Chapter 16
The news about Cambodia peace deal in Paris sent chill down my spine just like the cold north wind from the Arctic. It was a great big world news event after decades of conflicts, the cold war, the Khmer Rouge’s Killing Fields, Vietnamese invasion and subsequence years of occupation, the refugee problem, and freedom fighters. The United Nations was about to dish out a cool $3 billions, send a contingent of 25,000 peacekeepers, and about the same amount of bureaucrats to help run a nation devastated by wars, genocide, and economic ruins. Fractional fighting among the Khmer was to come to an end and not necessary an end to more foreign intervention in the “internal affairs” of the Khmer. A new parliamentary election was to also to take place, the first democratically election in nearly 3 decades. Miraculously, the war was finally over for the Khmer people and peace prevailed at long last, supposedly it seemed. It will be a miracle over the Mekong indeed.
Not surprisingly, there are many of my fellow Americans who did not even know where Cambodia locate on a map—let alone knowing its bitter recent history. I have waited and lived to see this day that I thought may never come in my lifetime. The prospect of peace evoked the need for a personal closure of some sort I was not sure. I just knew that I must look back to the old “burnt home.” My healing process has to begin some place.
My first step back into my past began with the Chens family. I have been reconciling with the Chens family again since 1984. Thavy and I have been visiting them about once a year brought with us our new kid to see them. They welcome us openly and we have become very close, like a family, once more. Cousin Chun and I also have reconciled on a more personal level. We now have a much better relation than ever before. He respected me more from a man to another. The Chens in general are very proud of my accomplishment, I am certain. Regardless, I still owe them a great deal of debt for what they did for me.
I returned to my beloved Cambodia for the first time in February 1992, exactly 14 years after being away in exile. No one in my family and friends wanted me to go back to Cambodia for fear of my safety.
“Why do you want to go back to that Black hole?” My disable oldest brother, Larony, would ask.
“There is nothing there for you. Your life is here now.” Argued my American friends.
I have absolutely no good answer for them. “I have to go,” I would tell them. It was not an option. It was more of an instinct, just like the strong instinct of the wild Pacific Salmon. The urge was just too strong, almost over powering. I have to return. I must return. I need to return. Whatever I found there is irrelevant.
After nearly three months of planning, a 19 hours long flight, many transit stops and endless connecting flights later, a Thai Airways flight number 0875 from Bangkok approached Phnom Penh Pochentong International for a landing. Fourteen years earlier, it took me more than 16 days of hiking across hostile terrain in the Cambodia northwest jungle, spent 7 miserable months in Thai’s jail, then a prison, then in a refugee camp. It took me almost five full days to arrive in the United States. Now, I found myself heading back to a very terrible place that I left far, far behind. The thought of actually coming back to Cambodia was not comforting, but it actually scared me almost shitless. I was trembling with uncontrollable fear as the Thai’s jet started its descend.
Cushion of air buffeted under the plane, shaking and
rocking it gently as the plane was in its final approach. Through the small window of a Boeing 737 jet, the sight of
golden-wide open rice fields and slender palm trees sent stream of tears down
my cheeks. I was back in
Cambodia, I have returned at long last!
“First time back in Cambodia, huh?”
A voice from a fellow passenger who sat next to me spoke to me in
booming and almost in a perfect Khmer.
I turned and looked at the middle-aged White man who was
smiling broadly. I just shook my
head in reply and looked back through the window toward my Cambodia, savoring
this moment. I cried a little
more in a solemn happiness to have returned at long last. I never thought this day would come.
The wheels of the Boeing 737 jet slammed gently on the
hot tarmac and then slowed down considerably.
It rolled gently for a few moments more. I took a deep breath trying to compose myself and not looking
like a “whim.” It was 2
o’clock in the afternoon, Cambodia’s time.
Other people, many of whom were overseas Khmer like myself, began to
stir with excitement. For many,
this might also be their first trip back to their native country after years
in exile. I can see it in their
eyes and hear it in their excited voice.
They were just as nervous as I was when the plane finally pulled to a
stop and the door opened soon after. I
have arrived in Cambodia for a four weeks trip, as a tourist really, searching
through the rubbles.
“Good bye and thank you for flying with us!”
Said the Thai flight attendant in a gentle-polite voice. She sounded almost like a voice from a recorder.
I tried to smile in return.
I was the last to depart the crowded plane. I was having a second thought about coming back.
I was actually afraid of being in Cambodia again.
I was very nervous as I stepped out off the opened door onto the stair
that led down to the hot tarmac below. A
blast of hot-humid air and smell of jet fuel washed over my face to welcome me
to Cambodia. I was sweating
profusely from the high heat and high humidity.
The smell of Cambodia, the same one I remembered, was absolutely
wonderful.
Once down at the last flight of stair and onto the black
tarmac, I kneel on the ground and kissed the earth—just like Pope John Paul
often do. It was a symbolic
gesture that I did not really planned on doing.
The spur of the moment drove me to do so. I looked up to see people looking and smiling at my act of
self-indulgent on the tarmac. One
even applauded my act, which I appreciatively nodded my head as my
appreciation in return. I got up
slowly, took my casual jacket off, and walked toward the dual language sign
that said “CUSTOM” in Khmer and English.
The small terminal was crowded and the line was long.
I waited patiently in the hot, stuffy room.
I was the last one on the line and tried to look around for familiar
face. I found none.
I felt like I was in a foreign country--not my Cambodia.
“Passport and visa form, please!”
The chubby man in what looked like a Vietnamese officer light green
uniform asked me sternly in broken English.
I handed the man, one of eight or nine people who were
sitting in a row behind the custom counter, my passport and visa form.
I said nothing, but stood there sweating like mad.
“What country did you arriving from?”
He continued.
“Uh….., Bangkok. It
stated in the visa form, sir.” I slowly replied back in English, still
nervous.
Without even looking up at me, he studied my passport
carefully.
“Where do you live? Cambodia
or the United States.” He asked me in Khmer now, still not looking at me.
“I am a U.S. citizen living in USA.”
I proudly replied.
He took a quick look at my face and them back at the
passport before he handed it to the next person. The man next to him took a quick look and passed it on down
the line. It repeated until I got
to the last two officials who then stamped in all four sections of my passport
ands collected the $20 tourist visa fee.
Almost 25 anxious minutes had passed for a job that can be done by, at
the very most, two people and under two minutes.
This is Cambodia so I can’t really complain, if I know what good for
me. Anger welded deep inside of
me. My ear was ringing from the
inefficient system.
That experience was the least of my concern.
Next stop was another custom counter with two officers inside.
One man took my passport and the other took my entry visa form. They just held on to my passport and refused to give it back.
My most important document was essentially being “passport knapped”
by the official in Vietnamese’s dark-green uniform.
