Land of the Free, Home of the Brave
by Ronnie Yimsut
The loud speaker from the airport paging system flowed and echoed through
the hallway of Washington National. Last call for flight departure
reverberated into a jumble or word and tone that I could not understand.
The mass confusion of people rushing into different direction mixed in
with people who wearily walked around like zombies.
I momentary fell asleep on the seat still hold a tag with my native name,
"Ranachith," along with my refugee case number "11-25-62" written in
bold, black letters. It supposed to help identified my individualism to
who ever that supposed to pick me up and move me out again. In the past
few days of my first transcontinental trip, the refugee case number and
name were all I have for the people to take me from one place or one
plane to another. I was just another number amongst the thousands of
fellow travelers.
I was tired, almost exhausted, after a very long, long trip across the
globe.
"United Flight 07 for blah, blah, blah" The intercom blared out in a
jumble of words I could not comprehend.
I was once again lost and alone in a mass confusion at Washington
National. It was October 30, 1978 at 12:05AM EST. I still need to go to
the toilet, very badly.
Sitting there feeling awfully uncomfortable, my eyes scanned the cramped
airport hallway for sign of who ever suppose to pick me up and move me
out again. I was not sure where I was at the time after five long days
of traveling from Bangkok, Thailand. I knew that my final destination
was Washington, DC. My eyes fixed on who ever possibly be looking for me
by raising and then showing my refugee case number written boldly on the
plastic bag. After so many false attempts, I finally gave up trying to
do that. I sagged back in my seat, felt very confuse and very jet lagged
at the same time.
A short, middle-aged lady with round face, shoulder length-black hair,
and light complexion rapidly approached my direction, followed closely
behind by a tall man. If they were couple, they looked almost like
Abbott and Costello to me. Yes, I remember the old and very funny Abbot
and Costello movies, voiced over in Khmer, during the old days in Siem
Reap. The Chinese looking lady was some 30 yards away, but she was
actually smiling and looking toward my direction. I looked behind me
just in case the eyes contact was for someone else. Nope, it was for me!
I got up slowly and raised my refugee case number with both my hands as
I had done hundreds of time previously. I sheepishly greet the two
strangers. Both my hands were in a "sampass" gesture, a form of Khmer
greeting, directed toward the two people who were approaching at a rapid
paste-almost at a running stage.
"Welcome home! Welcome home! We are here! Sorry we are a little bit
late!" The lady assured me cheerfully, in Khmer, as she was giving me a
great big hug.
"How are you?" The more darker complexion and tall man simply said and
he was smiling.
"Jumreap suor!" I simply greeted him properly in Khmer as my reply.
I was very nervous and wasn't sure what is the proper way. These people
were a total stranger to me. I have not seen these people before. I
only knew that they existed, knew their name, knew that they related to
me, and knew that they were my sponsors. I was hoping that they were who
I thought they were. If my assumption was correct, they would be cousin
Khen and her husband, Chun, of Arlington, Virginia--my sponsors.
"Come, come. Let us go. You must be very tired!" The stubby lady
cheerfully engaged. She was very talkative, I thought.
I just shook my head in reply, followed them, and then just go off toward
the first international toilet sign I found. I learned to recognize the
symbol during the past five days in and out of international airport, the
first time in my young life. Properly relieved, I splashed handful of
water on my face, rinsed my mouth, and tried to straighten my cloth and
my messy hair. I returned to a waiting and still warmly smiling couple,
cousin Khen and her husband Chun of Arlington, Virginia.
I was a little tired from my first ever jet lag, but I was not
sleepy-even if it was past midnight-when we pulled out of Washington
National crowded parking lot. On the way to the Chens' home, I kept very
quiet in the back seat and only replied when directly asked. I could not
believe how fast we were going, at least 100 kilometers per hour! There
was no bump on the road and the ride was very smooth. The blurry of
street lamp went by quickly as the Chevy station wagon picked up speed.
It was a dark and chilly night outside. I could hardly see outside, just
streetlights and other vehicles on the highway. So much traffic even
during this late of night. Everything appeared to be very neat and
orderly. From what I can see through the slightly foggy window, I was
mesmerized by the enormity of the United States of America, my new home.
It felt absolutely foreign and very cold to me.
Cousin Khen was trying her best to cheer me up and was busy explaining
just about everything and everywhere we drove pass. I didn't pay much
attention and allowed her to go on and on. She was that good! I'll get
along just fine with this lady, I thought.
Cousin Khen's husband, Nek (brother or cousin) Chun, on the other hand
was the quiet kind. He was very much the "shut up and drive" type of
guy. He only laughed occasionally when his wife next to him in the front
seat executed the punch line. He was a difficult person for me to read
because of his quietness. I have to wait and see if we would get along.
I have to live with these two strangers and so I was listening more than
talking-which is fine with Cousin Khen. She did most of the talking
anyway.
After a little more than 7 months of misery in Thailand's finest
accommodation for us refugees, I was at long last in the "Land of the
Free and Home of the Brave." What does all this mean to me? I was a
young teenager in a strange land, with strange people and cultures, and
was being taken home by two almost completely strangers. I was freezing
cold in that late October night, even with the car heater at full blast.
