but sat in front of the house, watching us leave. He did not cry as we did, but his beautiful eyes gazed mournfully at us. I cried as I said goodbye to the house and my dogs. Even though we were supposed to return in three days, I was filled with dread that we wouldn’t come back and I would never see my dogs, my best friends, again.

Everyone was quiet, each of us trying to deal with the question of what would happen next. Friday, April 18, 1975, was the day I looked back at my house, at the gate with Papa’s initials ‘KH’, and it would be a very long time before I saw it again. Finding myself at the mercy of Pol Pot’s KR and in such fear, not even knowing the living hell to come, my privileged childhood in this house seemed to belong to somebody else.

PART I 

CHILDHOOD

The year I was born my parents were happily living in a one-floor brick apartment in the center of Phnom Penh. This apartment was built about 20 feet from the road, near the Independence Monument. We had one servant, Choen, who helped clean the house, do dishes, laundry, and grocery shopping. My cousin, Phach, babysat me and cooked for the whole family.

~ two ~

MY FAMILY HOME

We had moved from this tiny apartment in the city center to live in the wonderful house I would come to love, and be forced to leave that awful day in 1975. The house was given to my parents as a gift by my maternal grandmother, Sem. This house was a real family home. Built of a special wood from Kratié¹² province, the house was located on 182 Phleuv¹³ Samdech Ponn. The main gate door was stenciled with my Papa’s initials, KH, as decoration. The house had about 4,000 square feet on two floors with three big bedrooms, one dining room and big, long living rooms. Here we employed two female servants, one to cook and another one to do the laundry and clean the house. The kitchen was a separate building in the rear of the house, as was common in many hot climates.

Ghosts Come in Through the Hole in the Floor

When I was around five years old, my Papa took me to his paternal family home in Srok¹⁴ Peam Chileang, province of Kompong Cham, in the eastern part of Cambodia. This province ran along the Tonlé Mekong and shared its borders with Vietnam and other provinces. The house was unoccupied at that time. Papa stopped in front of the house and announced, This is the house where I was born. A man in his late thirties came out to welcome us. Everything looks good, friend. You’ve maintained the property very well, Papa said to the man, patting him on the shoulder.

The man smiled back and responded "Bat. Papa and I walked upstairs and the man followed us. I kept looking back. The man smelled of tobacco and sweat and I was scared of him. Without looking at the man Papa asked him, Do you have a shovel?"

"Bat, we have a very small one downstairs," the man answered, turning back down the steps to retrieve the shovel.

Not now. I will need it later, Papa said, stopping him. I kept an eye on the smelly man as he continued to follow us up the steps. The house was built on wooden stilts in Khmer traditional village style with twelve steps up to the main door in the center of the house. There were windows on both sides of the main door, and a large balcony above the entrance. Small rooms downstairs accommodated the servants. Upstairs were three bedrooms, each with one small window. I followed Papa as he checked each room. This room was my bedroom, next to your Grandpa’s, he said, as we entered a small room. Your Aunt’s room was in back, next to the kitchen.

I followed him from one room to another as he pointed out the purpose of each room, until we reached the kitchen. It was dirty and the unsealed wood was covered with dust. The kitchen was merely an overhang from the house. It consisted of a floor and a roof. There were no walls, so some of the floor boards had begun to rot in the elements. I was afraid to enter, but I was more afraid to lag behind with the smelly man. A big earthenware jar sat at one corner of the room. Papa walked toward the jar and I followed cautiously.

"Toy chenh - Stay back! The jar is filthy, do not get too close! Papa said. Without listening to Papa, I slipped behind him and bent over the jar, which was about one foot high, to check what it was in there. A spider crawled to the edge of the jar to greet us. I jumped away grabbing Papa’s hand. Papa laughed at me and explained, The water from the jar was used for cooking and bathing. He turned to the caretaker, the outside of the house also needs to be kept clean, Papa said, in his booming, authoritative voice. I pay you to do a good job. I pay you to keep the house clean inside and out. If you cannot do the job, I will find someone who can and I will kick your ass out of here!"

The man shrank at the sound of Papa’s voice, nodded his head and said nothing other than "Bat, Bat." I looked at him, as I wanted to tell him Papa would definitely kick his ass for real.

There was no furniture to catch my attention inside of the house. The unsealed wood floor was crafted of a very smooth, shiny wood. The pieces of wood were purposely not fitted closely together- leaving openings of about three centimeters that allowed fresh air to enter, making the house feel cool in the hot weather. I stared down at the curious openings, Papa, can a thief poke a knife through these holes? I worriedly asked, pointing at a particularly large gap.

We were safe in the village. Thieves come in through the door and windows, not the floor, Papa assured me. You see those wooden hooks? he asked, pointing at two big wooden hooks on the inside doorframe. I nodded. And that big wooden bar? I nodded. At night your grandfather put this bar across the door on the hooks, and no one could open the door from the outside. He also put those metal bars over there across the windows so no one could come in that way either.