They demanded more ransom for the release of my passport.
“Twenty dollars!” One
man said in Khmer without even bother to look at me in the eyes.
“I paid the visa fee over there already.”
I replied, pointing to the first custom counter.
“Twenty-five dollars more!” The
other man demanded, a bit agitated now. The
first man casually flipping pages of my passport—almost tearing it to
pieces.
“Twenty-five more or thirty more?”
He asked.
I stood there just dumb founded. I knew and recognized the game that they were playing.
The stake got higher the more I resisted, that much I knew.
“Well? Twenty-five or
thirty dollars?” The arrogant
bastard with my passport asked even after seeing my face turned red hot.
I pulled two five and a bunch of one-dollar bill notes
out of my pocket. I tossed them
all on the counter in anger as my mean of protest.
The bills scattered and the two “thieves” dropped everything and
went after a few flying ones. I
grabbed my passport and baggage and just walk off toward the door jammed with
mob of people looking in. Another
agent stopped me before I reached the door.
“Come this way please!” The
agent was a bit more polite, but he sort of has to yell aloud over the noises
from the people near the doorway.
I followed him. I
was getting tired of the entire charade and want to see how far it would go.
The agent asked me to open my two baggages.
He and his three other comrades rummaged through my neatly packed
items, mostly small-various gifts for relatives.
They asked just about everything that they pulled out of my suitcases. I was holding my anger pretty well until one asked for money
to “stop the search.”
“Please, sir! It is your
duty! Please do your job!
I have nothing to hide! Do
your job, sir!” I fired a salvo in Khmer that appeared to stunt the
unexpected custom officials.
They looked at each other in confusion.
They did not want a commotion and draw attention to themselves, I
realized. So I added more
pressure by raising my voice a little louder in disgust and frustration.
“Are you through, sir? May
I go now….., sir?” I
emphasized the term “sir” in Khmer.
They just shook their head and waved me off.
They looked so confused that I soon almost forget about being angry.
It took me a while to repack the suitcases being opened.
I continued to swear and curse intentionally in English and
Khmer—just loud enough so the official can hear me.
This was the norm; the procedure ran into by the majority
of Khmer returnees. The officials
at the airport subjected many, like myself, to this kind of treatment or
immoral act. It was a form of
reception to squeeze as much money from the overseas Khmer as possible.
It was a tactic that has been practiced by the officials directed
toward their own kind. They would
not dare doing the same thing with White travelers, as I learned.
They only do this to us, a form of harassment, knowing full well that
some of us would give in rather than fighting a losing battle with them.
They took full advantage of our weakness simply because they can get
away with it. They have not met a
“Ronnie Yimsut” before.
On the way out through the mob of people, another
uniformed police officer guarding the doorway asked for my passport again.
I gave him a sharp looked while still holding my suitcases in both
hands. He decided to wave me off
into the mob who were actually taxi drivers waiting for client.
“Taxi, sir? Taxi? Taxi?” They
seemed to yell all at once and rushed me at the same time.
Two guys grabbed a hold of my baggage and started to
pull. I screamed like a mad man
and then pointed to one of the scrawny little man.
“I can beat him if I must,” I thought.
The skinny little man grabbed both my luggage and I was amazed at his
strength. “Never judge a book
by its cover,” I reminded myself. His
taxi was nearby, fortunately, and I immediately entered the cab while the
driver loaded my stuff. The
already rolled down window on the passenger side provided an opportunity for
the first two guys who grabbed my luggage to ask for “portal” fee.
“Sir, 100 riels. Sir,
100 Riels.” They asked running
as the cab was moving.
I just laughed and shook my head in disgust.
Welcome to Cambodia!
The cab driver was very quiet and started to drive on
without even asking where I was heading.
I have been in Phnom Penh a few times when I was eight or nine
year-old. Still, I wouldn’t
know east from west in this capital city.
We didn’t talk. I looked
and admired the city, the people on moto and bike who seamed to be driving all
over the road. The horns were
being blown loudly and so did my driver whom continuously beating on his
steering column into the chaotic scene out side of the windshield.
Cambodia was great, I thought, with the exception of that dreaded and
lawless Pochentong International.
I was back, but Phnom Penh was not Cambodia.
It was and still is a zoo where the bigger your vehicle, the more
rights on the road you would have. I
was amazed, truly amazed at the sight and sound of Phnom Penh.
I will never have the gut to drive here.
My cab driver seemed to be doing just fine, it’s a good thing because
I was lost and had no idea where we were going.
“Brother, hotel Sukhalay please.”
I requested in Khmer.
“Yes.” He said simply
fixing his eyes on the road.
My cousin, Thie, who was supposed to pick me up from the
airport, never did show up as expected. I
was only three days over due of my scheduled arrival of course.
The communication by mail was bad and so the change in flight plan may
not get to Cambodia in time. “It
doesn’t matter, I am here,” I thought.
He wrote back, which took a month to get to me, and asked me to come to
Hotel Sukhalay if we missed each other. Another
cousin, I have never met, worked in that hotel—I was told.
The taxi came to a quick abrupt stop in front of the
hotel and I heard the “thump!” sound in the rear.
A bike ran into the taxi behind and the bike lost, its owner was flat
on her back. She was fine.
She simply got up, straightened her old rusty bike and went on her
way—angrily—I may add. The
skinny cab driver didn’t even bother to help or apologize, to my amazement.
He just wiped the tiny dent on his bumper and opened the trunk to get
my luggage out.
I walked inside the old hotel, followed by the cab driver
who was earning his day wage with my luggage.
“How much?” I reached
into my pocket.
“Five dollars, sir.” Reply
the quiet and shy driver.
“What is the going rate here from Pochentong?”
I turned to ask the hotel clerk nearby.
‘Oh… between four and seven dollars from Pochentong.” She answered.
I handed seven dollars to the cab driver.
He counted and then recounted the money; his face was a bit confused
with the extra two dollars tip I gave. The
man actually handed me back the extra two dollars saying I pay too much.
“What an honest man!” I
thought. He thought that I was
paying him more by mistake. There
was no tip in Cambodia, I did not realize.
“No, brother. The extra
two dollars is for your extra effort. Please
keep them.” I handed the two
dollars back to him.
One should have seen the big smile on his face!
His appreciative face had made my day!
I forgot about my ordeal earlier at Pochentong International all
together.
Sinoun, the cousin I have never met, worked as a maid for
Hotel Sukhalay. She came and
greeted me politely. I returned
the simple Khmer’s greeting gesture, knowing that she was much older than I
was.
“Suorsdey, Bawng Srei. Have
you seen Thie recently?” I
greeted her and asked the question at the same instance.