I have not a clue of where I was supposed to be heading. I was still in
shock and reality had not yet really sunk in. The jet lag did not help
much either as my ears still hurt from the changing air pressure inside
the plane during the many take off and landing I made. I still heard the
engine noise ringing in my ear. The up and down motion of the plane was
still with me as the car continued to push forward.
The Chen's family car slowed down and took the off ramp into an area
called "Shirlington." It was soon came to a complete stop. I looked
left and right nervously to familiarize myself with the area packed with
similarly looking two story brick duplexes. I was still looking for the
door handle to open and let myself out when cousin Khen got out and open
the door for me.
"Welcome home! Welcome home!" She exclaimed excitedly in great
anticipation of our arrival.
It was ten past two in the morning of October 30, 1978. I grabbed my
tiny bag of belonging, including my refugee case plastic bag, and stepped
out into an unwelcome blast of October chilled breeze. With just a
simple short sleeve shirt on me, I was very cold. Cousin Khen's husband,
Nek Chun, was already at the front door and unlocks their brick duplex.
"Come on in! Come in!" Cousin Chun said with a sweep of his arm toward
the inside while holding the door.
I walked right in followed by the two couple who began to hang their
winter coat onto a rack near the doorway. I was still in a nice-thin
Charlie Chaplin printed pink shirt, so there was no need to do anything
else but stands and wait. I felt cold, even inside of the house. I was
not use to the cold climate. I have to adapt as best as I possibly could
from now on.
I looked around and admired at what appeared to me was a very luxurious
home full of home made paintings and framed photographs on the wall.
Cousin Chun was a professional painter, cousin Khen later told me. She
also told me that he could not make a living doing that line of work. He
was a "starving artist" as she put it in layman term. My eyesight was
fixed on the tray full of deliciously looking Washington Red Delicious
apple and Thompson Seedless grape. My mouth was watering at the sight of
the well displayed, fined arranged fresh fruit tray. I only heard
stories about these fancy fruit, but never fortunate enough to have any
in my life before.
"Go ahead, have some! Eat as much as you like! The fruit tray is for
you." Cousin Khen was still excited.
I node my appreciation and grabbed the biggest apple and picked out a few
grapes and tossed into my watering mouth.
"Out here, people usually picked a small bundle of grape to eat-not one
or two pieces at a time like that. You can contaminate the whole thing
if you do that." Cousin Chun said calmly and seriously.
His comment was bordering between an instruction and a stern criticism.
He would repeat the exact same thing again 20 years later, when I have
reached adulthood. Of course I never did learn my lesson of sort well,
but I never forget his comment. I did not dare touching any of the sweet
and tasty grape again that night. I just held on to my apple and sat
quietly, with my pride a bit damaged.
The two asked so many questions and more elaboration was needed. I
obliged as much as possible. It was close to four in the morning before
we all head in to bed. Cousin Khen showed me to my room down in the
basement of the duplex. Coming from a place where there is plenty of
monsoon floodwater, I did not even know that it is possible to actually
have a place deep under ground like that. I was amazed! My new bedroom
was absolutely a marvel. It was a heaven compare to what I am used to
have. In a mere instant, I was suddenly transformed from a refugee, who
was living in a very crowded and inhumane condition, into this large
private room complete with an indoor toilet, shower, and a wash basin. I
slept in a sleeping bag and on the linoleum floor, but it was still an
extreme luxury to me. I could not have asked or dreamed of any better.
I was as happy as a clam. I was contended.
I was rudely awakened by what I perceived as two unruly kids. The two
little girls, ages 8 and 10, raced down the basement stairway and
screaming excitedly in English. They shook and tried to pull me out of
the sleeping bag. I just fell asleep not more than a moment ago it
seemed. I looked at the clock on the wall and it was 6:22 in the
morning. I have a little more than two hours of sleep. I was a little
sleepy and even a bit upset from the disturbance. The two, Cynthia and
Samini, essentially dragged me up the stairway and then out toward the
living room window.
'Snow! Snow! Look!" They pointed to the white mass that completely
carpeted the ground out side the window, which wasn't there earlier.
More of the cottony looking stuff was still pouring down from the early
morning sky with large-heavy flakes. Arlington, Virginia USA was facing
the year first snowstorm. A welcoming snowstorm for me, perhaps?
"Sno....oh?" I tried to mimic the two girls.
"Ah, I see that you have met Sami and Cynthia." Cousin Khen said while
she was walking down the stair from the second story in her blue and
white checkered bathrobe.
"These are my children. That is Sami, the oldest, and Cynthia, the one
with the missing front teeth. How do you like your first snow?" She
continued cheerfully before moving on into the kitchen area without
waiting for my answer.
Cousin Khen and family made me feel right at home. The only problem for
me was that I have to get use to "family" life again after more than four
years without one. It will be a tough adjustment for me personally, I
knew right then. Family life was completely ripped away from me by Khmer
Rouge's Angkar and I was facing with something I had lost for years, a
family again. The Chen was to be my family now, regardless. I knew I
have to adjust and adapt.