How about ghosts? Papa, ghosts can come in through the hole in the floor or through the window!

Ghosts are just a silly fairy tale. There are no ghosts, he replied, as he walked away.

I followed him and protested, "There are too ghosts, Papa, Yey¹⁵ Kong (Papa’s stepmother) told me that banana trees are a ghost’s favorite way to get in the house and that is why there are no banana trees near the windows."

"Yey Kong is silly, too. Forget about ghosts. Come, we will go to the gravesite of your first grandma," Papa said, and I knew the conversation about ghosts was over. He took my hand and led me to the front garden.

I said no more, but I knew I was right. There was a reason why my grandfather planted banana trees everywhere on the property, from the front yard to the back, but he did not plant them by the windows. There was a reason many people made banana offerings to appease the spirits. There was a reason Yey Kong made a bowl from banana leaves, filled it with rice, and other delicacies as an offering to the spirits. No matter how silly Papa thought ghosts were, I knew they existed. I knew they traveled through the banana leaves and got in the house.

The smelly man was waiting for Papa downstairs. He smiled and bowed his head to show respect to Papa. "Here is the shovel, Lok.¹⁶"

We are leaving now. Do you stay here at night? Papa asked, instead of thanking him.

No, I go home. The man was standing by the stairs watching us leave.

The Duty of the Oldest Son

Papa grunted, took the shovel from him and walked toward the garden. As I followed Papa into grandfather’s garden, the overpowering scent of jasmine and gardenia filled my nose. Although overgrown, all grandfather’s favorite flowers, such as golden needle, bird of paradise, and hibiscus seemed to be welcoming us. I wanted to stay and play in the garden but Papa took my hand and, holding it very tightly in his to keep me from lagging behind, he quickly led me through the garden. "You need to walk quickly, Kaun. We need to get back home before it is dark, he said, tightening his grip. As we stepped outside of the property, Papa stopped and pointed at the lake, This is the lake where the boat people trade fresh fish and vegetables to the villagers. They are Vietnamese. They make a living catching fresh fish to sell at the market. The Vietnamese catch the fish and the Cambodians ferment and dry them," he continued, still walking so quickly I could barely keep up. This day the lake was quiet, no trading, only residents coming to the lake to take baths and carry water back to their homes for cooking.

As he talked of the local people, he was interrupted by cling, cling, cling coming from behind us. As we turned, a boy of about ten years old approached, riding a very old bike. Get out of my way, cling, cling, cling. He did not have a horn on his bike, but was imitating the sound of the horn. Papa pulled me to the side of the path to get out of the way of the bike.

You are naked, I shouted at the boy. He turned back to me and stuck out his tongue. He rode noisily down the path until he disappeared. "Chkout¹⁷! He stuck out his tongue at me, Papa," I angrily said to Papa.

Life in the village is different from the city, he said calmly. Papa led me through the village. My steps quickened to keep up with his long strides. All along the way Papa waved to villagers he knew, exchanging greetings without stopping. I could feel the sweat running down my back and into my pants.

I’m tired. You are making me run and get all wet from sweat. I can’t walk anymore, my legs are sore, I whined, refusing to follow him.

"We are almost there, Kaun. You can walk just a little bit further. Come. I reluctantly took his hand and continued. When I thought I couldn’t take another step, Papa stopped and pointed at a mound of dirt, Here it is. This is your grandmother’s grave. Stay here while I dig her up." This statement amazed me and I could not imagine what he was doing. Dig up my first grandma?

I stood still for a moment. I then forgot how tired I was when Papa began digging with the small shovel. I moved closer to him; I had to see what he was digging for. I watched and with each shovel of soil, my mind filled with ghosts and the holes in the floor that I was sure every ghost could squeeze through while I slept. After many shovels of soil, Papa bent down and picked up something from the ground. What is that? I curiously asked.

Your grandma’s skull, he answered, brushing the soil from the rounded object, He picked up another stick-like object and said, And this is one of her leg bones. I stared, amazed and a little frightened. Papa continued, "Your Grandma died way before you were born. When she died, it was tradition that bodies were buried. Ten years later, we are to dig up the bones and honor the remains. I am the oldest, so it is my duty to take care of her."

I quietly watched while Papa collected all her bones, washed them with water from a nearby well, then again with coconut juice that he had carried with him in a leather bag. He then perfumed the bones with a special eau de toilette and put them back in a leather bag which we then took to the monks to be kept in the temple.

This journey to his paternal village was an important journey for me. Even though I was very young, Papa felt it was necessary for me to understand the duties of the eldest child to his deceased parents. He wanted me to know what the gravesite looked like, what the bones looked like. He also wanted me to see where he grew up, the sort of environment he was raised in. I learned much of his personality on this trip as well.