“Oh, you are a bit late. Thie
left early this morning to return to Siem Reap.
They have been waiting for you the past few days.
They did not think that you come.
I can’t believe that you are really here?” She went on and on.
“They? Who are they?” I asked.
“Oh, Ming Sross and Nek Gnoy were here with Thie.
They have been waiting for you. They
went out earlier to get a boat ticket to return to Siem Reap as well.
You just missed them. Oh,
look! There they are.
They are back!” She
pointed excitedly to the street where two familiar people were waiting to
cross from the other side of the busy boulevard.
Sinoun and I walked over to the edge of the sidewalk to
wait for the two. Aunt Sross and
her oldest son were trying to cross the street.
I waved to them. They saw
me and just about run over the many bikes and motos to get across.
They were excited and both hugged me at the same time.
They could not believe that I finally arrived in Cambodia, neither did
I. It was like a dream come
through.
Aunt Sross, the wife of my late uncle Tungdy, was much
older now than I recalled. Her
son, Nek Gnoy, who was a few years older than I, was also aged considerably.
Life in the harsh environment of Cambodia can be tough on people.
They looked much older than they really were.
I was actually crying with Aunt Sross in public.
The two spent a few nights in my hotel room, which has
two double beds for $25 per night. I
have to take care of a few things in Phnom Penh, such as finding a few people
and other relatives, before I can depart for Siem Reap--the place where I left
far behind in 1975. I was
carrying money, lot of money that people sent to their relatives. Until that is done properly, I can’t leave Phnom Penh.
Besides, I did not feel comfortable carrying money around.
It started to get heavier than a gold bar, literally.
I found and moved to my brother-in-law, Voeun, relatives.
His brother was a high-ranking government official.
He invited me to stay with his family.
I gladly accepted—even if they were complete strangers to me.
I toured Phnom Penh with the newly acquainted in-law and his family.
It was nice to have private car and tour guides to take me around.
It made life much easier for me and calm my nervousness down a great
deal.
I flew to Siem Reap after spending only 3 days in Phnom
Penh. Three days in Phnom Penh
was more than plenty enough for me in this congested and dirty city.
I expect my cousin Thie, whom I knew well and have been in contact by
letter, to pick me up from the tiny Siem Reap municipal airport.
He was a no show again. I
grab a ride with a local hotel bus and casually rode into town.
It was great to be back in familiar territory again.
I was very, very happy and excited at the same time.
The short trip from the airport into the historic city
was pleasant. I watched children
herded their oxen in the newly harvested rice fields.
It brought back a flood of memories and more tears of joy.
I just could not believe that I was back in the “old stream” once
again. The sight, the sound, and
the smell were all there and I savored that moment like there was no tomorrow.
I made sure that I was not dreaming by keep on pinching myself again
and again. I was back in time, as
Siem Reap has not changed very much.
The bus arrived at the historic Grand Hotel just across
from King Sihanouk’s resident in Siem Reap.
I decided to check in for the night.
The hotel was no longer as grand as it used to be, but at $40 per night
it will have to do, for now. I
took a quick shower, changed into a fresh cloth and walked out with my
backpack. The local rickshaw
driver, the Romork, agreed to take me to my old home site, which is about 2
miles away from the hotel near the old market.
About a half mile on the way there, a man on an old Honda motorcycle
waved for us to stop.
“Is it you, Nack?” The
man asked politely with a smiling face.
“Yes, yes. It is I.”
I replied and did not recognize who the man was.
“Nack, it is I. I am
Thie!” He exclaimed excitedly.
“Well, well cousin! I
did not recognize you at all. Where
have you been? I was looking for
you!” I gave him a hug. It was awkward moment.
“I waited for you in Phnom Penh and I waited for you at Siem Reap
airport. I saw you earlier, but I
wasn’t sure it was you so I followed you all the way to the hotel there. I waited for you, but I was still wasn’t sure.
You grew big and tall!” He
exclaimed.
“Well, yeah. I grew up.
Why didn’t you come and see me?
Why just wait until now?” I
asked.
He just smiled and asked the rickshaw driver, “How
much?”
“Seven hundred riels.” The
man replied sheepishly.
“Seven hundred! What a
rip off! I can ride all the way
to Phnom Penh for seven hundred riels!”
Thie was a bit angry by then.
The driver smiled to mask his deep embarrassment, knowing
that he got caught trying to rip off another Khmer. I was simply enjoying the heated exchanges in pure Siem
Reapien accent. I missed that
distinctive accent only the Siem Reap people had.
I lost that accent after living too long with people from Phnom Penh.
I paid the man 400 riels as instructed by Thie who got really tough on
the rickshaw driver. I would have paid the man what he was asking for, which was
about a dollar. Thie was willing
to do almost anything to stop the man from ripping his cousin off.
Words cannot convey the feeling I felt at that first time
back. I spent the next three
weeks with Aunt Sross family who had built a home right on top of my old home
site, the same place I was born. They
sort of safeguard me from any danger, after noticing my anxiety and perhaps
signs of fear. The first night
there was quite an experience. I
was sleepless that first night I
was still wide-awake at about two in the morning.
I was even more apprehensive when the neighbor’s dog began to howl. His voice echoed in the darkness of the night.
Soon after, another dog began to howl with piercing sound.
And then another, and another, and another joined in the howling.
The quiet, stillness of the night was filled with hundreds, if not a
thousand, of dogs howling with high-pitched sound. It was very strange. My
entire old neighborhood in Siem Reap came alive with dogs after dogs howling.
Hair just stood on my head. I
was a bit scared, like a little kid, at that moment to be honest.
“A welcoming party for me? Howling
dogs? The entire neighborhood?
What is going on?” I wondered nervously.
I was even more frightful when I heard Aunt Sross really
started to curse at the howling dog with all kind of foul languages.
This was highly unusual.
Almost an hour went by before “all quiet at the western
front,” my old neighborhood. Aunt
Sross was sound asleep again--even before the dogs quit howling.
I was still wide awake, still frightened of being in Siem Reap, of
being in my old home site again.
I was not sure when I had fallen asleep.
I woke up to the sound of a commotion on the road not too far from the
house. I got up, a bit scared,
and struggle in the dark to try to find my way out of the mosquito net.
“Where are you going, Nack?” Aunt Sross who was sleeping not too
far away asked calmly, when she noticed my stirring.
“I wonder what’s going on over there on the road, Ming.”
I replied in almost a wisher voice.
“Stay where you are!” Aunt Sross commanded sternly.
I hesitated and ducked back inside the mosquito net.
Something was happening out there.
It sounded like someone was beating on someone else with a baseball
bat. I heard similar sounds 14
years earlier at the Tonle Sap Lake Massacre site. The sound of the beating
brought back horrified memories for me personally.