It was a bit awkward, as I could not communicate with the two Khmer kids
who could not speak Khmer. With my English restricted to just the ABC
alphabets and a few words, we got by with lot of hand gestures and body
language. It would have to do for the moment. In a mere instant, I
became Samini and Cynthia big brother-like it or not.
The Chens have been in the U.S. since the early 60's as exchanged
students. They only returned to visit Cambodia a few times before the
war came to Cambodia. Their last trip back was in 1973 during the height
of the SE Asian conflict. When Cambodia fell to the Khmer Rouge regime
in 1975, they were already permanent residents of the United States where
they have made their home. Cousin Khen worked for the Voice of America,
Khmer Language Services, part of a U.S. Information Agency. Her husband,
Chun, a former "starving professional artist" owned and operated a couple
of coin-operate Laundromats, which he seemed to be very proud of. "It
paid the bills," he often said. Samini was their only child until they
adopted a Khmer orphan girl when she was just 3 years old. They were
living in a mostly White middle-class suburb of Washington, DC. Their
cozy family of four have now became five, instantly.
It would snow for the next two days until the accumulation was knee deep.
I found myself outside playing with the girls in the snow-even though I
did not have a coat or snow boots on. I was freezing, but at the same
time I was also having too much fun playing in the deep white snow, the
first time in my young life. Cousin Khen soon took me to the local mall
where we got lost for hours and came out with the bare essential. A new
pair of boots, a pair of tennis shoes, a bunch of fruit & loom under
wears, and a few shirts and long pants. Cousin Khen was quite frugal
with her spending and she watched every dime, carefully. Her husband was
completely the opposite. He bought me a cherry bed and mattress set, a
new BMX bike, and other toys--all in the same day. The item purchased
were new and very luxurious to me. I did not know what all of them cost
the Chens. It must have been a lot of money involved. I was very
grateful to both of them. My spending habit, as I learned, was somewhere
between cousin Khen and cousin Chun's spending habit, which I feel a more
balance. I am conscious, frugal and yet only buy the best.
Within a week of my arrival, more medical clearance was required and
immunization regiments began. That same first week, I found myself on a
bus amongst others heading toward Wakefield High in Arlington, Virginia.
With very, very little English, I was on a bus to a brand new school with
other local students. The majority of them were Whites and they did not
take kindly to a new kid in the block who looked and acted very "unlike
American."
My first experience of racism in my new home and country was on that bus,
on that first day of school in Arlington, Virginia. The students on the
bus would call me all sort of names, ranging from "Gook" to "Charlie,"
from "Dirt Bag" to "Shit Head." Of course I could not understand what
the words they had used meant at first, but I was wise enough to know
that those words were degrading and humiliating. They would laugh and
cheer. Theses people could be so cruel; I could not comprehend it at
all. I was utterly humiliated. I was alone.
The prejudices, the numerous tormenting insults, and sometime physical
attacks were getting so bad that I ended up walking the 8 miles round
trip to school alone. I did nothing wrong! Absolutely nothing to
anyone! "Why do they hate me so much? What the hell am I doing here?" I
often asked myself. I did not feel that I belong here. I was not
feeling welcome to my new country. I should not have been here. I was
facing with major social problem and growing up crisis all at once.
Wakefield High School in Arlington, Virginia, my first high school in the
supposedly "melting pot" of America, was no picnic either. Racial
integration and harmony ran smacked into stone wall at this very public
inner city high school. A mixed bag of racial groups or gangs would
fight against each other for the most trivial reason. Black against
White, Asian against Hispanic, Arab against who ever, girl against girl
and so on. I would not even dare to go to the boy bathroom alone for
fear of being attacked by other students. Bomb threat and weapon of all
kinds was a daily fact of life. Although I have never cut or stab any
students there, I did carry a knife for protection. I had to brandish
the knife often as a deterrent from being attack. Gun have been pulled
and pointed at me on a few occasions, although no shot was ever fired
directly at me personally. It was not the healthiest environment
conducive to higher learning that's for sure.
It was ironic really. I was trying to escape extreme violence of
Cambodia only to face more of the same in an American institution, in an
American public high school. My survival instinct kept telling me
repeatedly to hit back with a pre-emptive strike. Kill or be kill, it
was telling me again and again. On the other hand, my moral conscience
was telling me that I had fought so long and so hard to gain my freedom,
to survive thus far. Why would I want to destroy all that I have gained?
I was so confused and it did not help my situation a tiny bit.
I attended Wakefield High School in the required English as Second
Language (ESL) program. It was an intensive language-training program
before a test was given. Once passed, a student may move on to other
subjects being offered in high school. I excelled in school with A and B
average most of the time, in spite of the social problems I was facing.
My grade dropped to a C average once and cousin Khen and her husband got
on my case really hard. I kept the grade up and would not dare let it
slips again, for fearing the wrath from the two cousin couple.
I passed the ESL test with flying color within a year, not the required
18 months. I advanced to regular high school classes, such as English
literature, history, biology, math, and science. I became one of the
school volunteer tutors to some 14 other newly arrived Khmer refugee
youngsters. Little did I realize that in doing so, I was a defecto
leader of a gang because of our need for a "safety in numbers." We would
go to the bathroom in a small group of four and almost never walk around
in the school yard alone. I made a mistake once and had my head shoveled
into a urinal and received a black eye in addition.