~ three ~

A SMART AND BRAVE GIRL

After moving to the house at 182 Phleuv Samdech Ponn, when I was about six, Papa resigned from his government job and accepted a new position as General Manager of a private pharmaceutical plant. This well-known company was, at that time, owned by his friend, Phlek, Phoeun, who also served the Cambodian government as a Minister of Interior.

I grew up as an only child. Because I almost never played with other children, I was socially inept. I would become annoyed if they were playing with my toys or if they were dressed poorly or were dirty. I would quietly sneak behind the adults’ backs and pinch the younger kids whose parents came to visit my parents. Only my Mak knew I was the troublemaker. My threatening glare at the child would stop him from tattling on me. It wasn’t just the kids. I didn’t like many people at that time, particularly some of my older relatives. Because of some peculiar family circumstances that I only understood when I was older, I had the feeling that no one in the family liked me except my Mak, my Papa and my cousin Phach. As a result, I would try to create trouble for those people by tattling to my Papa on everyone who was not nice to me. These people usually said mean things about me behind my Papa’s back, and threatened to spank me, or they would call me names.

Mak took me everywhere she went. She tickled my chest every time I came close to her or she saw me naked. I sucked my thumb when I heard her talk about me to her friends. My Papa told his friends that I was a bright girl and courageous.

Pinching

My first school experience was at a private French pre-school. I learned quickly and soon was speaking French at home with everybody. Papa was so proud of me. My teacher said I was intelligent and qualified me to go to the French Elementary School, Petit Lycée Descarte, despite lots of trouble pinching all boys at school who annoyed me. Pinching was my secret weapon to punish everyone when they didn’t make me happy.

At four years old, I was mad at a pedicab¹⁸ man who yelled at me so I pinched his penis. My Mak had asked me to take the riel (Cambodian paper currency) to pay the pedicab man. Instead of paying him in full riel, I tore it in half to make it fifty cents. I used to see adults tear them in half, so I did too. Seeing me do this, naturally he complained loudly and demanded the rest of his money, Nobody wants it. Why did you pay me so cheap? Well, his penis was visible through a fold in his culottes so I pinched it. Then he screeched and took off without taking the money. My strategy had worked. I then brought the money back to my Mak. This story was told many times by everyone in the family.

However, when the pre-school year ended, I was put in a Cambodian public school instead of the private French school. What made Papa change his mind after he had said that I was ‘a smart and brave girl’? I never heard a reason, but this decision made me upset with Papa because he took me away from my favorite school.

I Want from her ‘Just the Bone’

Sutharot Elementary school was a girls’ school run by Princess Kanitha Raksmei Sophorn, the aunt of Prince Norodom Sihanook. My grandaunt, Houn, wife of Nhiek, Soung, a dental surgeon, was the school principal. Since she was very strict, and especially since there were no boys in school, my Papa felt confident that I would have the structure needed to grow up as an appropriate young Cambodian woman.

My Papa believed he could best influence me to be proper by disciplining me while I was still young. He believed that keeping me away from boys at a very young age would prevent me from wanting to date when I grew older. Generally speaking, he sheltered me in many ways to ensure that I would not damage the family reputation. He believed in the old saying: ‘Bend the bamboo when it is still a baby!’ Innocently, I didn’t understand how I could be compared to a young bamboo, and how I would be bent.

When my grandaunt talked to me, I only looked at her mole- so big, round and strong, sitting on her upper lip. A mole indicates a strict person, I was told. But Mak had a mole on her lip, too and she was kind, and she loved me. I hoped Grandaunt loved me like Mak. My grandaunt Houn put me in kindergarten with a teacher named Sokhon. I heard my grandaunt tell her on the first day of school that, I want from her (me) just the bone. I had no idea what this meant, but I didn’t think it was good.

As I heard this, I stepped back and got ready to run away, That mole woman is going to take my bone? But my grandaunt Houn ordered me to stay and told me, She is a good teacher and you will learn a lot.

Sokhon smiled at me and assigned a seat with a gentle voice to comfort me. ‘I want from her just the bone’ didn’t translate well, but it meant ‘do what it takes to make sure she learns and succeeds.’ I didn’t understand this until I was older and thought about it. During this kindergarten year, I learned the Cambodian alphabet quicker than anybody else in the class.

As my elementary schooling went through the years, one thing I never learned in class, and it frightened me to death, was to memorize the multiplication tables. I was good in everything else except mathematics. I hated it. Every morning, before class started, we all stood up together and recited the multiplication tables. I never could finish with everyone else. When the other students finished, I was called to the blackboard to recite by myself the tables 2 to 9. Every morning, my fingertips were beaten with a bamboo stick because I could not remember the multiplication tables. I was put in a corner in front of the other students for an hour for punishment. I received this punishment until my teacher got tired of me. I still didn’t know the tables. My opinion was, My bamboo is not meant to be bent in this way. Let me grow my own way.