I was terrified for a moment as the beating continued for a few moments
more.
As it later turned out, a couple of drunkards were
killing a dog for meat by bludgeoned it to death.
They couldn’t have picked a better time. The bastards scared me to death!
I slept late and even through lunchtime.
No one dare wake me up, knowing that I hardly sleep the night before.
I got up, took a cold shower with water from my old family well, and
then ate a late lunch alone, while my relatives were sitting around watching
and listening. I talked about the
terrible time I had last night and everyone laughed like crazy.
I felt a bit foolish looking back to the recent incidents.
Thie, my cousin, took me around my old town on his old
Honda motorbike. It was
absolutely exhilarating. We
visited other relatives, the one I know well, far and near.
My priority was clear. I
have to go visit brother Som of Krobey Riel and the family friends in Dorn
Swar who rescued me when I escaped the Khmer Rouge after the massacre.
I head straight to see them for the first time in 14 years with Thie as
my guide. It was a very happy
reunion. They never thought that
I was still alive and let alone back in town again.
They could not believe their eyes.
I have grown, of course, into a man and not the little skinny teenage
boy they all remembered. I
enjoyed watching their reaction, as though they were seeing a ghost back from
the death. I could only thank
them repeatedly for saving my hide 14 years earlier.
I spent a good day visiting them and reliving old times.
Tears were shed and sometime words could not explain our mutual feeling
of that early time. They became
my adopted family the day they took me into their home 14 years ago.
I share gifts and some money as a small token of my appreciation and
promised to visit them every time I am in Cambodia, a promise I fully kept
over the years.
I became a poor man soon after as I was seeing too many
relatives, many of whom are too poor, while others I wasn’t even sure were
related to me at all. I decided
to do a ceremony at my family Buddhist temple.
Over 300 people, many of who were my surviving relatives, gathered for
the ceremony for my dead love ones. Many
of these relatives came from far and near.
Some did not even know or have never met one another before until the
day I was in town. The ceremony
for my dead family was also doubled as a huge reunion for my relatives,
especially the younger generations, to get to know each other, some for the
very first time. All who attended
the simple ceremony afterward enjoyed a great big feast.
I was a key in this simple reunion of what left of my relatives who had
survived the Khmer Rouge’s regime. I
was very please.
I went broke after that.
I left Cambodia owning a more wealthy cousin $300.
I even sold my Olympus SLR camera and outfits, values at over $600, for
$250 to raise spending money. That
is how broke I was during my first trip back.
Ironically, I thought that I had brought plenty of money for spending
with me. Nonetheless, I was very
happy to be back in the old stream. Now
I know exactly how the great Pacific Salmon felt after they have reached their
old stream. Nothing but euphoria, I am certain. I felt nothing, but absolute joy to have returned.
I was back home, even for just a moment.
I got to see most, if not all, of my surviving relatives and that was
priceless to me.
The last act before I departed Cambodia was when I went
to the dreaded Tapang town, the place where I suffered most under Angkar’s
reign, under Cousin Thie’s escort. I
want to let the Khmer Rouge people, the Mith Chass, know that they did not
kill all of my kind. There is one
still alive to bare witness to the cruelties and atrocities dealt upon my
family, my people, and myself by the supporters of Angkar 14 years earlier.
I also was there to personally thank an old friend, a man called Gnoy
Phan, who help me survived the misery in Tapang.
I renewed my friendship with this former Khmer Rouge who was so kind to
me during the darkest time in Cambodia’s history.
I spent half of day with my old friend and his family before I had to
leave under a security threat as advised by Thie.
Word somehow got out that there was a special visitor in
town. Almost the entire town
people showed up to greet this lone survivor of Tapang. No one could have believed that, of all the hundreds of Mith
Tmey people who was forced to be in Tapang, I alone survived Angkar madness
and was actually came back to the miserable Tapang Town. The older people, many of them, still remembered exactly who
I was. They recognized me even
when I have grown up into a man.
“Don’t you remember me?” One
man asked.
“I remember very few of you, I am sorry.”
I replied.
“You got to remember me! We
used to do thing together, remember?” Another
charmed in.
I did not remember any of them. I blocked them all out of my memory, as most of them were very mean and bad people. Only Gnoy Phan, the good and kind Khmer Rouge who helped me, I remembered well. He stood out of my crowded and forgetful memory. His face never left my memory. I still remember him very well. The rest were just new faces to me, no matter how hard I tried to remember. I just could not remember any of them. They were older, but they were still there. Their faces were vaguely familiar to me. They no longer harm or torture the Mith Tmey people, none left alive--except this one, and they still farm for a living. They were still dirt poor and life under their Angkar “great Leap Forward” revolution have reduced them to a mere rubble. They were still uneducated, no school, no clean water, no nothing except wasting their time and tending little of what rice that can be grown in this poor region. It was pathetic. I was actually felt sorry for all of them who were sitting there watching and listing to this survivor’s tale.
I came here to see my old friend and to tell them all that they cannot change who I am. I ended up feeling sorry for these people and actually wanted to help improve their lives. I already help funded a well digging project in this town as it was one of the most miserable thing, that I remembered as being very short of then. I actually helped those who hurt my family and me during Angkar’s reign when they were in charge. I cried at the sight of the old home site where I once lived with misery under Angkar. I departed Tapang, leaving 35,000 riels (about $50) and other gifts to my old friend who helped me survived Tapang darkest two years. The money would later save this family from starvation during a devastating flood the following year. I continue to visit my Khmer Rouge friend, Gnoy Phan, over the years.
I headed toward the killing fields where my love ones fell near the edge of Tonle Sap Lake that same afternoon. One half way there, Thie and I came to Samon’s home site at Kok Po. Samon and her family, the first family I sought help after the massacre--who did not help me much during my escape 14 years earlier, greeted me with absolute amazement. Her family gave me a small meal some 14 years earlier and it was enough for me to return and let her know that I was still alive. I must thank her and her family for their assistance, no matter how small.
Samon was home with her youngest daughter, who was only two-year-old when I came through here 14 years ago. Angkar killed her husband and sons not long after I left their home one evening. “It wasn’t because of you, Nack.” She assured me. Angkar killed indiscriminately, including hers, before invading Vietnamese Arm Forces kicked it out. I gave Samon a hug and thanked her deeply. I felt her lost and sadness. I gave her my last $20 and decided to push toward the killing site known simply as, “Tonle Sap Lake Massacre.”
“Oh, no, no. You should
not; you must not go to that area. There
are bandits in the area now. They
will give you problems. They’ll
take your liver (to eat raw). Do
not go there!” Samon insisted.
Both Thie and I were very tired and it was getting late.
We heeded Samon’s advice. I
missed the opportunity to return to a place where I was scared almost to
death. Perhaps some other time.