I struggled on and did my best to avoid serious trouble. Often time,
however, trouble found me, regardless. I was a survivor of a Cambodian
jungle, and now I have to survive the American "urban jungle" again. It
was extremely difficult, but I survived and managed as best as I possibly
could. I struggled on simply because I was hoping for a better life than
I came from.
I did my best in my attempt to put my terrible past behind and trying to
grow up in the mean street of Arlington. I often have had nightmares
about being chased and hunted by the Khmer Rouge during my sleep at
night. During the day, I was being harassed, chased, and beaten by other
students, mostly Whites. I also was actually facing growing up problems
during the day in my mixed bag school in the urban jungle of America.
At the home front, my depended life with the Chens was slowly eroding. I
was not used to having people look over me, sometime bossing me around.
Adapting to family life again was very difficult for me after years of
being independent. I have always counted on just me, myself, and I and
count on no one else. It was a difficult adjustment for me to totally
rely upon the Chens. I just could not handle what I was feeling. It was
a deep depression following the horrible things I have experienced
earlier in Cambodia and now more social problems I was facing in America.
The Chens did their best to give me a good home, but I was having
difficulties dealing with life and dealing with my trauma. The Post
Traumatic Stress Syndrome (PTSS) was not diagnosed until much later on.
I am most certain that I was deeply troubled by the unknown depression I
shared among others with similar traumatic background. I was not getting
the much-needed help from anyone. I was very much left on my own to deal
with the depression associated with PTSS. I was even contemplating and
seriously considering suicide as an alternative, as an easy way out-as I
have been doing so many times when I was in Thai's refugee camp. I came
very close to taking my own life, even when I was in America, the Land of
the Free and Home of the Brave.
Earlier, my only reason for living was to fight and kill Khmer Rouge,
more of revenge seeking, for what they have done to my family and myself.
My better life in America did not erase that urge, that aim I set as a
goal in life. I was restless and all torn up deep inside at the same
time. My better life in America did not have a real meaning worth living
or fighting for. I felt bitterly trapped and in a limbo. I was getting
nowhere near my goal of avenging for the death of my love ones. I was an
exile and a refugee, no matter how one look at my situation. I was safe
in America, but I was far away from my own identity, away from who I
really am. I was frustrated and confused and lost. I was absolutely
miserable.
I remained depended on the Chens, through the ups and downs, until August
1980--some 18 months after I have arrived in America. I could not always
see eye-to-eye with Cousin Chun, despite the fact that we have done so
many things together. We often go on many fishing trips together,
followed by a quick stop at a McDonald for a fast food break, and then
late night drive back home. To this day, I still deeply resented the
present of a McDonald, especially when my own young children treated it
like a worship place. To this day, I still hate cleaning the
fish-although I still love catching them.
Cousin Chun split personalities, from the nicest and most generous man I
know to what I can only describe as the meanest man anywhere, often the
cause of many conflicts that I ran into in the Chen's household. The
transformation can be frightening as his hot temper attached to a very
short fuse. Fortunately, his temper was not violent toward those around
him. His anger, instead, often directed toward material things and not
at people. Most of the time he was the kindest man anywhere. Once in a
while, his anger would lead to serious turmoil in the home. Conflicts
often not avoidable for the teenager I was.
Coupled with my own growing up problems, it was inevitable. I became a
run away and a street kid at the age of 17, less than 18 months after
arriving in America. I left a thank you note for the Chen family before
I sneaked out of the back door early one morning in August, with nothing
except a few articles of cloth and a precious personal photograph album.
I have saved $300 of my own and that was all I have in the world. I
decided to leave it all behind and start fresh. I was determined to be
on my own, completely independent. Comes what may, I will gladly accept
it. I became lost in my new country and home on the street for a time.
I became a homeless teen and a run away, one of many in the great land of
liberty, for the first time in my life. I struggled to survive on the
mean street of America's urban jungle. I found American society to be as
cold and cruel as it can be, both physically and emotionally speaking.
The one way bus ride across America to the West Coast would cost me $150
and a total of six days. My teeth would ache from the long and restless
bus trip. I saw a lot of open country, including the beautiful fields
after fields of bright yellow sun flower somewhere under the wide blue
sky of Montana. I spoke to other passengers on the bus, those who were
curious of my broken English with a strong accent. I was ashamed to tell
them that I was from Cambodia, the land of the Killing Fields. I told
them that I came from "Thailand," which was not entirely a white lied. I
did spend seven months in Thailand before I came to America, I reasoned.
I ended up in Seattle, Washington a place I have never seen before and
only heard about it through a letter from an acquaintance, Uncle Mao whom
I knew from the refugee camp. I decided to pay them a surprised visit
and perhaps see where I would go from there. The couple did not
recognize me at first as I stepped off the taxi in front of their small
apartment early one morning. I have grown more than a foot taller since
I last saw them in Bangkok holding center 18 months earlier.