Stupid Mole – Stupid Teacher

Maly, my new teacher, made me feel that she would be nicer than Sokhon since she didn’t want my bone at the beginning of the class. However she also had a mole on her face that worried me, a light brown one that sat on the cheek, not a sharp and dark one, right on the nose like Sokhon. In her class I wondered why I always wanted attention from her. I wanted to impress her and my classmates to prove that I was a good student, despite my issues with multiplication. I raised my hand high to be called on when I knew the answer. But, my teacher ignored my raised hand and called on me only when my hand was down under the table. I did not understand her tactics, therefore I thought she was really stupid to not know who to call on. One day, when she did not call on me, I whispered to my classmate, "She is really Chkout (stupid), and she has a chkout mole."

My friend raised her hand. "Neak Krou¹⁹! She called you chkout!" She pointed her finger at me - straight into my face.

I was embarrassed in front of the class, but I was also mad at the girl who told on me.

"Why do you call me chkout?" The teacher asked, standing over me. I had no answer. Her face became red and her eyelids began to blink fast. I knew she was angry. I looked down at my shoes with shame.

You will go to your grandaunt. I went to see my grandaunt, the school principal, for counseling and punishment. When I met her in her office, she did not look mad at me, but instead she told me she would not punish me. She would let my father choose the punishment. When I got home Papa wasn’t there so I hoped he wouldn’t be told and I would be safe. I was very frightened. It seemed like hours before he returned. The thought of the beating is sometimes worse than the beating.

Faked Stomach Ache

I stayed hidden in the room and tried to behave, hoping to escape punishment from my father until the day was over. The time arrived. I heard a heavy step and a familiar voice called my name, Vichearaaaa! Where are you? My door was flung open. As I came out, he ordered me to sit down on the floor. Immediately, a bamboo stick about a foot long was whipping my legs, arms and back. I begged him to stop beating me. I cried and tried to grab the bamboo stick, but there was no mercy. You don’t study at school. You learn nothing at school!

Suddenly the stick was taken away by Mak. Stop beating her. What is going on? You beat her like animal with no pity.

I was told she was not good in math at school. When the teacher called her up, she insulted the teacher. Papa shouted and pointed his finger at me.

Not true! I defended myself.

Stop talking back. Papa was looking for the stick to beat me again. But Mak hid the stick behind her back.

What did you do? Mak tried to save me.

"I called her chkout because when I raised my hand she wouldn’t call on me."

"You are chkout, she said to Papa. Be patient and learn to listen. You hurt your own child with no reason. It hurts me when you hurt her."

Bend the bamboo when it is still a baby.

"Chkout. You bend too hard, the bamboo will crack."

That evening, Papa decided to teach me the multiplication tables after dinner to keep up my grades. I was so frightened and intimidated by his loud voice that I could not answer his questions quickly enough. He lost patience with me and kicked my chair angrily until I fell off. The next evening after dinner, I pretended to have a stomach ache. You can’t teach her by yelling at her, Mak said very decisively to Papa. She won’t learn anything that way. Can’t you see she has a stomach ache because she is afraid of you? Mak knew how to handle Papa.

Go to bed, Vicheara, said Mak Make sure you wash your feet and clean your teeth first. Remember our Khmer culture: the happiness is in the feet at night, on the face in the morning, and body at noon. I will be there in just a minute to take care of the stomach ache. Mak hugged me before letting me go. I walked slowly with both hands across my tummy. After I disappeared from my parent’s sight, I jumped on the bed and laughed.

After that, no more beatings from Papa when it came to my school work. I was satisfied with my faked tummy ache. It saved my life. I didn’t know if my Papa cracked my bamboo or I cracked it on my own. I was not sure how clever and valiant I was.

~ four ~

ORPHAN

Papa remodeled the first floor of our house and turned it into four small apartments. One apartment was rented to a Vietnamese family with four kids. I was very happy to have them as playmates. I learned to speak Vietnamese as I played with the children and interacted with the family.

I remember Mak collected the rent money and kept it for grocery shopping. She now had only one servant to do everything in the house. Mout was a widow with two boys who lived with her family; she was honest and hardworking and my favorite maid. Every night, after she was done with all the work, she told me ghost stories and fairy tales until I fell asleep. She always cooked my favorite foods.

One day there was exciting news, after saving enough money, Mak planned to go on a trip with me. She came up to the dining table, where I was eating a bowl of soup. "How would you like to go to Hong Kong, Kaun?" Mak asked, as she brought me the dress that I should wear after breakfast.

Where is Hong Kong, I asked.

"It’s in China and we have to fly there, so we have to go have our picture