Besides, Thie was not so eager to escort me there after he heard what
Samon told us. They eat raw human
liver? Anything is possible in
Cambodia, I reminded myself. We
headed for Siem Reap town after that.
It took me a full three days for me to get a seat on the
plane, even with my prepaid return ticket, to head back to Phnom Penh.
The Kampuchea Airline agent in Siem Reap, the only one in town, refused
to give me a seat on the plane. I
refused to give him bribe money as he was expecting.
He would not dare ask for such a thing from my fellow Caucasian
travelers, but he had the nerve to insist from me.
He wanted $10, under the table, but I refused and played his game for
three days until I ran out of time. Sometime
one must fight fire with fire in desperation.
I brought in the heavy guns, something I did not at all wish to do. When the agent saw my cousin, a high-ranking provincial
official, escorted me to get my seat, he signed the seat to me without the
slightest hesitation.
“Why are you doing this to just your own kind and not the White
people there?” I asked the agent poetically while pointing to other
passengers.
He did not even dare looking me in the eye, let alone
replying to my question. He knew
what he did was a shameful act. I
knew exactly what the answer was, but I had to ask anyway. I also understood his economic situation, but that is no
excuse for immoral and shameful act on another Khmer.
I gave him my last one-dollar bill to empty my pocket completely.
I could have given him the $10 he unofficially asked, but someone got
to stand up to abuse like this. It
might as well begin with me here in my birthplace.
“Remember me. I will be
back this way again!” I warned
him before I rushed out to catch the last flight out of Siem Reap.
Heavy snowflakes blanketed the Oregon Cascades range as my
4x4 Nissan Pathfinder made it way through the unusually congested Highway 26 at
the border near the Warm Spring Indian Reservation. It was a dark and cold evening of November 1992.
Road condition was fair with a few inches of slushy snow accumulation,
with the white fluffy stuff dropping from the darkened sky.
My family was on our way home in Bend after spending a
wonderful Thanksgiving weekend with family and friends.
We must have made this sort of trip, on this stretch of highway over the
Cascades pass, a few hundred times in all sort of weather conditions in the past
few years. I never thought twice
about driving on this relatively safe highway.
I knew just about every up coming curves and turns.
I was confident, as I have been a safe and defensive driver since 1981,
when I first got my driving license.
I was talking to Thavy, my wife, about many
things--including my first trip back to Cambodia early in the year.
Samantha, our first daughter who just turned two in July, was sounds
asleep in her car seat in the back seat. Itchiewawa,
our 3 years old terrier dog, was also sound asleep in the back.
The early evening traffic, surprisingly heavy for this normally
uncluttered highway, slowed down to a snail crawl at about 20-30 MPH.
One passenger car in front of us has been slipping and sliding as we
approached a downhill stretch. The
driver refused to put on his tire chains. I
was getting tired of his slipping’ and sliding’ and I decided to pass him. I got by him safely and decided to slow down by taping on the
break gently. The downhill speed
help propelled my Pathfinder forward, even with a foot on the break pad.
I slowed down to about 30 MPH, not very fast, on the slushy and slippery
highway surface.
Coming to a slight-down hill curve on the highway, I saw an
on coming headlight and knew immediately that it was trouble.
I instinctively hit the break. It
started to slip, no traction! I
spun my steering column to the right to avoid the head on collision.
My trusted 4x4 turned 180 degree, the opposite direction of where I was
going, like the stunt men did in the movies.
It then came to a complete stop for about two seconds.
The soft shoulder of the highway gave way and gravity did its job.
“Hang on!” I yelled to
Thavy who sat to my right as the left side door hit the soft ground.
“Daaaaaaaaaaad!” I heard
Thavy screamed as the vehicle began to roll over the steep embankment and
picking up speed as it went.
Surprisingly, my thought process was still in tact.
My mind was as clear as daylight when the vehicle continued to tumble
over and over again. It felt like being in a roller coaster ride--not a roll over
vehicle at all. Only this time the
front windshield began to crack and roof started to collapse and buckle.
Thavy was still screaming all the way as the heavy vehicle continued to
roll down the embankment.
“Hang on! Hang on!” I clearly and consciously yelled to Thavy as we were bouncing
in the vehicle, but still being held tight by the seatbelt.
“Those wonderful engineers who designed the seatbelt.
God bless them!” I have
time to think.
The Pathfinder came to a complete stop, up side down and
landed on the roof of course. It
miraculously stopped in its track by a small tree.
The tree, which was once stood at 90-degree angle, lost almost 50 degree
from the collision with the 4x4 vehicle. It
remained that way as of today, but still alive.
I immediately shut off the engine, consciously put the transmission to
“park” and then ejected my seatbelt. I
kicked the door open, fearing that there might be a fire.
“Are you Okay, Thavy?” I
asked while busy reaching in the back to get Samantha out of her car seat.
I did not get a reply from Thavy, but she was still
screaming. I knew she was just
fine. I saw Samantha
wide-round-black eyes in the car seat, reflecting off what light available.
She was up side down, of course, and was as quiet as can be.
I quickly and gently unbuckle her from the car seat.
Itchiewawa, the terrier, was jumping up and down excitedly--like nothing
ever happen. They both were Sound
asleep earlier.
“Everyone is alright?” A
man voice boomed just out side the vehicle.
“I think so. Could you
grab my daughter, please?” I
handed Samantha to the Good Samaritan and then grabbed the dog.
Thavy managed to bail out on her own and finally came to
her senses. She took Samantha from
the stranger and hugged her tight. Samantha
was still yawning from the interruption to her knap. Miraculously, no one seriously hurt. With the exception of a few bruises, the terrifying ordeal
was just like a nightmare.
It would take two tow trucks and four full hours to haul
the mangled Pathfinder out of its final resting place at midway to the bottom of
the embankment. I reported to the
State Police that same night and contacted the insurance company the next
morning. The vehicle was a complete
wreck. It was “totaled.”
I have not came close to death again since December 1978
during the massacre by the Khmer Rouge. This
time, the accident was not really even that close, but it was close enough.
I was frightened, but was not very scared.
The accident, my first in more than 11 years of driving, was a gentle
reminder that life can be unpredictable. Things,
bad things, could happen in a matter of split second and your life can be
flashed before your eyes. The
accident got me thinking about my life once again.
I have been taking my being in this world for granted.
The accident was a gentle reminder for me personally.
My life was at that time was at a stand still and waiting.
Coming close to another dead gave me a jolt that I have not felt in a
long, long time. “Why am I here,
still alive on this planet?” I
often asked myself. I was restless
once again and Cambodia was in my mind--besides the well being of my love ones. I need to take care of myself.
It was time for me to heal and reconcile with myself.