"Greeting, Uncle Mao!" I yelled and waved excitedly to the middle-aged
man who was about to leave for work. He had put on some weight since I
last saw him.
"Uh, yes? What do you want? Who are you?" Uncle Mao asked in reply
with a puzzle look on his face.
"Remember me? Who do you think this is? It is me, Nachit!" I
explained.
Uncle Mao was stunned for a moment. His surprised look turned to
absolute joy once he recognized who I was.
"You.....You? Oh, my boy! So good to see you again! What are you
doing here?" He gave me a great big hug after knowing who I was finally.
I just smiled and handed the taxi driver the $15 for a $14 fare from bus
station in downtown Seattle. I turned to Uncle Mao who rushed me back to
his apartment.
"Hey, Aunty. Look who is here visiting us?" Uncle Mao said to his
wife, Aunt Chea, while still holding my shoulder.
"Jumreap Suor!" I greeted Aunt Chea who wasn't sure who I was.
Aunt Chea, who has always been close to me than Uncle Mao, went ballistic
when she finally recognized who I was at last. We only known each other
for three months in the refugee camp, but we became close friends. I
told them about my situation and asked if I could stay and visit with
them for a few days before I head to California, my final destination. I
didn't really know anyone in California, except an Aunt whom I had not
seen since I was 5 or 6 years old.
Uncle Mao was late for work by then and he called in to report. The
couple sat there and listened to my plan. In an instant, they both
suggested that I should stay with them. I thanked them, but thought that
I should move on south to California, another place I have not been to.
They continue to insist that I stay and live with them in Seattle. That
same afternoon, their friends arrived to reinforce the couple and urge me
to stay. I decided to remain for a few days and did not what to offend
the couple with their generosity. I wanted my independent, but I need a
starting point. The couple small apartment was as a good place as any, I
felt. I decided to stay with them, for better or for worse.
I lived with this older acquaintance and his wife, Aunt Chea, for a
little while before I moved on. At the same time, they were sponsoring
and adopting 3 three children, Chantha, Savary, and Savarin, of their
family friends from a refugee camp in Thailand. With their limited
English skill and ability, it was difficult. I assisted them with the
filing of the necessary sponsorship paper, act as a co-sponsor and
translator.
The three, a boy 18 and his two younger sisters, arrived after about two
months time. The new kids came into a difficult and often time violent
home, but they arrived. I wanted to leave the couple before the
sponsored kids' arrival, but the couple insisted that I remained to help
them and the adopted kids. Reluctantly, I remained with the couple, more
out of respect than anything else, despite the sign of house hold
problems, which began to surface.
Life in America had changed this couple a great deal, in a negative way.
The husband became an abusive and alcoholic man who would continuously
beat his wife senselessly, often time for no good reason. Any
intervention from me personally only would lead to even more rage from
the man, although he did not dare beat me up as he did with his wife. He
was also very jealous of his wife and actually accused me of having an
affair with his wife during his drunken fit of rage. His wife and I have
become close friends, even in the refugee camp. She was in her early
40's, almost as old as my mother was, and I was in my early 17. After he
got sobered, he would apologize profusely to both of us for his insanity.
Aunt Chea was hoping that my present would help deterred her husband
drunkenness. It did for a little while, but it did not last very long. .
I could not handle the violent, domestic or otherwise. So I decided to
leave everyone behind.
I spent the next three months in Seattle. I became a homeless person in
America for the second time of my life in America. I lived mostly on the
street of Seattle until it was too cold to remain out door. Despite all
odds, I re-entered high school and actually spent two out of three months
in West Seattle High School where I met and befriended with another Khmer
refugee named Reth Chhlob. I spent some of my time sharing his small one
bedroom apartment, which became a safe haven for others when the man
drunkenness and rage drove his new family out.
Life goes on. I earned income by picking cucumber out in the rainy field
outside Seattle and do other odd jobs during weekend and after school. I
helped the three kids adapted to life in America as best as I possibly
could. I help get them in school and take them on the city bus for
preventive shots and more required medical check ups. Actually, we
helped each other coping with the difficulties in our new country and
home. Their violent home, however, would see their dream shattered to
pieces and the new family broke apart.
One day, there was a knock on the door. The wife, Aunt Chea, was badly
beaten and bruised. Her swollen face and lips gave away her
embarrassment and pains. She was begging for assistance, for
intervention. She and the three adopted kids feared for their lives.
They were looking for a place to hide from the drunken man. The
small-one room apartment became the battered family shelter from the
abusive and drunken man for a little while before we had to move on.
Aunt Chea suggested that we all moved to Oregon, to a place called
"Beaverton" where her own Khmer sponsors lived. To escape her husband,
she was willing run away and take the kids with her. I was the only one
who has the travel experience and the language. They needed my help and
I also needed them, to some extend. I agreed to help them get there and
see where we would go from there. The idea became plan and then
implemented action in just one morning. We were on a Greyhound bus
headed for Beaverton, Oregon with just the name, address, and telephone
number of Aunt Chea's sponsors and nothing more.
Aunt Chea managed to cover the bus fares and a few dollars left for
lunches along the way. We arrived in Portland, Oregon late in the
evening and called the sponsors. Sokhum, one of Aunt Chea's Khmer
sponsors, arrived to pick us all up in his tiny Chevy Chevette. We all
squeezed inside and head for Beaverton, some 8 miles away. Sokhum knew
in advance about our plight as Uncle Mao had been calling repeatedly in
his attempt to search for us. There was no need to explain our difficult
problem. He understood the situation completely.
We did not talk much in the tiny and cramped car. Aunt Chea wept most of
the time when Uncle Mao's name was mentioned. I felt so uncomfortable
and just wanted to escape all of these family problems. My loyalty to
Aunt Chea and the new kids was just too strong to abandon them now. I
reluctantly decided to see it through until I can find a clean break
away.
We remained with the sponsors for almost four weeks before we found an
apartment to move into. Communal living free of fear and violent was
absolutely wonderful. The kids were all attending school again with the
help of a small welfare check to pay rent and utilities and food stamp
for food. I continued to go to high school and work after school, on
weekend, and during holidays. It was not easy, but it was wonderful.
Unfortunately, the good life lasted about three months when Uncle Mao
found us.
Uncle Mao just showed up on the front door of our shared apartment one
day. I opened the door not knowing who it was knocking gently on the
door.
"Uncle Mao!" I gave a surprised yell.
Uncle Mao gave a dry smile at my surprise face and just walked right in.
"Is your Aunt home?" He asked simply and dryly.
"No, she is out, but should be back soon." I was feeling a little bit
awkward. "Won't you sit down, please?" I tried to be polite.
"How are you?" He asked, also looking uncomfortable.
"Doing OK." I replied, followed by a long silent.
Both of us were feeling a bit embarrassed and also very awkward because
of the situation. Both tried our best to start up a conversation, but it
only led to more embarrassing silent. We no longer have anything in
common. I did my best trying to show him some respect as I still have
some for him. It was nonetheless very difficult situation. I was so
very thankful that others soon showed up from one of many shopping trips
local Goodwill Industry store.
Two weeks after, Uncle Mao reconciled with his estranged wife and moved
in with us. Soon after, more marital problems arisen and the new
household were in turmoil once more. Promise not to get drunk by the
alcoholic man was soon broken. Aunt Chea and her husband had a major
argument with heated words exchange. Somehow I got involved and a bout
of push and shove were made between Uncle Mao and myself. Aunt Chea
kicked her husband out from the house with a large butcher knife of her
own. I was surprised at her newfound courage after three months
separation from her estranged husband. She cut her estranged husband's
luggage to bit before she sent him running out of our apartment back to
Seattle.
A few days later, in June 1981, the mother and siblings of the three kids
that I had helped with the sponsorship paper arrived from Thailand's
refugee camp. The small--three bedrooms apartment reserved for five
became a home to three additional newly arrived refugees. The eight
people cramped in the small apartment and adapted as best as possible.
Within a week of their arrival, somehow Uncle Mao found out and used that
occasion as an excuse to pay us a visit again. His wife had been
secretly calling him, as it turned out. He would remain with us in the
crowded apartment until I can no longer feel comfortable and move out
soon after. It was not the crowds that bother me, but it was the awkward
company with a drunken man that I no longer have any respect for.
I shared a new apartment about half a mile away with the newly arrived
family. The mother, Mrs. San Chak, her older daughter--named Thavy-who I
eventually fell in love with and married to, and the youngest daughter,
Savara. The three other kids, Chantha, Savary, and Savarin remained with
Uncle Mao and Aunt Chea, by necessity rather than by choice. The couple,
who somehow managed to get back together as a couple again, legally
adopted them. They kept them for mainly financial reason as the three
kids received welfare checks and food stamps from the State of Oregon.
The couple was soon decided to move back to Seattle, leaving their
adopted kids behind, after having some problems with the kids and their
newly arrived family. It was for the best for all concerned. No one has
heard from the couple again until almost a decade has passed. They were
still together as a couple, miraculously, and had adopted a few more
orphans who ended up leaving the family with hard feeling.
Mrs. San Chak and her young teen children moved to a larger rental home
by the time I graduated from Beaverton High School in June 1982. That
same fall, I went off to Lindfield College, a private college in
McMinnville, Oregon, with almost a full scholarship to begin undergraduate
school. I remained a part of this family off and on during my college
years-spending my holiday and summer vacation with the family. I became
engaged to the oldest daughter, Thavy, in June of 1983. Our engagement
would lasted three years, some kind of a record-if not a world record--
before we were married in August 1986. At that time, I was finishing my
degree at the University of Oregon in Eugene, Oregon. Following our
marriage, Thavy attended a local community college in Eugene as well.
It was 1984 before I made the first direct contact with cousin Khen and
her family again, some four years after I had bitterly left the family in
the middle of the night. A mysterious letter arrived at my school post
office bearing a shocking and unbelievable news. I learned that my
oldest brother, Larony who was reportedly had been killed while he was
recovering from a land mine blast in a Phnom Penh hospital, wrote to
cousin Khen from a Thai-Cambodia border refugee camp. Many Khmer often
wrote letters to cousin Khen, who was and still is a well-known celebrity
in Cambodia, asking for all kinds of assistance. Like many others,
Larony was hoping that cousin Khen would share news about our relatives
who might still be alive and well. He did not know that I was still
alive and living in the United States. His letter was forward to me by
cousin Khen who found and got my address from another cousin. Inside the
forwarded letter enclosed a check for $500 from cousin Khen's husband,
cousin Chun, with a small note attached.