I must do it alone and in Cambodia, I knew then as we got a ride home
after the accident.
The thought of abandoning my family, friends, and my
new-stable life in America was always a dreadful thing for me to
contemplate--even just temporarily. I
have always considered others first before my own. I felt extremely guilty when I thought about being selfish,
about doing thing just for myself for once.
It was a very difficult thing for me to even contemplate, let alone act
on the impulse. Yet, I knew deep in
my hearth that if I do not and cannot take care of my need, I could take care of
no one else. I have to be able to
help myself first before I can help anyone else around me. Either way, I have tough decision to make.
The accident only propelled me deeper into my final decision.
I decided to go back to Cambodia, for a while.
It was a gut wrenching decision, but I see it as a must for my sanity.
I needed to heal my emotional trauma.
I desperately needed a time out.
Thavy was not pleased with my decision or the arrangement,
but she married to me long enough to understand my needs.
She may neither fully accepted nor appreciated my decision, but she
respected what I must do. She knew
exactly what I have to do. She
understood and that was good enough for me.
All systems were a go.
Thavy and Samantha were both temporary moved closer to my
in-laws in Portland, until it was deemed safe enough for them to join me in
Cambodia. Thavy continue her career
and working with the Forest Service in the Regional Office in Portland.
I was allowed one-year sabbatical leave from my career.
Apart from the temporary separation, everything was going as smoothly as
it possibly could. In short, our
original lives were placed on hold temporarily for the duration I was in
Cambodia.
By March 18, 1993--some four months after the accident that
destroyed my vehicle--I was on a plane heading for Cambodia--the second time.
Once again, I was going back alone without my wife, Thavy and young
daughter, Samantha. This time
however, I was not a tourist. I
entered Cambodia as a volunteer for the Cambodian American National Development
Organization (CANDO), a Peace Corp-like organization being run by
Khmer-Americans with generous funding from USAID.
I was to be living and working in Cambodia strictly as a volunteer who
has the much needed skills and multicultural ability.
I was amongst the first few Khmer-American volunteers to be
sent into an unknown Cambodia among the 25,000 strong UN peacekeepers and
bureaucrats. Our mission was to
save Cambodia, wherever possible. It
was a daunting and mind boggling task in a country a washed with all kind of
problems. I was eager, willing, and
above all capable. I was determined
to do my very best, whatever it may take, to reconstruct Cambodia and at the
same time heal old wounds and reconciled with myself. I was more than ready.
Departure day was a rush all the way.
I was allowed to board an earlier flight to San Francisco on my way to
Phnom Penh’s Pochentong--some 9000 miles away. The short goodbye at the small
municipal airport in Redmond was difficult for me personally.
I have less than five minutes to say goodbye to Thavy and young Samantha
who has not yet turned three. Thavy
was sad or was boiling mad, but not much she can do.
Samantha was too young to understand where her “Daddy” was going. Regardless,
I have always despised long goodbye at the airport and so it was for the best. I head out of the gate to the waiting commuter plane all torn
up inside.
I had exactly 30 minutes to traverse the maze of San
Francisco (SFO) to catch my connecting flight to Cambodia via Bangkok on United.
It was a bit ironic as I came through this same airport some 15 years
earlier when I first arrived in America as a young refugee.
I was lost and short of time then. It
was a “da-ja-vous” all over again for me as I ran to find and catch my
connecting flight.
SFO was then and still is a huge international airport to
find your way around, especially when your time is restricted.
I ran like mad looking for my gate.
I barely get there on time. At
the same time, I was starving as it way past lunchtime.
I found my seat in the mid section of the plane, tossed my duffle bag in
the storage compartment and relaxed a little.
What a rush!
I was supposed to locate 7 other volunteers, according to
my directive from CANDO, who were supposed to be on the same flight as well.
I looked at the names on my list and then scanned around trying to place
each name with the face of people I have not seen before amongst the hundreds
and hundreds of passengers on the jumbo jet.
“Thom DePaul, Stefan Holistic....
wait a minute here! These
guys are both Americans, White boys! What
are they doing here on the list?” I mumbled alone.
“Petrona Chean, Fraid Suk, Sulal Khun, and Sophoan Lot...now these guys
are Khmer-Americans” I continued to scan around me and read the names.
I walked over to a nearby man in the seat ahead of me and
gave my brightest smile.
“Hi, my name is Ronnie Yimsut".
Are you happened to be Stefan Holistic?”
I asked and shook hand with the quiet man just a few seats away.
“No, my name is Thom DePaul. Nice
to meet you.” Replied the man in
his early thirties. “Stefan is
over there.” He pointed to a
slightly ball headed man in his twenties.
I went over to introduce myself to Stefan Holistic.
I the then took my assigned seat next to an Asian lady before the plane
departed SFO for Bangkok.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please kindly take your seat and stow your hand
carry baggage completely under the seat in front of you!”
A polite and soft voice from the intercom blared out.
I noticed a short, but well built Asian man, who I thought
might be another Khmer volunteer. He
was still engaging lively with one of the Flight Attendant.
In my mine, the sooner people sit down, the sooner the plane can take
off. So I was a bit annoyed when
people were still not taking their assigned seat as clearly instructed.
As United Boeing 747 leveled off at the cruising altitude
of 31,000 feet, the seatbelt light was turned off. Once again people began to move about. I searched and found the rest of the volunteers in the plane.
It was much easier to find the Khmer-American volunteers amongst the
plane of mostly White passengers than locating my two fellow white volunteers.
One volunteer, the young lady I sat next to, was also on her way to
Cambodia. She was Sophoan Lot from
Seattle, Washington.
I was pleasantly surprised to see two Khmer-American women
volunteers on the same plane amongst other volunteers.
I really admire their gut and courage because it takes a lot of them just
to make it thus far. I admired them
for that most.
Sophoan Lot, who was in her mid 20’s, came from Seattle
area. She was joining her fiancé,
Potrea Chow, who was already in Cambodia a few weeks before her.
She has nursing skills, which will be essential in Cambodia.
I found her to be a bit shy and almost a little bit exocentric. She was much friendlier, I thought, than another woman named
Sulal Khun. I would get along with
her just find, I felt.
Sulal Khun, the Chinese looking woman, was also in her
early 20’s. Her Khmer language
skill was barely recognizable. According
to her biography, which I have for all volunteers, she can speak four languages
and just graduated with a Bachelor degree in Business Administration.
She was a bit “unfriendly” and almost “arrogant” in her demeanor,
I thought. She has been in and out
of Cambodia on business many times before.
Well, she is an ethnic Chinese. What
else can I expect? I would keep her
at arm length for now.
Thom was a man in his early thirties.
He was a shy and quiet man who did not say much.