"Please, please accept this check and do it as you please. I hope it
helps." Cousin Chun signed it.
My personal pride welded up inside of me. My first reaction was to
return the check with a thank you note. I only managed a thank you note
to the couple who had rescued me from the refugee camp 6 years earlier.
I am forever grateful for their effort and generosity, regardless. I
cashed the check and sent all of it to Larony. Cousin Khen and her
sister would come to my wedding in Oregon two years later. The rapture
of my relationship with the Chen's family was healing, beginning at that
time.
In Larony's letter, he explained his predicament to cousin Khen as a
refugee with his family along the border. He was hoping for assistance.
I never knew my disable brother, who was maimed by a land mine in 1975,
has a family of his own! Then again, I have not heard from or about him
in over nine years, since the falls of Cambodia in April 1975. He got a
wife and three children! On top of that, my older sister, Mealenie and
her husband, Voeun whom I met once in Keo Pour town in 1976, also
survived Angkar's madness. They also have three young children, all
boys.
In an instant and all in one day, I came from being a loner to having ten
immediate relatives. I was absolutely shocked as I was reading the
letter Larony wrote to cousin Khen. My hand was trembling and the
excitement moved me to tear. I wept alone in extreme joy. I was no
longer the lone survivor in my family, not anymore. Others, two missing
others and their respective family, also survived Angkar's madness. I
was no longer alone anymore, still an orphan, but I was no longer alone.
The news of my two siblings survival represented the beginning of a five
years struggle and a great personal battle to bring the only survivors in
my family to the United States from the refugee camp. Thailand no longer
accept nor recognize any new refugee after years of being overwhelmed by
hundreds of thousands of refugees from all over SE Asia. New arrivals
would be forced back across the border. For many unlucky souls, it was a
certain death as the Khmer Rouge would butchered the returnees as soon as
the Thai handed them over. Later, it was under Vietnamese and its puppet
regime oppression that many decided to escape. Fortunately, the two
families managed to survive and live precariously in loosely organized
refugee camp run by Cambodian resistance fighters just across the border.
To become a candidate for sponsorship, the refugee must be a "legal
refugee" in a Thai's refugee camp. Larony, Mealenie, and their
respective families were illegal refugees and were living just inside
Cambodian's border. They were not qualified for the UNHCR food ration or
having the legal status to be sponsored. It was an extremely difficult
struggle and battle with U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service
(INS) that almost saw me give up my college dream. The financial,
physical, and emotional cost was very high in my attempt to bring my only
surviving relatives to the safety of America.
For five exhausting years, with the assistance and support of my wife and
her family, I worked tirelessly trying to save what left of my remaining
family members. Their lives were in a very precarious state and could be
killed at any moment while they were in the refugee camp. It was an
uphill battle and a great struggle for a college student with extremely
limited resource. I have almost nothing except the hope that I will save
my only surviving siblings and their respective families-no matter what
it takes. Hope was the only thing that kept me going and trying to
finish school at the same time. A life of struggle was nothing new to
me, but it was still an extremely difficult task--the one that was mostly
controlled by someone else--the INS.
To get them smuggle across the Thai's border into a Thai's refugee camp
would cost over a thousand dollars per family. Yet, there was no
guaranty that they would get into neither a Thai's refugee camp or gain
legal status. More bribes would have to be paid to remain inside a Thai
refugee camp, even as illegal refugees, that much I knew. On top of
that, the two families have to support and feed themselves inside the
camp. Since they were not legal residents, they were subject to repeat
Thai's police raids and brutalities. They were forced to dig and hide
deep inside a home made tunnel like rats every time the Thai's police
raid for illegal alien. Deportation would be swift when the police found
an illegal alien. They worked hard in their attempt to survive and
remain inside Thailand. It was not much of a life when they were subject
to persecution 24 hours a day from Thai's authority. I had to do my best
to help them survive.
Life in hiding went on for my refugee siblings and their families until a
legal status was obtained, with my direct intervention and support. I
would secretly and routinely sent the two families $200 a month, a very
large sum of money for a college student, for more than five years.
Including expenses for bribery and others, the tally was between $12,000
to $18,000 in direct spending after five agonizing years. For a full
time college student with annual income of less than $8,000 per year, the
high expenditure was a serious and extremely difficult hardship. I
managed to endure and survived only by borrowing more student loan money
than I would normally need. I got by with my daily life with the most
basic minimum, knowing full well that my siblings and their children were
in a more desperate need. I was willing to sacrifice my livelihood and
my own well being for them. I did my very best in my attempt to get them
out of the refugee camp.
The office of Honorable Senator Mark O. Hatfield of Oregon assisted my
effort a great deal in getting official papers going and obtaining legal
status for the families before sponsorship could begin. Without the
people, including the woman I now married to, her family, and countless
other close friends pulling the necessary strings and support, it was
almost impossible to achieve the goal of reuniting with my surviving
relatives. It was a major under taking at great cost of money, time, and
energy-both physical and emotional.
After hundreds, if not thousands, of trips, phone calls and letters to
various places later, the two families were approved for a resettlement
to the United States as refugees. In 1988, they were relocated for a
year to a transit center in the Philippines. They were sent there to
prepare themselves for life in their new country and also for the
required medical clearance. They were a step closer to be safe and free
from persecution.
After a year of intensive training in the Philippine, the two families
were scheduled to arrive in Oregon on December of 1988. However, the two
families were expecting new family members so their scheduled departure
was postponed. The two women gave birth to two new babies, a boy and a
girl, in a holding center in the Philippine. Now numbering a total of
twelve people, the two families finally arrived at the Portland
International Airport on a cold January morning of 1989. A warm welcome
from my family and supportive friends ensued at the crowded airport. It
was a highly emotional charged reunion under the bright light and camera
of local television crews.
A year earlier, in June of 1988, I received my science degree from the
University of Oregon. It was a year late, but I was a special guest of
Senator Mark O. Hatfield of Oregon who was the keynote speaker at my
graduation ceremony. We would have brunch together and chat about the
expected arrival of my siblings and their families in Oregon.
"It is good to talk to you face to face finally." A beaming Senator
Mark O. Hatfield simply said under the glare of local and national
television camera.
"It is good to know influential people. Thank you for your assistance,
sir." I gratefully told Senator Hatfield under the crowd of local and
national media.
One of the smiling reporter and producer among the crowd was no one other
than Mr. Brian T. Ellis, the senior producer for CBS News whom I last
seen and met in Buriram Holding Center in Thailand in June of
1978-exactly ten years earlier. We have had no contact with one another
for all those ten years period, but he still very much remembered who I
was when a friend of mine secretly contacted him on my behalf. He didn't
think that I would survive the refugee camp, living and thriving in the
U.S. Most importantly, he was pleasantly surprise that I was about to
graduate from one of Oregon best college and eagerly await the arrival of
surviving relatives. He decided earlier that he would do a follow up
story to the documentary, "What Happened to Cambodia" he produced ten
years earlier. For three days, he and his news crew followed me around,
including the graduation ceremonies and party that my wife, Thavy, and
friends gave in my honor. It was aired later that same month on CBS News
"Sunday Morning" with Charles Korault. It was so good to see the man who
continued to influence my life. He was very, very proud of my
accomplishments. I was, according to Brian Ellis, the "reaffirmation of
the human spirit." He was so proud.
My brother, sister, and their respective families remained in Oregon and
began a new life as newly arrived immigrants. After a slow adaptation to
the cold and wet Oregon winter, they made a new life for themselves. The
support of my family and dear friends was essential, now more than ever.
They came through with flying color. The Mullers, the Stephens, and the
Perkins, my long time friends, were there with their open hearth,
support, and generosity. Soon after, my siblings and their respective
family settled down and became self sustain, economically speaking, to my
delight and relief. The growing children are doing well in school and
adapted very well to their new environment as expected.
It was time for me to get on with my life now that I have accomplished
two of life most important goals, a college education and reunited with
my long lost family members. I went on to take a new job with the
Deschutes National Forest in Bend, Oregon as a landscape architect and
planner. I did my internship with the Willamette National Forest based
in Eugene, Oregon a year earlier and enjoyed the stability of a Federal
Government job. My wife, Thavy, and I settled down. We bought a modest
first home, got a dog, and have our first kid of our own. Samantha
Rathanary was born in July 1990, followed by Derrick Monorom in December
1995. And unlike President Bill Clinton and Speaker Designated, Bob
Livingston, I have been faithful and loyal to my wife.
I have everything that I ever need in my new home and country. I have a
family of my own, a professional career, and a stable life. Life could
not be any sweeter for me in the "Land of the Free and the Home of the
Brave." I have achieved the "American dream" from emptied hands with
only hope for a better, more stable life. I made it all happened, with
some helping hands along the way of course, in less than ten years
period.
What more can I ask for? What else can I do to make my life more rich
and rewarding? What is next for me to challenge and to struggle for? I
often asked myself this same question repeatedly. My life was full of
hardship and struggle, now that it is stable and as planned I did not
feel very comfortable. I am not used to easy life. I could not adapt to
the good life very well. I became restless once more.
My past still haunted me after years of suppression. It exacerbated even
more with the signing of the Paris Peace Accord in October of 1991 that
offer a ray of hope for peace in Cambodia, a place I still love dearly.
After more than three decades of turmoil, Cambodia was in a verge of
peace at long last. However, I was not at peace with myself. I have
been trying to run away from my shadow, which is my past. It was not
possible to lie or deny to myself any longer. I have to look back to my
past to deal with my trauma, my pain, my suffering, and my anger. I must
look back and I could not do it here in the "Land of the Free and the
Home of the Brave." I have to return to where it all began. I have to
return to Cambodia, the origin of my tragic past. I have to go back
home, the one in Cambodia what ever left.