I thought that he was a bit “punky” in his attitude or demeanor.
He came from somewhere in Massachusetts.
I did not think much of him and my first impression of him was...well, he
did not talk much. Hard for me to
read a person when he refused to start or continue a conversation. I plan to stay away from him for a while unless he approached
me. That was my plan with Mr. Thom
DePaul.
Stefan, a man in his mid twenties, was also not very
talkative, but he was a little more polite and friendlier than Thom.
He came from Long Beach area, one of the largest Khmer cities in America.
He was “respectable.” Both
can speak Khmer fairly decent, to my pleasant surprise.
They have never been to Cambodia before, but have obviously been in
contacted with Khmer community in the United State. They wanted to learn more about Cambodia and the Khmer
people. They both ended up marrying
to local Khmer women, not to my surprise. Two
other Caucasian volunteers, Wayno Wronght and Palu Giamond, were in the same
boat. They were also married to
local Khmer women.
Petrona Chean from Lowell, Massachusetts was in his early
thirties. He said that he was in
the computer programming business and had a degree. His skill might come in handy for us all, I thought.
He was a quiet man who does not say much unless he has a “punch line”
to throw in, which he does often. He
only said what must be said, no more and no less.
I respected this guy right away and sense his strong and stable
integrity. I felt I can trust him and can count on him.
Fraid Suk, a man in his late twenties, was strikingly the
opposite of Petrona Chean. I
immediately found him to be “flamboyant” and also “self-centered.”
He actually was “flirting” with a flight attendant, even during her
stern request for him to sit down and buckle up.
He would flirt with just about every flight attendant he came across, to
my embarrassment, almost during the entire plane ride.
I just could not believe my eyes! Perhaps
I have had too many “sexual harassment” training sessions over the years in
the Federal Government. I could not
stand Fraid blatant attitude toward woman (and I am certain that Fraid’s
feeling toward me was mutual). His
attitude and language being used would be considered “harassment” in the
Federal Government work place, in my opinion.
The man actually frightened me, to be honest.
“Where the heck did CANDO find this guys?”
I thought. I saw problems
ahead, even with his talented personality.
I was hoping that my assessment was wrong and I kept on reminding myself
to never “judge a book by its cover.”
We all ended up spending the night in Bangkok Airport, in
one of those 6 hours rental room. Fraid
went ballistic when the poor lady at the counter told us that our reservation
was no good. Other travelers took
the prearranged rooms. Fraid was
yelling and screaming at the poor Thai woman, demanding a room.
The agent was almost in tear when I had to step in to calm Fraid down.
I was not successful and it took the rest of us to drag him away from the
counter. I was so embarrassed and
disgusted. The rest of us were so
humiliated by Fraid’s short fuse.
After things calmed down a little, we negotiated and got
three small rooms with two twin beds in each.
Sulal, the business minded woman, went out and spent the night somewhere
in Bangkok with her Thai friends. The
six of us must share three rooms. There
was a problem. One of us, Sophoan,
was a female. She felt
uncomfortable spending the night in a small room with almost a total stranger.
She decided to share my room, knowing that I was the only married man in
the group. She trusted me more or
she did not have much of a choice to choose from.
Sophoan told me that I snored too loud, but I slept well that night.
Thom and Stefan share a room, while Fraid and Petrona share the last one.
All was well in Bangkok Airport.
The arrival in Phnom Penh Pochentong was just as I had
remembered it the year before. Crowded,
hot, smelly, and most importantly--the vultures were all there as before.
The rest made out of the line Okay, except Sophoan who managed to get her
passport “passport knapped” by the vultures.
She could not understand why they refused to give it back.
She was standing there arguing with the agents, while I helped Sulal with
her two monstrous baggages full of import items from Bangkok.
“They need five dollars, if you want your passport back and get out of
here.” I told Sophoan in English
with a blunt smile.
“But I already paid them twenty!”
I can see the confusion and frustration in Sophoan’s face.
“Welcome to Cambodia! Pay
them and let’s get out of here! ” I
sarcastically smile at the vultures in the cage.
I was not sure how Sophoan got out of that jam, but Sulal
was begging me for assistance in dragging her jumbo luggage, full of smuggle
goods, toward the other custom agents. I
thought Sulal was nut. I got away
from her as soon as possible---so that she could never implicate me with her
smuggling business.
Thida C Khus, the director CANDO, a Khmer/Chinese-American
lady in her early fifty and was there to greet us. Wayno Wronght, the first Caucasian volunteer from Long Beach,
and Potrea Chow, Sophoan’s fiancé, were also with Thida. They were standing at the doorway, unable to come and greet
us inside the Lounge. They were not
allowed to enter the building to receive us.
Thida looked at me and I smiled back to her. I have never met this woman before, but have corresponded
with her a few times. I thought it
was she when I first saw her.
“Ronnie?” She simply
asked.
“Yeah, I’m Ronnie. Jumreap
Suor!” I replied back in English
and then greeted her in Khmer.
“Hi, I am Thida. This is
Wayno Wronght and Potrea Chow. Nice
to finally meet you! Welcome to
Cambodia!” She extended her right
palm to shake my hand. “Is
everybody here with you?” She
continued.
“Yes, we all are here.” I
replied while shaking Wayno’s hand and then Potrea’s.
After we got all our baggage loaded in the minivan, with
Sulal’s baggage being the heaviest and most bulky, we all piled in.
Sophoan and Sulal rode back in Thida’s smaller sedan.
It was sure nice to be back in Cambodia again, my second trip back.
The jet lag was not so severe as when I flew back to the United States.
I was tired and steamy hot, but it was not so bad.
The caravan pulled into a neighborhood with mostly
nice-fenced villas. Having been
reading the Peace Corp flyer before joining CANDO as a volunteer, I was actually
expecting to live at best in a wooden house or the worst in a thatch hut, but
not in a villa? Certainly not in a
huge-fenced villa? When we actually
pulled in the driveway, I really thought that we must be in the wrong house or
neighborhood. It was totally
unexpected.
“Welcome to your new home!” Thida
proudly declared.
“This is it? We are going
to live in this place?” Fraid
remarked sarcastically--trying to be funny.
All eyes momentarily focused on Fraid.
No one laugh, if it was a joke. I
felt a bit embarrassed to have been in association with Fraid this long at that
moment. I just despised his ill-considered outburst.
I have to live in the same house with this guy for a whole year?
It will be challenging for sure, I thought.
“Let’s go inside and everyone grab a room.”
Thida urged.
For Cambodia’s standard of living, the large six-bedroom
villa each with its own modern toilet and shower stall was very luxurious. It
also has another separate room or apartment attached to the villa from the
outside. It got a kitchen, a large
living room on the first floor, and a smaller one in the second floor--with
color TV and VCR. It has a small
but very nice garden in the front with orchid blooming. The utility shed in the back housed the diesel generator.
It has an attached garage and spacious carport.
I could not ask for anything more. It
was almost way too much, too comfortable, for us volunteers, in my opinion.
Sophoan decided to move in with her fiancé at another
building that also served as CANDO headquarter. Sulal was the only woman in the house. Everyone else grabbed a room inside the villa; I got the last
room, almost an apartment that attached to the main building.
Suit me just fine. I was happy with the arrangement completely, but still expect
to live in a hut or something. I
just could not get over the fancy place.
We became known as the “CANDO II,” where the first
group of volunteers who arrived two weeks earlier were known as “CANDO I.”
Thida later suggested that CANDO II should nominate and elect a Resident
Advisor (RA) to head the house whole. Having
been a long-time pro-feminist, I immediately nominated the only woman in the
house, Sulal, to be CANDO II RA. All,
with Sulal repeatedly refused to be nominated, immediately rejected my
nomination. She would not even consider the job.
I had decided a long time ago to stay out of the politic
and I was not interested in starting now. It
was one of the reasons I volunteered in the first place.
Unfortunately, democracy works in mysterious way sometime.
I was nominated for the job, in spite of my disagreement.
All the ballots cast, except two, were all in my favor. One of the two was my ballot for Sulal with a word “NO
RONNIE!” written on the side. The
other ballot was unknown; I suspected it belongs to Fraid.
I won the RA job with a “land slide” victory. I did not ask for the job or even interest in it, but I got
it--like it or not. I just knew
that there would be more headaches to come for being a leader of CANDO II, that
much I knew. Politic, I despised
it.
I ran CANDO II democratically. Everyone who lived in the house got a voice and a vote,
regardless. The first order was to
set ground rules for the communal living arrangement, hire a cook, and a night
guard. CANDO program even funded
and provided a live in house keeper, who also doubled as the cook assistant, and
a daytime guard. The rent was also
paid for by CANDO fund. Each
volunteer got $725 per month in spending stipend, decent life and health
insurance, including medical emergency airlift, and other perks, such as sick
and annual leave. It was not an
employment by all mean, but it was close enough to a fulltime job as can it be. Each volunteer put in $80 a month toward communal meals and
about $20 toward the head cook and night guard salary. There was no other out-of-pocket expense.
It was a great deal, I thought.
Since we were new to Cambodia, finding the right candidates
to hire as head cook and night guard was not easy. All members of the house whole were asked to find or nominate
a candidate for the job, preferably someone they know and trust.
No one did anything about it accept Sulal and myself.
Sulal brought in two of her relatives as potential head cook.
I brought in one of my wife’s distant relative who has some guarding
experience for CANDO II consideration. There
was no other choice or nominee. Again,
a vote was passed without Fraid’s who chose not to vote.
One of Sulal’s nominees was hired as a cook and my nominee was hired as
a night guard.
A couple days passed when Fraid decided that our version of
democracy was poorly implemented in Cambodia.
He was angry that CANDO II had practice what he called, “Nepotism.”
“We should not hire people we
know or related to us,” according to Fraid.
Serious
argument ensued and it was six votes against one vote to retain the original
vote. Fraid took it very personal
and actually blamed Sulal and myself for the turmoil.
Fraid became one angry and miserable man after that.
He would bitterly spend his spare time arguing or verbally assault all
the members of CANDO II, with myself being his prime target.
I thought for sure that he would lose control and got violent at anytime. I expected a hit man, which can be obtained for less than
$100, to assassinate the RA at anytime. I
wrote a formal complaint letter to CANDO director, with the approval from the
rest in CANDO II, detailing our concerns. It
was the last resort to resolve the conflict.
It did not make much of a different.
Time passed, Fraid still would not get over his anger.
People of CANDO II, all of them, shunned him so badly that he decided to
move out on his own. CANDO I refused to take him in, as they were all well aware
of Fraid attitude problems. He
moved in with CANDO III, a newly arrived CANDO volunteers, who had no idea what
they were getting as a gift from CANDO II.
Within a week, Fraid was a problem again for CANDO III.
They want to “return Fraid to sender.”
CANDO II politely refused, of course.
It was so easy to pick on Fraid without really knowing
where he came from. He was the only
ethnic Cham/Khmer-American of the 78 volunteers recruited by CANDO.
The Cham, most of whom are Moslems, see themselves as a badly mistreated
minority in Cambodia. This may be
true, but Fraid was our equal always. He
was the only one who will not eat pork, which is against his Islamic religion. We accommodated him as much as humanly possible, but he
resented the fact that the rest of us ate pork in his present. But these were just small “potatoes.”
Emotionally speaking, Fraid was out of control from the
beginning. Like so many of the
Khmer, myself included, Fraid had been through hell and back during the Khmer
Rouge terrifying years. Coming back
to Cambodia as a volunteer was a part of the healing and reconciling with our
past trauma, suffering, and anger. It
was a process that we all have to go through in order to find our identity
again. The raw emotion and anger
were still there in all of us whose childhood, and often time our family, were
stolen by Angkar. Some of us can
manage our anger effectively and direct it toward good use, such as help
rebuilding our Cambodia the best way we know how.
For Fraid, he could not control his feeling, his anger, and
his rage as effectively. He
directed it toward other around him, which is shameful.
In the end, Fraid’s attitude changed somewhat and his anger eased a
bit. He was not a totally changed
person, but his attitude has improved after a year in Cambodia.
We were all changed somewhat after Cambodia, which is for sure.
It was part of our healing and reconciling process that we all have to go
through. It was the main reason why
we were in Cambodia in the first place. We
have to redefine ourselves all over again.
We came to find out who we were as a person.
Looking at and feeling Fraid’s anger and rage, I could
not help but seeing myself earlier when I first arrived in America.
I was Fraid and Fraid was myself then, a person as angry as hell--at no
one in particular. I was angry at the world for allowing my family to die
and myself to suffer greatly alone in this cruel world. I got over that feeling, but my fellow volunteer, Fraid, was
still struggling after so many years. I
couldn’t help but feeling sorry for him.
Fraid and myself represent only two people who have been through a great deal and we have to overcome great challenges to survive. There are many, like Fraid and myself, who are still out there, who needed to heal old wounds and get on with our lives. We all must look to the past, that is Cambodia, to heal and reconcile with ourselves. We have to redefine who we are, our identity, as survivors of Cambodia’s Killing Fields. We can no longer afford to run away from our nightmare, our shadow, which is our past, not any more. We have to deal and confront it head on, no matter how painful it may seem. We have to make sure that our children and their children will not forget what we have been through in our young lives. We have to have a closure of some sort in our journey into light.
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